27. The Confrontation
THE CONFRONTATION
Trevor
The dining room is glass and frost and a scatter of white candles down the length of the marble.
I went all out tonight: linen napkins folded like chess pieces, the wine decanted, bread basket under a silver dome.
Kayleigh sits at the far end of the table, shoulders bare in a white dress that’s loose enough to be innocent but cut just high enough to make me think about pushing it up over her hips the moment we’re done.
Her hair is twisted off her neck and pinned with something gold.
She’s using the silverware I bought from Copenhagen, because she knows I care about the details.
We eat in comfortable silence, just the steady clink of cutlery against plates and the quiet hum of the city behind the glass.
From this high up, the skyline has no sound, only a kind of icy glow, like a moonlit graveyard.
I watch Kayleigh eat, the way she lifts her fork, how she chews with a small crease of concentration above her nose.
She’s aware of my attention but pretends not to be; it’s our game, or maybe just mine.
It’s a perfect evening. Or it would be, if not for the pit in my stomach.
The tension has been brewing for two weeks now.
I can’t put my finger on it, but something’s off.
I can see it in Kayleigh’s posture—too careful, too bright, like she’s been rehearsing every word in her head before it comes out.
She says she’s happy, she says she loves being here, but sometimes I catch her watching the windows, eyes soft and wet like she’s waiting for a sign.
Tonight, I want to prove to her, and to myself, that this is real. That what we have is more than some extension of the old nude photos debacle that kicked off the whole mess. I want to believe that I can be what she needs, not just what I want.
So I try to make it perfect.
We talk lightly, about nothing in particular the way that couples who are comfortable do.
She tells me about a particularly ornery potted olive tree she’s trying to coax olives from.
As she enthuses about various plants in our solarium, my heart expands with love and then loosens with relaxation.
This is exactly where I want to be. With Kayleigh, while she yaps away, unconscious of her own beauty, grace, and humor.
And then her phone, which I asked her to keep off the table, lights up with a text.
She scrambles to flip it face-down but not fast enough. I see the name in the notification, big as headlights: Evan Fine.
I let my fork hang in the air. I watch the color rise in her cheeks, the way her hand curls protectively over the phone, thumb white-knuckled.
She senses me watching and puts on a smile. “Sorry,” she says, “it’s probably just a spam call. They’re always trying to get me to refinance a mortgage.”
I say nothing. I set the fork down with surgical precision, the tines perfectly parallel to the rim of the plate. I let the silence fill the room, dense as a sheet of soundproof glass.
“What does he want?” My voice comes out low, careful. Not angry—yet.
Kayleigh glances at the phone, then at me. “Who?”
“Evan Fine.” I don’t bother softening it. “You know who I mean.”
She drops her gaze, cheeks flushed. “He’s just following up about the penthouse. He wants to see if you’re still interested in listing.”
“We’re going through Gerald,” I say. “At Stillwell Realtors. I told him that I don’t want a lackey handling this transaction, and Gerald agreed. He’s doing the work himself.” The muscles in my jaw twitch but I keep my hands on the table.
She nods. “I know, but—”
“But what?” The words land heavy, weighted with everything I’m not saying. My heart is heavy, the pit in my stomach almost at my feet. Yet Kayleigh continues with her charade.
She bites her lip. “It’s nothing. I told Evan that you’re handling things with Gerald, but I guess he’s an eager beaver, ready to please. Maybe he’s doing it for extra credit with Gerald, I don’t know.”
I exhale, slow. I look at her, really look: the pink flush on her cheekbones, the soft curve of her neck, the way her fingers pick at the napkin in her lap.
I think about the other times in the past two weeks I’ve caught her texting after midnight, the weird nervous energy she brings home after Pilates, the mornings where she stares at her phone for too long and says it’s just her mom, or Stella.
I should leave it alone. I should act like I don’t care. But the thing in my chest won’t let me.
“Let me see the phone.” I say it soft, like a dare.
Kayleigh freezes. Her hand covers the device like a shield, thumb locked on the screen.
“I’d rather not,” she says, too quiet.
Something cold and electric fires through me.
I push back from the table, the chair scraping the marble, and stand.
The air goes still. She watches me, wide-eyed, like she’s not sure whether to run or stay.
I cross to her, slow and measured, and plant both hands on the back of her chair.
I lean in until I can smell the floral shampoo in her hair.
“I’m not mad,” I say. “But I want to know the truth. Are you fucking him?”
She closes her eyes for a second. I see the tremor in her throat when she swallows.
“No of course not! You know I’m not, Trevor. I would rather die first.”
I stare at her flushed features and nod sharply. I believe her because Kayleigh is too innocent to share that beautiful body with multiple men simultaneously. Still, there are affairs of the heart.
“Don’t treat me like I’m a fucking idiot,” I grind out. “Tell me why you’re in touch with him still.”
Kayleigh looks down, averting her gaze. Then she looks up. “Evan keeps texting because—” she starts, then falters. “Well, because he thinks I’m being held here against my will.”
I stare at her, dumbfounded.
She laughs, but it’s a small, strangled thing. “He thinks you’re a monster. That I’m your captive.” She says it like it’s funny, but her face is pale.
My mind stutters. “Why the fuck would he think that?”
Kayleigh looks at the table, fingers twisting the napkin.
“Because I messed up. When he came for the walk-through, I forgot to put away the handcuffs on the twin bed. You know, the ones from before that we never took down from the railing. The ones you—” Her voice cracks.
“He saw them, and I didn’t realize it until later.
He keeps texting, wanting to know if I’m safe.
He thinks you’re some psycho who locked me up and won’t let me leave. Like there’s domestic violence.”
I let the words hang between us.
Then, before I can stop myself, I sweep my hand across the table. The wine glass nearest me rockets off the edge, shattering against the far wall, crimson spreading down the white like a wound.
Kayleigh flinches back in her chair. Her hands go to her mouth. For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then I lean in, knuckles white on the table, voice flat as stone.
“Tell me the truth. Are you afraid of me?”
She shakes her head, fast, but tears brim in her eyes.
“No, I’m not—Trevor, I’m not scared of you.
But he won’t stop. He keeps saying he can help.
He thinks I’m your sex slave or something.
” She laughs again, a sick little sound.
“Like some kind of tabloid story, where you brainwash girls and keep them chained up as your sex toys.”
I stand there, vibrating, every muscle strung tight. I want to punch a hole in the fucking wall, or go find Evan and pound his teeth in, but I don’t. I breathe, slow and even. I pick up the fallen chair and set it upright.
Kayleigh’s still shaking. Her lips are pressed together, the line of her jaw rigid.
“So what did you say?”
“I told him no, of course you’re not doing that.
I’m here of my own free will! But it’s not just him.
Angela’s been texting too. My old manager from The Fig Leaf.
She saw my wrist when I quit. The mark from the cuff.
She asked if I was okay, if you were hurting me.
I told her no, but I don’t think she believes me because she keeps mentioning that her husband is an ER doctor who sees intimate partner violence at his job all the time. ”
I stare at her. The broken glass glints on the floor, the wine bleeding into the cracks.
“Well they’re wrong,” I grind out. “What a bunch of fucking idiots.”
Kayleigh doesn’t say anything for a moment, but then she looks up, voice suddenly hard. “Are they idiots though? Are they wrong? I don’t think you’re physically striking me. But there are other types of violence.”
The question stops me cold. What the fuck?
She stands, slowly, pushing her chair back so it shrieks across the floor. She faces me, chin up, eyes blazing.
“Like I said, Trevor, are they wrong? Am I your sex slave? Your fuck doll on command? A thing you keep in a closet, take out when you want to slake your lust? I quit my job for you. I run your errands, I wear what you want, I eat what you like. I let you fuck me however you want, whenever you want. But you never take me out as your girlfriend. When we do go out, you introduce me as your assistant, or your stepsister. Never as Kayleigh McEnroe, my girlfriend. It’s almost like I don’t have a name.
So what’s the difference between what I am and what they think I am? ”
Her voice breaks on the last word. She swipes at her cheek, furious.
For a long moment, neither of us says a word.
When I speak, it’s with the last shreds of my self-control. “You’re not a prisoner. I offered to help you get a new job, if you recall. You said you didn’t want one. You’re the one who wanted to stay here, within these walls, and live a luxurious life.”
She laughs, brittle. “Because you said you’d be jealous if I had a boss who took up my time.”
“That was a joke.”
“No, it wasn’t,” she says, voice sharp as glass. “It was the one time you told the truth.”
I feel something inside me crack, hairline but real.