Chapter 24
Lucy
I’m not sure what crawled up Callum’s ass, but he transformed into a fuming brick wall on the drive back from the round six challenge.
I pick at a loose thread on my shirt. I can’t believe I’m thinking this, but I might prefer the shouting over this strained silence.
I suck in a breath. “You didn’t have to make such a scene back there, picking me up like that.”
My face burns from the memory. My body flush with his while the dress clung to every inch of me, nothing left to the imagination. I flip the car vents toward my cheeks, cooling them in the air-conditioned breeze.
Doesn’t work. My blood remains overheated.
The muscles in Callum’s arm flex, but he doesn’t speak.
It’s more frigid than the Arctic in here.
I’m proud of what I accomplished today. I worked hard and did a damn good job. But even though I keep telling myself that, Callum’s cold-shoulder blizzard shrouds my good mood.
My stomach churns as the competition location disappears behind us.
What’s eating him?
Is he angry with me? What did I do? We literally just kissed a few hours ago.
Last night, he hurt people simply to ensure I feel safe going home. Now, if not for his job, I think he might invite me to walk straight into traffic.
I spend the entire trip back to the hotel wondering.
With each floor that ticks by inside the elevator, my spine tenses a little more.
By the time we reach the forty-eighth floor, I’m braced for an explosion of epic proportions the moment we walk through the suite door.
Instead, Callum stalks to the couch, drops onto a cushion, and rips open his laptop.
I waver in the entryway. Should I say something? Do something? I kick off my shoes and brave a few steps toward the couch—no plan yet, but I refuse to continue drowning in this silent treatment—when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I grab it and flick the message open. The blood drains from my face.
Oh no…
An unknown number sent a picture of me. Naked. Afraid. Eyes wide and terrified while I lay on an enormous mattress in Viktor Roguilin’s bedroom. Blue silk sheets against my bruise-littered skin. Ugly reminders of my time in that man’s clutches.
The image comes with a lovely little message.
Return what’s mine. Testify, and this is the tamest photo that I’ll post.
I press a hand over my mouth, holding back a gasp or bile or the tears gathering behind my eyes. Maybe all three. I cling to my phone as my body starts shaking.
Viktor’s nails raking over my chest, ripping off my clothes. Sweat and the sickly sweet cologne rubbing into my flesh, staining me with his stench. His body all over me, inside me.
The silk sheets scraping my back. Him pinning me down.
Salty tears burning my chapped, sore lips.
Hot breath against my hair.
“You’re perfect, darling.” A thick Russian accent pollutes my ears as rough hands paw at my body. “I’m going to keep you all for myself, I think. A pretty little prize.”
I whirl and rush into the bedroom, yanking the door shut. The action does nothing to soothe my nerves. Does nothing to chase away the memories.
Maybe I should’ve checked in with Callum before hiding, but he was only going to give me more silence anyway.
Not to mention, I don’t want to talk about this. I don’t even know how I’d begin.
Under the shower spray in the en suite bathroom, panic and disgust rip at me with poison claws. Desperate to banish this helpless, uncontrollable anguish, I crank up the water temperature hotter than I can stand.
Scrub. Rinse. Scrub. Rinse. Scrub, scrub, scrub.
No amount of soap can wash away the shame crawling through my bones.
My time with Viktor represents the lowest point of my life. Even worse than the horrible memories of my family and foster care. I’ve tried every strategy I can to forget—therapy, a new job, medicine, yoga—and still the horror refuses to completely fade away.
I give up after who knows how long—my skin pink and sore—and twist the handle. The switch to cool water stings my abused skin. With a muffled sob, I sink to the tile floor and let the shower beat down on me for ages. The water mingles with my tears, washing them down the drain.
Should I still testify? Even if Viktor gets charged, one of his cronies could release the pictures. I don’t even know what the other photos look like. If they’re worse than the one on my phone, I can kiss my modeling career goodbye. Any career. No one would hire a PR nightmare like me.
And if Viktor can find me with a new phone and number, then he can find me anywhere.
I’m not safe. If I push forward with the competition, if I cling to this wallet that’s in my possession, if I try to testify, I’ll end up just like the witness who went missing.
Have they found her yet? But if he really wanted me dead, wouldn’t I already be dead? Probably long before I ever met Callum.
Maybe they can’t find the missing witness because Viktor chopped her up into too many pieces.
I gulp down a wave of nausea before finally dragging myself out of the shower and into a hotel robe.
When I first arrived, I shoved my anxiety pills into the bottom of my makeup bag, which is quickly becoming my go-to hiding spot.
Now I dig them out and pop the container before rediscovering the bottle is empty.
I want to smack myself in the head. With everything happening in my life lately, I completely forgot to refill my prescription.
I didn’t even ask Dr. Shaw about it. Dammit, I sure could’ve used a little pharmacological reinforcement tonight.
The crypto wallet sits tucked beside the empty bottle. Seeing it there should bring me relief, but instead, my anxiety spikes higher.
I can’t even look at myself in the mirror. I don’t want to see what stares back at me.
Deciding I may as well lie down, I shuffle into the bedroom. Sleep won’t come, but I feel dizzy on my feet.
As I’m crawling under the covers in the semidarkness, the door bursts open and Callum slaps at the wall until he flicks the switch. Recessed lighting illuminates the space.
I groan, toss the covers off, and sit up. “What is—”
Oh, shit. He’s visibly pissed.
“Were you planning to tell me about this?”
I flinch away from the angry, demanding tone. My eyes flit away from his and settle on his phone, which is held up and facing me.
My naked body invades my sight.
The terror of exposure closes around my heart like an unforgiving fist.
How…did he get this?
Horror rocks through me. “Where did you get that?”
His glare is a slap to my face. “Answer me, Marlow.”
My stomach plummets as I blink at the ceiling. Despite my best efforts, the tears roll down my cheeks.
Wait.
Why am I crying? I didn’t do anything wrong here. I’m the victim, yet he’s hassling me? And how did he even get that picture?
Now I’m the one who’s pissed. Despite the way my stomach roils when I face the photo again, I swipe my hand over my eyes and pin him with my harshest, coldest scowl. “Have you been spying on my phone this entire time?”