"Miss Connolly, Mr. Larsen sent me to take you to the hospital."

My broken fingers were already swelling to an unnatural size.

The news was on the car's television—the same broadcast playing across the giant screens of Times Square. Preston had reportedly poured tens of millions into funding Martha's personal art gallery. On screen, his smile was full of adoration.

"Compared to Martha's happiness, money is nothing."

My heart seized.

I glanced down at the latest message on my phone.

"An annual salary of two million dollars. What do you say? Come work for me?"

Using my uninjured right hand, I slowly typed my reply.

"Okay."

"How's your hand? Does it still hurt?"

His concern was unexpected, and for a fleeting moment, I was touched.

Just as I was about to answer, Preston noticed the splint on my left hand and his shoulders visibly relaxed.

"I almost forgot. You don't feel pain."

"I have a charity gala later. You're coming with me."

I paused, swallowing the words I wanted to say, and gave a calm nod.

Martha, clinging to Preston's arm, sized me up, her eyes dripping with contempt.

"She looks like a thug in a suit. Some bodyguard. I bet she’s just another social climber trying to sleep her way to the top."

Before she could slap me, I caught her wrist. "Miss Astor," I said evenly, "don't assume everyone is like you."

Martha’s face flushed, shocked that I would dare talk back.

"That's enough. She's just staff, Martha. An artist of your caliber shouldn't waste her energy on the help."

Preston wrapped an arm around her waist, his expression indulgent as he soothed her.

It was a cruel reminder of how things used to be. He was going to a gala, and he'd tell Martha he'd be home soon.

Preston was always busy, with urgent meetings that ran late into the night.

In the past, I would groggily tug on his sleeve and ask where he was going.

He would always push me away.

"Briar, that's not for you to ask."

His sharp tone was like a slap, leaving me pale and stung.

I realized then that I would never be the one he answered to.

In contrast, he willingly reported his every move to Martha.

"You'd better come home early. Don't let some little tramp snare you!"

Martha shot me a triumphant look before making a show of straightening Preston's already perfect tie.

I had once wanted to leave a mark on him, something permanent, like a matching tattoo. A symbol that we were a real couple.

But Preston had refused, calling the idea childish.

Though Martha’s gesture was entirely superfluous against the sharp lines of his expensive suit, Preston showed no sign of impatience.

He was never as oblivious as I had imagined. I just wasn't the one he cared to notice.

After the gala, the car stopped in front of his penthouse.

Confused, I got out and followed Preston. Suddenly, something cold brushed against my neck.

Preston’s fingers grazed my skin, and I froze.

He had bought this necklace, the "Astor's Tear," at a Sotheby's auction for a staggering price.

I had once joked with him that I could never afford it in a lifetime of work.

"Do you like it?"

I hadn't expected him to give it to me. My chest tightened.

I sniffled, on the verge of finally asking him what I was to him, when a hard shove sent me staggering backward.

Caught off guard, I tumbled into the darkness.

Icy pool water flooded my mouth and nose. I sputtered, choking on water as I struggled to find my footing on the pool’s smooth, unforgiving floor.

The splint on my left hand came loose. My broken fingers, submerged in the cold, pulsed with a phantom pain.

In the gloom, Preston stared down at me.

"Briar."

His voice was calm, but it sent a chill straight to my bones.

"You are not Martha. You need to learn your place."

"This necklace is your compensation, and it's a warning. You can get out when you've learned your lesson."

Why?

Why was I the one being punished for talking back once, while Martha could humiliate me without consequence?

Though I couldn't feel the icy sting of the water, a sharp pang of betrayal tightened in my chest, making it hard to breathe.

But I refused to break. I straightened my spine, my silence a wall of defiance against his cold gaze.

After a long time, I tasted blood in my mouth. My head grew heavy, and my vision began to blur. Finally, Preston sighed.

He wrapped a bathrobe around me, ignoring the water dripping from my clothes, and carried me into the elevator.

The apartment was warm. The sight of Martha’s high heels by the door was a stiletto to the heart.

Preston drove me to the Greenwich Village apartment he had once given me. The silence on the way was heavy.

He had given me this apartment, our home.

He hadn't set foot in it since Martha's return.

As he turned to leave, I grabbed his hand.

My voice trembled.

"What am I to you?"