POV: Sophie

Andrew's fingers dug into my bicep as he hauled me upright.

The soaked wedding dress slapped against my legs, a dead weight I couldn't shake. Water still dripped from my hair onto the tile, pooling around my bare feet. Julian stood three paces away, knuckles red and blistering, his chest rising and falling like he'd run a mile.

Nobody spoke.

Then Andrew shrugged off his suit jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders. The wool scratched against my chilled skin. His cologne flooded my nostrils—sandalwood and something sharper underneath. "We're leaving."

"Andrew—"

"Now." He didn't look at me. His gaze stayed fixed on Julian, a predator's stare promising consequences. "The shoot is over for today. Maxwell will handle schedule and contract."

Julian opened his mouth. Closed it. His camera hung from its strap around his neck, the lens cap still off. I saw the war behind his eyes—pride versus practicality, fury versus fear.

Andrew didn't wait for him to choose.

He bent, hooked one arm under my knees, and lifted me off the tile like I weighed nothing. My sodden train dragged behind us, leaving a dark smear on the limestone. I gripped his shoulder instinctively, my fingers pressing into the muscle beneath his shirt.

"You're making a scene," I whispered.

"I'm making a point."

The walk to the car took an eternity. Staff pressed themselves against the walls as we passed—a gardener, two assistants, someone's assistant's assistant. Their eyes skittered away from mine. No one asked if I was okay. No one offered a towel.

In Andrew's world, you didn't intervene. You just watched, and you remembered, and you prayed you weren't next.

The Maybach's rear door stood open. Andrew set me inside without ceremony, then climbed in beside me. The leather seat squeaked under the wet silk. He pressed a button on the center console and the privacy partition slid upward, sealing us off from the driver.

The heater kicked on. Full blast.

I shivered anyway.

Andrew didn't speak. He stared straight ahead, one hand resting on his thigh, the other turning his phone over and over in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. The screen lit with each rotation, throwing his face into sharp relief—that aristocratic nose, that cruel mouth, those eyes that saw everything and revealed nothing.

"Julian Vance," he said finally, the name rolling off his tongue like he was tasting wine. "International award winner. Photographer to the fucking stars. And your ex."

I pulled his jacket tighter around my shoulders. "It was seven years ago."

"Seven years. A long time." He turned to face me. "Long enough to forget someone?"

"Yes."

"Then why didn't you tell me you knew him?"

The lie came easily. Too easily. "I didn't think it mattered."

"Didn't think it mattered." He smiled. No warmth in it. No warmth anywhere in the car, despite the heater blasting against my legs. "My fiancée's former lover photographs our engagement shoot, jumps fully clothed into a pool to rescue her, stares at her like she's the last glass of water in a desert—and she didn't think it mattered."

"He's a professional. He was doing his job."

"He was doing a lot more than his fucking job, Sophie."

The partition was up but I still glanced at it. The driver couldn't hear us. The windows were tinted black. We could have been anywhere—floating through empty space, suspended in this leather-lined capsule where Andrew's voice dropped to a register that vibrated in my chest.

"Why did you hire him?" I asked. "Out of every photographer in the city. In the country. Why Julian?"

Andrew's thumb paused on his phone screen. A flicker of something—annoyance, or maybe amusement—crossed his face. "Because he's the best. And I don't settle for anything less."

"That's not the real reason."

"No?"

"No."

He leaned closer. The leather creaked. His hand found my knee under the jacket, palm warm through the wet fabric. His thumb traced a slow circle on the inside of my thigh.

"You want the truth, sweetheart? I hired Julian Vance because I wanted to see what would happen when he saw you. What you would do. Whether you'd flinch, or blush, or run to him the second my back was turned." His grip tightened. "And now I know."

"I didn't run anywhere."

"You didn't have to. He ran to you. Splashed right into that pool like a goddamn hero." Andrew's mouth curved. "It was almost romantic."

The car turned onto the long gravel drive that led to the estate. I recognized the rows of poplars, the iron gates, the fountain with its endlessly pouring stone cherubs. Home. If you could call it that.

"Here's what's going to happen," Andrew said, releasing my knee and smoothing the jacket over my legs. "You're going to go upstairs. You're going to take off that ruined dress. You're going to get into bed and stay there until I come for you."

"And then?"

"And then we're going to have a very long conversation about honesty. About loyalty. About what happens to women who make me look like a fool in front of the staff." He straightened his cuffs. "But first, I have calls to make."

The car stopped. The driver opened my door. Andrew didn't move to help me out.

The master bedroom was cold despite the fire crackling in the grate.

I stripped off the wedding dress and left it in a heap on the bathroom floor. The silk was ruined anyway, stained green from the pool chemicals, torn at the hem where I'd kicked against the weight of it. Six thousand dollars. Andrew was right. It had never looked better than when it was clinging to my tits.

His words, not mine.

I pulled on dry clothes—silk pajamas, pale pink, a gift from Eleanor last Christmas. The fabric whispered against my skin as I moved toward the door. I didn't know where I was going. Anywhere but that bed. Anywhere but waiting for Andrew's return.

The hallway stretched before me, lined with oil paintings of horses and hunting scenes. The carpet muffled my footsteps. I'd learned to walk quietly in this house. Years of practice. Years of making myself small.

Voices drifted from the study.

I stopped three feet from the door. It wasn't fully closed—an inch of space, a sliver of lamplight spilling onto the carpet. Through the gap I could see Andrew behind his desk, a glass of whiskey in one hand, his phone cradled against his ear.

"She was shivering like a fucking dog," he was saying. "The man jumped in with his boots on. His boots. Who does that?"

A pause. The voice on the other end—his assistant, Maxwell—was too quiet to make out.

"I don't care what it costs," Andrew said. "I want him contained. Clear his calendar. Buy the holds. Keep him when this turns ugly."

More murmuring.

Then Andrew laughed—that cold, hollow sound I'd come to dread. "His mother. Eleanor. She's the one with the Hermès addiction, isn't she? Send her a Birkin. Send her two. Send her the whole fucking store if that's what it takes. I want Julian Vance so indebted to me he can't breathe without my permission."

My hand pressed flat against the wall.

"His girlfriend?" Another sip of whiskey. "Cassandra. Right. The model. What's her price? Everyone has one. Find hers."

I leaned closer. The floorboard creaked under my foot.

Andrew's head turned toward the door.

I didn't breathe. Didn't move. Counted the seconds—one, two, three—until he turned back to his desk and said something I couldn't hear.

"You have until Friday," he finished. "Friday, Maxwell. Or I'll find someone who can do the job faster."

The call ended.

I backed away from the door, one silent step at a time, until the study faded behind me and I was standing in front of the bedroom again. My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my temples.

Andrew knew Eleanor.

The same Eleanor who'd written me that check. The same Eleanor whose driver ran us off the road seven years ago. Julian's mother.

He knew her habits. Her weaknesses. Her price.

If Andrew knew all that before today, this reunion was no accident. He had gone looking for my past, found the deepest wound, and arranged for Julian to walk straight back into my life.

I pushed open the bedroom door. The fire had burned down to embers. The bed loomed before me—enormous, king-sized, white sheets, too many pillows. Andrew's side. My side. And in the center, on my pillow, my burner phone.

The screen was lit.

A message glowed on the display, sent from a number I knew by heart even though I'd deleted it from my contacts seven years ago. Even though I'd tried to forget it. Even though I'd failed.

You and your fiancé. What the fuck do you want from me?

Julian.

I stared at the words until they blurred. My thumb hovered over the screen, trembling. I could respond. I could explain. I could tell him about Eleanor, about the check, about the accident, about Leo, about everything that had forced me into Andrew's bed and Andrew's life and Andrew's diamond-studded cage.

Footsteps in the hallway.

I shoved the phone under the pillow. The screen went dark just as the bedroom door swung open and Andrew stepped inside, still holding his whiskey, still wearing that thin-lipped smile.

"Good," he said, seeing me on the bed. "You followed instructions for once."

He closed the door behind him. The lock clicked.

"Now," he said. "Let's talk about Julian."

POV: Sophie

The phone stayed face-down beneath the pillow.

I couldn't look at Julian's message again. Not with Andrew blocking the bedroom door, whiskey sweating onto the nightstand, his cologne in the air like a threat.

He let the silence stretch between us until the ice nearly melted. Then he tipped his head toward the hallway. "Dinner."

I followed because refusal changed nothing. The dining room stretched ahead, chandelier dripping crystal tears over mahogany. Andrew sat at the head, cutting into a steak that bled pink onto his plate. He didn't look up when I entered; he simply gestured toward the chair at his right with two fingers.

"Sit."

I sat.

The silk of Eleanor's pajamas whispered against the velvet upholstery. My hands found my lap. My fingernails found my palms. Andrew kept eating, his jaw working in slow circles, the only sound in the room the scrape of silver on porcelain.

"Say whatever you're working up to," he said, not looking at me. "I can hear you thinking from here."

My throat clicked when I swallowed. "I've been thinking about the engagement photos."

"Have you."

"About the photographer situation. Julian and I—there's history. You saw it today. It's awkward, and it's unprofessional, and I think it would be better if we found someone else to finish the shoot. A woman, maybe. Someone who doesn't—"

Andrew's knife screeched across the plate.

The sound went through my molars and straight into my spine. I stopped talking. He set the utensils down, one on each side of the plate, perfectly parallel, and finally raised his eyes to mine.

"A woman photographer."

"Yes."

"Someone who doesn't make things awkward."

"That's the idea."

He smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile he wore when he'd already won and was just waiting for me to catch up. "You want me to break Julian Vance's contract."

"It's one shoot. There are hundreds of photographers who could—"

"Hundreds." Andrew leaned back in his chair. "Then you won't mind covering the cancellation fee yourself."

I stiffened. "How much could it possibly—"

"Maxwell."

I hadn't seen the assistant standing in the corner. He emerged from the shadows near the sideboard like a ghost given flesh, a leather folio already open in his hands. His gray eyes flicked to mine with something that might have been sympathy if Maxwell were capable of human emotion.

He laid the contract on the table in front of me.

The paper was thick. Cream-colored. Expensive. The kind of paper that existed to make you feel small before you'd read a single word. My gaze dropped to the bottom of the page, to the cancellation clause, to the number spelled out in bold, unflinching type.

$10,000,000.

Ten million dollars.

The zeroes blurred. I blinked and they were still there. I blinked again. Still there. Still ten million dollars sitting on Andrew's dining table like it was a grocery receipt.

"That's a lot of zeroes," I whispered.

"That's a lot of Julian." Andrew picked up his whiskey and swirled it, watching the amber cling to the glass. "He's not some street-corner portraitist, Sophie. He's got awards, representation, an agent who negotiated that contract specifically to make him untouchable. Did you think I hired an amateur?"

"You hired him to test me."

"I hired him because I wanted the best. The test was a bonus." He took a sip, let the whiskey sit on his tongue. "And you failed."

The paper trembled in my hand. I set it down before he could see how badly my fingers were shaking. "Andrew, I can't—this number—"

"You can't what? Pay it?" He laughed, soft and cold. "I know you can't pay it. You don't have ten dollars of your own money, sweetheart. Every dress in your closet, every meal on your plate, every fucking breath you take in this house is paid for by me. That's the arrangement. That's always been the arrangement."

Maxwell retreated to his corner, folio closed, expression blank.

Andrew rose from his chair. His footsteps were silent on the carpet but I felt them in my chest anyway, each one a countdown. His hand landed on my shoulder. Squeezed.

"Julian Vance finishes the shoot. That's final. But since you're so worried about awkwardness, I've arranged for some company to ease the tension. His girlfriend will be joining us tomorrow. Cassandra. She's a model, apparently—she'll assist with lighting, reflectors, that sort of thing. Should make everything much more comfortable."

Cassandra.

The name went through me like a needle.

Cassandra with her razor cheekbones and her perfect pout and her voice saying I saw the whole thing, Eleanor, Sophie threw herself at the car, it was pathetic. Cassandra standing over me on the pavement seven years ago, mascara not even smudged, while I bled into the asphalt and screamed for a baby that was already gone.

The room tilted.

"You know her," Andrew said. It wasn't a question.

"I—" My voice cracked. "She was there. After the accident. She was the witness who told the police I'd jumped in front of the car intentionally. That it was my fault."

Andrew's thumb traced a slow arc along my collarbone. "Is that so."

"Eleanor paid her off. Had to have. I wasn't—I didn't jump, I was crossing the street, the car came out of nowhere—"

"Shh." He pressed a finger to my lips. "I don't care about your little soap opera from seven years ago. What I care about is tomorrow. You're going to stand in front of Julian's camera and you're going to smile while his girlfriend holds the light meter. And you're not going to flinch. You're not going to cry. You're not going to do anything except look like the perfect future Mrs. Andrew Croft."

The room was too hot. The pajamas were too tight. I twisted in my chair, trying to stand, trying to escape the weight of his hand and the weight of the contract and the weight of Cassandra's name still echoing in my skull.

I made it two steps before Andrew caught my wrist.

His fingers locked around the bone and yanked. I spun into his chest, my palms smacking against the starched cotton of his shirt. His arms wrapped around me, one hand splaying across the small of my back, the other tangling in my hair and pulling until my chin tilted up and my throat was exposed and my eyes were forced to meet his.

"Let go of me—"

"Shut up."

I shut up.

His mouth brushed my ear. "You're so tense tonight. More tense than usual. Is it the near-drowning, or is it Julian? Did seeing your old flame get you all worked up? Did you think about him when I was fucking you last night?"

"No."

"Liar." His teeth grazed my earlobe. "I can always tell when you're lying. You bite your lip. You're doing it now."

I stopped biting my lip.

His hand slid lower. Over the curve of my hip. Across the flat plane of my stomach. His palm settled just below my navel, warm through the silk, his fingers spread wide, a quiet claim of ownership.

"What I can't figure out," Andrew murmured, "is whether the tension is guilt. Old feelings stirring around. Maybe you saw Julian pull you out of that pool and remembered what it felt like to have his hands on you. Maybe you pictured him instead of me."

"That's not—"

"Because I remember something too." His fingers pressed inward. Not hard. Just pressure. Just a reminder. "First night you moved into this house. You were so grateful. So eager to please. But when I put you on your knees and told you to say my name, you didn't say Andrew."

The air stopped moving in my lungs.

"You said Julian." His fingers dug deeper, flattening my abdomen, pinning me against him. "And then you cried. And then you apologized. And then you spent three days in bed because you were too sore to walk. Do you remember that, Sophie?"

I remembered.

I remembered the rug burns on my knees and the bruises on my hips and the way Andrew had smiled the whole time, calm and patient, like he was teaching a dog a new trick.

"Yes," I whispered. "I remember."

"Good." He released my stomach abruptly, smoothing the pajama fabric back into place. "Because I'd hate to have to repeat that lesson. Tomorrow you're going to be perfect. You're going to smile. You're going to pose. You're going to look at Julian like he's a piece of furniture and Cassandra like she's your new best friend. And when the shoot is over, you're going to come home and get on your knees and prove to me that you know who you belong to."

He stepped back.

Released me.

Straightened his cuffs like nothing had happened, like he hadn't just hollowed me out and filled me back up with ice.

"Now go to bed. You look tired. And Sophie?"

I turned at the doorway.

"Don't check your phone again tonight. I'll know if you do."

POV: Sophie

The studio lights blazed down like interrogation beams.

My heels hadn't even cleared the doorframe before I saw her. Cassandra. Draped over Julian like a second skin, her fingers curled around the back of his neck, her glossy lips pressed to his ear. Whatever she whispered made his jaw tighten. Made his hand clench at his side. But he didn't push her away.

He just stood there and let her cling.

My stomach turned. Not jealousy—or not only jealousy. It was the memory of that same woman standing over me on wet asphalt, her voice cutting through sirens: She stepped in front of it. I saw everything. It wasn't the driver's fault.

Cassandra's gaze slid sideways. Found me. Found Andrew's hand splayed across the small of my back, his thumb stroking the ridge of my spine through the thin cotton dress I'd worn for the drive over. Her mouth curved. Victory, cold and sharp.

"Darling," she cooed, pulling back from Julian just enough to be heard. "Your ten o'clock is here. The drowned bride and her generous benefactor."

Julian turned.

His eyes didn't land on my face. They dropped to Andrew's hand, still riding my hip, still claiming territory. Something dark moved behind his pupils—something that looked a lot like violence barely leashed. The camera in his grip creaked as his fingers tightened around the body.

"Morning," Andrew said, his voice warm and poison-sweet. "Sorry we're late. Sophie needed a moment to compose herself after yesterday's excitement. You understand."

"Perfectly." Julian's voice was gravel. "Let's get started. Wardrobe has the concept ready. Vampire theme. White for her, black for you. It's in the dressing rooms."

"Thematic," Andrew murmured, his breath grazing my temple. "Predator and prey. I like it."

Cassandra laughed. The sound was a polished little knife. "I'll be assisting with lighting today. Andrew thought it would be fun if I stuck around. Moral support."

She didn't add, and to keep an eye on your fiancée. She didn't have to.

The white silk shirt they put me in was translucent under the studio lights.

No bra. The stylist had been very clear about that. The fabric drapes better on bare skin. And for the vampire concept, you need to look vulnerable. Exposed. Delicious. She'd said that last word with a professional smile that didn't reach her eyes.

I stood in front of the fogged mirror and looked at myself. The shirt hung off one shoulder, the neckline plunging to my sternum. My nipples showed through the fabric—pale pink, tightening involuntarily in the cold air of the studio. The matching panties were white lace, so thin I could see the dark shadow of my own sex through them.

Vulnerable. Exposed. Delicious.

Andrew had gotten his wish before the first shutter even clicked.

The set was a velvet-draped gothic nightmare: a black sofa with carved claw feet, thick iron candle stands, and fog rolling low across the studio floor. Andrew emerged from the opposite dressing room in a black silk shirt open halfway down his chest, his hair slicked back, his pale skin dusted with powder that made him look carved from marble. A vampire. A predator. A man who owned everything he touched.

His eyes found me in the fog and he smiled.

"There she is. My little lamb."

Julian's camera was already up, hiding half his face. Cassandra stood behind a reflector panel, angling it to throw silver light across my collarbones. Her gaze was a scalpel, cataloging every inch of exposed skin, every involuntary shiver.

"Places," Julian said. Flat. Clinical. "Sophie, on the sofa. Andrew, behind her."

I moved through the fog, the silk whispering against my thighs. The sofa's velvet was cold under my bare legs. Andrew lowered himself onto the cushions behind me, his legs bracketing my hips, his chest pressing against my back. His hands found my waist. His thumbs dug into the hollows above my hipbones.

"Like this?" he asked, his mouth at my nape.

"Closer," Julian said.

Andrew pulled me tighter. The heat of his chest seeped through the silk. I could feel the ridge of his cock through his trousers, half-hard already, pressing against my lower back. My stomach clenched.

"Sophie," Julian's voice cut through the fog. "Tilt your head. Expose your throat. You're offering yourself to him. You want him to bite you."

I tilted my head. The studio air kissed the side of my neck.

Andrew's lips brushed my pulse point. "Good girl," he breathed. So quiet only I could hear. "You remember what I told you last night. About proving who you belong to."

The shutter clicked.

"Andrew, hand on her thigh. Higher. Push the shirt up."

His palm slid down my stomach. Across my hip. Fingers curling around the inside of my thigh, nails dragging lightly over the skin. The shirt rode up. Lace was visible now—white against his dark hand, the contrast obscene.

"Keep going," Julian said. And his voice cracked. Just barely. Just enough.

Andrew's hand moved higher. His thumb traced the edge of the lace, right where it met the crease of my leg. I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted copper. Every nerve in my body was screaming—half revulsion, half something else I didn't want to name.

"Look at the camera, Sophie," Julian commanded. "Show me how much you want this."

I looked at him. Through him. My eyes were wet and I didn't know if it was from hate or humiliation or the terrible, traitorous heat building between my legs where Andrew's thumb was now stroking back and forth over the lace, over my clit through the thin fabric, in full view of Julian and Cassandra and everyone who worked for them.

Click.

"Fuck," Cassandra murmured, adjusting the reflector. "That's quite the expression. She looks like she's about to come or cry. Maybe both."

"Shut up," Julian said.

"Just observing, darling. Professional opinion only."

"Shut. Up."

Andrew laughed against my throat. His thumb pressed harder. Circles now. Slow and deliberate and devastating. My hips twitched—an involuntary betrayal—and he felt it, and he smiled, and I wanted to die.

"Keep taking the pictures, Julian," Andrew said. "I'm paying for art. Don't stop until you've got something worth framing."

The break came ten minutes later, or maybe ten years. Time had warped inside that fog.

I sat at the makeup vanity, staring at my reflection. My cheeks were flushed red, my lips swollen from biting them, my pupils blown wide. The white shirt was rumpled, the neckline stretched, one nipple nearly exposed where the fabric had slipped. I looked debauched. I looked exactly like what Andrew wanted me to be.

The door opened behind me.

I didn't have to turn around. I knew the click of those heels anywhere.

Cassandra.

She was holding a cup of tea. Steam curled from the surface. Her reflection slid into the mirror beside mine—razor cheekbones, flawless lipstick, a smile that could cut glass.

"Rough session," she said. "Andrew really knows how to put on a show."

I said nothing. Just picked up a makeup wipe and started dabbing at the smeared mascara under my left eye.

"He's very hands-on, isn't he? Your fiancé. You must enjoy that. Being handled like a piece of meat in front of your ex and his girlfriend. Very kinky." She took a sip of tea. "Of course, some of us don't need to be handled to keep a man's attention. Some of us are enough on our own."

"You'd know all about that."

She paused. "Excuse me?"

"You'd know about keeping a man's attention. Since you've been following Julian around for three years pretending to be his girlfriend while he forgets you're in the room." I dropped the wipe in the trash. "How many red carpets have you crashed, Cassandra? How many events has his agent had to sneak you into? You're not his plus-one. You're a hanger-on with good bone structure and expensive designer hand-me-downs."

Her face went rigid. The teacup trembled in her hand.

Then she stepped forward and her heel snagged the rug. For one second, the stumble looked genuine. The cup tipped. Scalding hot tea arced through the air and splashed across my lap, soaking the white silk, searing the skin of my thighs.

I didn't scream. I didn't jump.

I just looked down at the spreading stain and then back up at her.

"Oops," Cassandra said, recovering. "How clumsy of me. All that expensive fabric. Ruined. Almost as ruined as your fertility, from what I hear." She set the empty cup on the vanity. "Eleanor told me, you know. About the accident. About the baby. About how you can't have children anymore. Explains a lot, really. Why Andrew treats you like a broken toy he's still making payments on. Why Julian—"

"Get out."

"—could never really love you again. What man wants a woman who's already been hollowed out?"

I stood up. The tea dripped from my shirt onto the floor. My thighs were red and stinging. I didn't care.

"Julian loved me when I had nothing. When I bled for him. When I lost everything. You?" I stepped closer, close enough to smell her perfume—something expensive, something Eleanor probably bought her. "You're a placeholder. A breathing mannequin he keeps around because kicking you out would require more emotion than he has left for you. How does it feel, Cassandra? Knowing he's never once looked at you the way he looked at me for seven years? Knowing he never will?"

Her hand flew up. I didn't flinch.

The door slammed open before she could swing.

Andrew stood in the doorway. Julian was right behind him.

Everyone froze.

Andrew's eyes swept the room—the tea on the floor, the stain on my shirt, Cassandra's raised hand, my unblinking stare. He didn't ask what happened. He didn't need to. He just walked to the center of the room, pulled a folded document from inside his jacket, and turned to Julian.

"New schedule," he said.

He slapped the paper against Julian's chest.

"I've reconsidered. The wedding is in fifteen days. You're going to shoot every remaining scene before then. Every. Single. One. Location scout, lighting test, full editorial spread. You'll be with us constantly—dinners, fittings, dress rehearsals. I want you embedded in this wedding like a fucking splinter."

Julian caught the paper before it fell. "That's impossible. You can't rush this kind of work—"

"I can. And you will." Andrew stepped closer, their faces inches apart. "Because if you don't, I'll make sure you never lift a camera in this country again. No galleries. No contracts. No exhibitions. You'll be photographing bar mitzvahs in a strip mall for the rest of your life. Do you understand me?"

Julian's hand crumpled the schedule. His eyes flicked to me—to the tea staining my shirt, to the red handprint Cassandra hadn't gotten to leave on my cheek.

"Yeah," he said, his voice gone flat, dead. "I fucking understand you."

Andrew smiled. "Good. Then let's get back to work. We've got fifteen days. And I want every single picture to be a masterpiece."

He turned. Walked out. Cassandra followed, her heels clicking an unsteady retreat.

Julian and I were alone for one breath. Two.

"Sophie—"

"Don't." I grabbed a towel from the vanity and pressed it to my stinging thighs. "Just don't."

He opened his mouth. Closed it. The crumpled schedule was still shaking in his fist.

Then he turned and walked back into the studio, leaving me alone with the smell of spilled tea and the echo of Cassandra's words still burning in my ears.