Chapter 1 Marfil #2
I wasn’t lying about Liam being the only man I’d consider offering myself up to completely.
Out of all the guys on the planet, he was the only one I trusted.
I had thought about it many times, because even though I had plenty of experience in everything that came before sex, I was afraid of taking it all the way.
From a young age, my father had instilled in me the notion that a woman’s virtue was the most important thing she had.
And the nuns at boarding school had spared no details about every awful thing that could happen to us if we gave in to the sin of lust. For some reason, that was the only thing from boarding school I took to heart.
Everyone around me seemed so obsessed with virginity, and losing said virginity, and even though I desperately wanted to rebel, and did in some ways, I was still incapable of taking that last step.
Liam drove me home in his gray Audi. He’d just recently bought it, and the seats still had that new-car smell.
Unlike a lot of students, I didn’t live on campus.
My father allowed me to move to New York for college on the condition that he would decide where I lived.
My apartment was located on the Upper East Side, one of the most expensive parts of town, and was only a train ride from campus.
I might sound spoiled, but I couldn’t have cared less about living in one of the most exclusive buildings in Manhattan.
I’d been surrounded by luxury all my life, and even though many people thought I was an idiot for even going to college when it was clear I’d inherit a fortune, I had always known I would try to forge my own path.
I was great with numbers, so economics made sense.
But for pretty much the entirety of my teenage years, I’d begged my father to let me join the New York City Ballet.
His answer was always a resounding no, and when I tried to stand up to him, I ended up regretting it.
I’d been forced to give up my dreams of being a professional dancer, but if having an entire apartment to myself was good for anything, it was being able to dance as much as I wanted at home.
I gave Liam a kiss on the cheek, and we promised to hang out before the weekend.
I waved to Norman, the doorman, as I crossed the lobby of my building to the elevator.
Living alone in New York City might seem brave for a young woman, but my neighborhood was very safe, mostly families of bankers who had made obscene amounts of money on Wall Street. My father was one of them.
My apartment was minimalistic, with almost no decorations except for a few bright pink throw pillows.
My motto was: The less you have, the less you have to clean, and I followed it religiously.
I was lucky to have such a large apartment, at least by New York City standards: two bedrooms (not including the staff’s room), two bathrooms, and an open-concept living-dining-kitchen.
Since I lived alone, I’d set up a dance studio in the second bedroom, where I spent most of my time at home.
I had even installed a ballet barre and large mirrors that returned my gaze as I relaxed to the rhythm of the music.
On one of the living room walls, my other best friend, Tamara, had begun painting a mural I could stare at endlessly.
It was a conglomeration of quotes from our favorite books, pictures of us, song lyrics, flowers, and most of all eyes, of all sizes, showing all types of expressions…
Tami studied people’s gazes, and I was amazed by her ability to transpose them almost perfectly onto any flat surface, as long as she had something to paint with.
She once drew a Minion for me on a Starbucks napkin using only a stirring stick and the foam from my Frappuccino.
I set my purse on the island and went directly to the fridge, although I’m not really sure why.
I was a disaster in the kitchen. I once tried to make myself a shepherd’s pie using my former stepmother’s recipe, but I forgot about it in the oven and almost burned down the entire apartment. It was safer to order takeout.
I had a microeconomics exam coming up, so I decided to sit down and study.
I put on some classical music, and before I knew it, the hours had flown by.
When I opened my eyes, I realized that I’d fallen asleep in a very uncomfortable position.
I sat up, wishing someone could carry me to bed like a little girl.
I was not so lucky.
I set my textbook on the coffee table and dragged myself to the bedroom.
As soon as I was all curled up under my white down comforter, a feeling of loneliness came over me.
It wasn’t that I was sad, exactly, but I had always lived with lots of people around me.
At home, Lupita, the housekeeper, had been like a mother to me.
There was also Peter, the driver; Frank, the gardener; and even Logan, my father’s bodyguard, whenever he was home.
At boarding school I’d shared a room with four other girls, including Tami, so we were almost never alone.
Being on my own in that apartment sometimes triggered irrational fears; the slightest sound could project a horror movie onto my mind. I hated days like that.
I closed my eyes, burrowed under the blankets, and began to silently count: One, two, three… eighteen… forty-four, forty-five… two hundred six. At some point around 543, I finally fell asleep.
Friday came before I knew it. I’d been invited to a single’s Valentine’s party at a club, but I declined the offer. Not because I don’t like going out—I love it—but I decided I’d rather stay home and dance or watch a movie, solo.
After spending more than two and a half hours at the ballet barre doing pliés, I put an oversized white shirt on over my leotard and took out Harry’s business card.
I could call and ask if he wanted to do dinner.
That would save me from having to order another pizza from the place around the corner.
But then I remembered that he hadn’t even asked for my name.
What was I going to do, text and say: Hey, I’m the random girl from the bar.
Want to have dinner on Valentine’s Day? No fucking way.
It was still light out, so I pulled on some leggings, threw on a sweater, put on a pair of gloves and my favorite sneakers, and headed out for a run.
I normally ran for over an hour every day, but never in the mornings, because I hated waking up earlier than strictly necessary.
Also, I loved seeing the sunset over the Central Park Lake.
I waved to Norman with a smile and went out into the early evening.
Central Park was always bustling with people—families taking their kids to the playground, others walking their dogs, feeding the ducks, or enjoying some time under the shade on warmer days.
When the sun started to sink low on the horizon, the park began to clear out, except for the runners.
I recognized a few other regulars, and we nodded as we passed each other.
I had made the mistake once of going out with one of them, and I vowed never to do it again.
I hated having to change my jogging route so as not to run into past flings.
After an intense, longer-than-normal run, I slowed to a walk to begin cooling down.
The day had given way to a gorgeous clear night, with the lights of the skyscrapers glimmering on the water.
I loved this city. A lot of people complained that it was too busy, that people never stopped moving, so on and so forth.
I had lived my entire life in the countryside, and being there, in the big city, made me feel like I was part of something exciting.
I was leaning over the stream of a water fountain’s cool water, pulling my long ponytail out of the way to keep my hair from getting wet… when it happened.
I didn’t even have time to scream.
A hand grabbed me around the waist and pulled me backward while another hand covered my mouth with a damp cloth that smelled repulsive.
I tried to resist with all my might, panic flooding me, body and mind.
I struggled as hard as I could to break free, but the person holding the damp cloth over my face acted swiftly.
My eyes began to feel heavy; my limbs lost all their strength.
I felt myself falling backward, collapsing against someone tall and muscular.
“Put her in the van.”
That was the last thing I heard before losing consciousness.