Chapter 4
PRESENT DAY
The room is pitch black. I wake up slowly, my brain moving faster than my body. The piercing sound of my alarm jolts me out of my hazy slumber. I feel around me, moving my hands across the satin sheets. Kellan is gone—must have been an early morning in the office.
I turn over, hitting stop on my alarm. My hand shuffles around the top of my bedside table, hunting for the remote that opens my blinds.
“Damn it.”
I hear it drop on the floor.
I grunt in frustration, hanging half of my body off the bed precariously like the floor beneath me is a dozen stories down. After several unsuccessful flailing attempts, the remote is finally in my grasp. I sit up, gripping it tightly in response to last night’s gnawing migraine returning with a fresh lash of pain.
Well, I’m in a fucking mood.
I push the top button, prompting the thick velvet blackout curtains to open. As the morning sun peeks in, I squint my eyes and let out a loud yawn. Rolling over, I swipe my phone from the nightstand and check my notifications.
Kellan
Good morning. Be at the office by 8:30 am. I need you to sort out some files that came in late last night.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and do some quick stretches, bending my neck from side to side, taking in the city skyline.
This view never gets old. You’d think six years of the same view might lose some magic, but it’s the glint on the Chrysler Building that gets me out of bed most days. That’s the New York I dreamed about as a girl in Oakwood Valley. I’m just not sure it really exists anymore.
Kellan owns the entire top floor of this penthouse, giving us three hundred and sixty degree views, forty floors up above the city. It’s the buildings outside of these walls that make this penthouse to die for—I certainly don’t feel at home inside of them.
Once upon a time, I had felt it was my home, I suppose. It was my sophomore year when Kellan laid his charm and devilishly handsome looks on me. I was nineteen, my heart still wounded and vulnerable from the events of the previous summer. Kellan was an adjunct at just twenty-two, commanding a lecture hall on hospitality with his quick wit and unfailing confidence. How could I not be smitten?
He strode with confidence toward me after the keynote, instantly flushing my cheeks with heat. I was drawn to the attractive curve of his lips as he spoke, his voice smooth like aged whiskey. I lapped up every delicious word he’d say, hypnotized by him. Consumed by him.
His wealth and power were mesmerizing; I couldn’t fathom the level of importance his family held within New York’s elite. He was next in line to take over after his hotel-magnate father and stood to inherit a wealth unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Coming from wine country, I thought I knew rich—but not this level of rich. This was like, never ever worry about your life ever again rich.
I wondered then if I could ever form my own legacy. My dream of opening my bed-and-breakfast shrank with every year passed, working the mundane role of Kellan’s personal assistant. Scheduling, emails, meetings. More meetings. More work that smothered the fire of my dream, now a distant memory.
A deep exhale escapes me as I walk into the shower, letting the hot water pelt my body. I wince when it hits my shoulder and gaze down to see a deep bruise. My fingers brush across the lesion softly, as they’ve done numerous times. I survey the rest of my body wherever my eyes can land, noticing trails of dark blues and purples along my shoulders, neck, and arms.
The first time it happened, the shock overtook my entire body, paralyzing my senses. The sharp sting of a strong hand across my face. I immediately reach up and brush my cheek in response to the memory. Feel that sting enough times, you learn to comply. You learn to be obedient—no matter how hard you shake the iron bars you’re trapped behind, wailing for help.
A single tear slips from the corner of my eye, merging with the water as I let the stream of the showerhead rain over my face. Flashes of Kellan gripping my shoulder with force boom behind my eyelids, shoving me against the wall for being defiant.
“When I say get me off, I mean now. Not when you decide, but when I do.”
It isn’t until I’m gasping for air that I realize I’ve water-boarded myself beneath the showerhead, forcing me to escape the flashback from the other night.
I pant with fervor as the emotions build within my chest. To calm myself, I pump a generous amount of teak-scented soap into a loofah and lather myself in small, circular motions. My eyes close, and I allow the familiar scent to send me back in time, escaping to a much warmer memory. Ocean-blue eyes appear, and I feel safe to drown in them.
My face is buried in the nape of his neck. We run into the night, moonbeams glowing off his glorious skin. I breathe him in, instantly high off his smell. My hair is wild, my spirit is free. My smile is so big they pinch the apples of my cheeks. His laugh weaves in and out of my ears, the soundtrack to my life. His touch ignites a burning flame within me, and his kiss only stokes it further. I feel him all around me.
“Almost there. Hold on tight!”
I’m trying to hold on. I really am.
My phone vibrates on the bathroom counter, startling my eyes open. I let the remaining tears fall, quietly slipping away from my revery. I steel myself for another day ahead.
Don’t make him angry today, Audrey.
I step out and dry myself off, wrapping the towel around my body. My wet hair sticks to my shoulders as I look in the mirror, not recognizing the girl staring back.
Her strawberry blonde hair is now covered with semi-permanent brown hair dye because that’s what he wants. Her green eyes are sunken and dark, no longer bright and beaming. Bruises pepper her skin from a man who claims to love her. She’s lost her spirit, her strength. She’s lost herself.
“How the fuck are you going to get out of this, Audrey?” I whisper to her in the mirror, my eyes red on the edges.
I stare down at my phone with Kellan’s name lit up on the screen. It taunts me, posing as a daily reminder of how fucked up everything is. Yet, I pick up the phone anyway, opening the text thread with Kellan.
Kellan
Are you awake? I’m missing you this morning. Please don’t stay mad at me.
I sigh, running a hand through my wet hair. Anger brews from the pit of my stomach, almost to the point of nausea. My thumbs tremble, furiously tapping into the keyboard, unable to stop the emotions spilling onto the screen.
Audrey
I’m fucking angry with you. You hurt me! Why? Why do you do this to me?
I pause as my breaths grow more tattered, my jaw ticking like a fuse running quickly to ignite an explosion. The anger suddenly turns to pleas, aching for something so tantalizingly out of my reach. Love.
Audrey
Why Kellan? What did I do to deserve it? Why can’t you just fucking love me?
An unbidden tear splatters on the screen. I wipe my eyes quickly and take the end of the towel wrapped around me to wipe it off my phone. I stare at the words I’ve typed, my lip quivering as my thumb hangs over the send button.
*delete*
Audrey
I just got out of the shower. I’ll be on my way shortly.
I turn on the lights to the massive walk-in closet that Kellan had custom made. A wave of leather and cedar enters my nostrils. A stark black marble island sits in the middle, filled with jewelry and watches that are worth more than the penthouse itself. Floor-to-ceiling shelving houses Kellan’s expensive dress shirts, carefully pressed and ironed—not a wrinkle in sight. His suit collection oscillates between midnight black to ocean navy, reminding me of a certain pair of eyes I just can’t shake.
My work clothes fill a whole wall. Or, more accurately, the clothes Kellan picked out for me fill a whole wall. It’s all muted, neutral tones. Chiffon and silk blouses and skin-tight pencil skirts. Below my somber wardrobe is a row of wooden drawers with gold accented knobs that showcase an array of lingerie. Kellan says lingerie is part of the uniform, in case he wants to have his way with me in his office. Which happens more often than not.
I slip on a black lacy thing to put underneath my outfit for the day, which is basically scraps of material that do a horrible job of covering anything. Kellan will like it, though.
I opt for a high-neck blouse to cover the bruises. I slip on a form-fitting pencil skirt and sheer black thigh highs with a seam running up the back. I find a pair of black pumps and a black blazer to finish the look. My prison uniform. Hopefully, this is enough for Kellan today. I don’t have the energy to put up a fight.
I sit at my vanity and put on my makeup the way Kellan likes. Dark, smoky eyeshadow, thick mascara, and a dark red lip. A low bun, tiny gold hoops, a spritz of Chanel No. 5 and I’m the perfect imitation of a powerful woman.
I flick the light off as I make my way into the open-concept living room. Kellan designed this place with the starkness of a modern art museum. The room is slate gray and expansive, punctuated by a black leather sectional exactly in the center and authenticated art acquired at private auctions adorning the walls. Perhaps the most garish is the chandelier gleaming above the sofa, making this apartment feel more like a billionaire’s lair than a home. Because that’s exactly what this is—this is Kellan’s place, not mine.
“Darling, I have taste. You don’t have to worry about any of the design. I’ll have my people to take care of everything.”
At the time, I thought he was spoiling me, not wanting me to lift a finger. I found it endearing, as if he knew what I would like because he had me in mind when building our—his—home. Now I know it for what it really was: control. Control over every decision when it came to us. When it came to me.
“Eat this, Audrey. It’s good for you.” “Wear this, Audrey. It suits you.” “Do it like this, Audrey. You know it drives me wild for you.”
He wore manipulation like a mask, infiltrating every crevice of my soul. I fell in line, unable to resist his pull. I didn’t realize until I was far, far deep in the hole, that I was no longer myself.
I grab a banana from the counter and shove it in my purse, my heels clacking against the black marble floor with every step I take. This apartment is cold. Lifeless.
I clutch my purse and head toward the elevator. There’s a soft ding one floor down as my momentum slows and the door opens to a familiar face with a wispy handlebar mustache.
My neighbor gives me a bright smile and a polite nod as he enters the elevator.
“Morning, Ms. Winthrop. Busy day today?” he bellows. The heavy hand he had with his cologne this morning wafts in the enclosed space, making me lightheaded the second it engulfs my nostrils.
Richard Hammond is kind enough on our morning elevator rides. He’s a lot like Pop—friendly and wise with a warm buttery voice that wraps you like a comforting hug. Today is not a day I feel like making small talk. But I do it anyway.
“Good morning, Mr. Hammond,” I say in the friendliest manner I can muster. “Busy as always,” I chirp with the fakest of smiles on my face.
More like busy contemplating my life choices.
Mr. Hammond’s gaze drifts to my wrist, and my own eyes follow, spotting a bruise subtly emerging from beneath the cuff of my blazer. I immediately shove my sleeve down over it, giving Mr. Hammond a nervous smile.
“Are you alright, honey?” His voice carries a warm concern, mirrored by the worry creasing his forehead.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” I chuckle with false bravado. “I’m so clumsy. Always bumping into things.”
I’ve never been a good liar. I couldn’t get away with it growing up either. My grandfather could always read it all over my face. He knew I wasn’t okay that summer before I left, ignoring my insistent claims of “I’m fine” and “Nothing happened.” I think that’s why he didn’t argue when I asked to leave for New York two months early. We didn’t talk about it, but he seemed to understand that I needed to leave and put the pieces back together.
The man standing before me now, still looking at my covered bruise, has the same intuition. It must be a grandfather thing. I know he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t probe any further.
“Alright, well, you know that if you ever need anything, you let me know. Okay, sweet pea? I mean it.”
Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
“Thank you.”
I need to get the hell out of this elevator.
To my relief, we finally reach the ground floor, and he gestures for me to exit first. I nod and walk into the lobby toward the gold carousel doors.
“Have a great day, Audrey. Good seeing you.”
“You too, Mr. Hammond.”
We wave goodbye, and I walk toward the town car waiting for me outside. I tug at my collar, wishing it wasn’t so high up my neck. It’s warm out today, with summer approaching quickly in the city.
My bodyguard stands at the car door.
“Morning, Ms. Winthrop. Everything alright?” His voice is low and gravelly, but warm.
“Morning, Briggs. I’m fine, thanks. I’m set for breakfast today, so no need to stop. Straight for the office, please.”
Kellan hired Briggs as my personal security when I moved into the penthouse. We’d become unlikely friends. Allies, really. He doesn’t hover, but his build alone can intimidate anyone who breathes on me. His protective nature makes me feel safe. A lot safer than I feel in that penthouse.
Sure, he has tattoos lining his enormous arms and his tailored black suits make him look like a CIA agent. But inside, he’s a big ol’ softy.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He opens the car door for me, and I struggle to slide in, feeling the confinement of this goddamn skirt. As the car slides forward, my phone buzzes with a text.
Kellan
Great. Let me make it up to you, little bird. Stop by my office when you get here.
I roll my eyes and toss my phone in my purse. Little bird. My skin crawls when he calls me that. He sees me like a fragile little bird, shivering in the palm of his hand—her wings clipped, unable to fly away.
I stare out the window, watching the hustle and bustle of the city, wondering what their lives are like compared to mine.
I hope they’re happier than I am.
I reach up and touch the bruise on my shoulder and shudder at the pain.