Chapter 25
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
I’m curled into myself, cheeks swollen from tears, knees pulled tight to my chest. I haven’t been this small since I was a kid.
Even with my eyes closed, my brain won’t shut off. Images strobe behind my lids. Jake’s face, triumph and horror fighting over what he’d done; the sting of Alistair’s crop; the heat of his hand; my own voice breathless, ashamed… begging.
My throat’s still raw from my own moaning.
I roll off the bed and straight to the floor, dropping into pushup position, desperate to force the thoughts out. Pain explodes from the welts on my first rep.
Jake… How could he betray me? Ten million dollars is enough to break anyone. That’s probably what he told himself.
But all the other guys—are they really here by choice?
Was I violated? I had the words to stop it. I just didn’t say them, because I forgot. Right? I did say something, though. I like it. Was that true?
The questions burn with the same sting as last night, but at least this morning I can name them. Evidence of shame. It isn’t even mine. Alistair planted it like a grenade in my brain. He let me wear my stupid pin during dinner, knowing full well what he’d do to me afterward.
By my sixtieth pushup, my arms are already shaking, lungs gulping for air. I want to give up, but Evie’s voice rings as clear as if she’s beside me.
This man is what’s wrong with our city, with the whole fucking country. He thinks nothing is beyond his reach, and you’ve tricked him. He let a fox into his henhouse.
I keep going until my arms give out, collapsing onto my back, the smooth wood pressing against sweat-damp skin. I find the welts by touch, on my arms, chest, and thighs. They’re tender and raised, but not deep enough to bruise.
It’s not that bad, my brain tries to say.
But it was bad. And yet…
Evie would see progress.
I passed my second test and peeled back one more layer in Alistair’s game. He pits the players against each other, forces them to confront the darkness inside them. Like Jake against me.
I’ll write it all. I have the kink list. I can take photos. It’s already more than a puff piece—it’s a goddamn weapon. But a weapon’s no good if it never leaves the island.
If I want this story to see the light of day, I have two options. Break into Alistair’s office, the only place with connectivity, or wait until we leave.
Waiting feels like surrendering to one more day of hiding and one more night of his playtime. I’ve lost any delusion of being able to predict what Alistair’s capable of. He’s more precise, more punishing, and more sadistic than I expected.
The others might be stuck here for months. But I can feel my third test coming. Alistair won’t wait. He’s been fucking with me before we even stepped onto his plane.
I have to move first.
I have to break into his office and strike before he does. If it fails, I can still wait until we’re home. I just can’t bear the thought of bottling this up to endure another day of Alistair’s humiliation. Of whatever’s happening inside me.
One thing is clear. I’ll make him pay.
I dig my nails into my palms and make my decision.
Write the story. Sneak into Alistair’s office. Email Evie everything. I’ll draft the entire article in advance and attach all the evidence. That way, all I’ll need is a whisper of cell service or Wi-Fi.
If I can’t get into his office, I’ll play along for one more night. The plane leaves tomorrow.
Back on the mainland, I’ll publish everything. Once the truth is out and spreading, Alistair won’t be able to sue it back into silence. Then, when these memories surface, they won’t pin me under the shame of liking the sting of that whip.
I haul myself to my feet. Every muscle complains, my body sore and branded, but it worked. My vision finally snaps back into focus.
I keep my laptop in the bag until I’m in the bathroom, as far from the likeliest cameras as I can get, then use the toilet lid as an office chair.
The keys under my fingers tether me to the man I was before Alistair put hands on me.
Once I’m typing, the words come fast, pouring out in a compulsive deluge.
Every tabloid myth I’ve rolled my eyes at becomes a prompt I’ll confirm or deny with my firsthand account.
The party invite. The gifts. The linen uniforms. How he manipulates his artists. The inner circle. The tests. The kink list. I don’t leave anything out.
Alistair Blackwood is a tech god, media darling, and secret predator.
The story writes itself. He’s a perfect villain.
A billionaire warped by a tragic accident, now playing god on a private island where absolute power corrupts absolutely.
I write it in a way that makes this story one the world already knows.
Anytime I hit something gray or a question I haven’t yet answered, the story of good versus evil answers for me, and the first draft takes less than forty-five minutes.
By the end, there’s still something missing: a main character, a victim, or a hero—a face.
Jake’s comes just as fast and easy as it has these past few days.
Yesterday, I couldn’t write him down. Yesterday, he was too complicated, too trapped, and too human for me to turn into proof without asking. But now? After what he’s done?
I type Jacob Quinn and imagine the rest: brilliant founder, corrupted by need, pushed so far inside Blackwood’s machinery that he hurt the person trying to save him.
My fingers hover over the keys as I imagine Jake reading it once it’s out there. I want him to know exactly what it feels like to be used by someone the way he used me.
Make him pay, something whispers from behind the locked door. The voice is my father’s, old and certain and buried deep, but it might as well be Alistair’s.
The image disintegrates almost as soon as I recognize it.
I know what that ten million dollars means to Jake. I know who he is outside the game. Fuck. Knowing exactly how to hurt him is what makes it impossible.
I highlight the paragraph and delete it.
That leaves only one face.
Mine.
Just give them what they want, if I can figure out what that is.
Should I lie about feeling pleasure? No. They’ll want that. A lie’s always more potent when mixed with some truth.
I grab my phone and go out onto my deck, but the welts don’t photograph. Under this sun they could be faint raised lines you could wave away with a shrug. That won’t do.
My thumb shakes, knowing what I’m about to do will create an image that lives longer than I do.
Good.
I press my thumb into the one on my side and dig until my eyes water, until the skin flares hot and angry and turns the right shade of red. Then I take a shirtless selfie with the ocean and plunge pool behind me, angling my body so the marks look undeniable.
I am my own proof. The truth never lands on its own. So I’ll make it land and make them see.
A part of me wants Jake to see too. I want to tell him I’m too strong for what Alistair did to break me. That I’m fighting back. I want to tell him it wasn’t Alistair’s eyes I saw when I finally came last night.
No. Fuck.
Someone shouts about breakfast outside, and a distant murmur of the other guys starting their day nudges me out of my flow.
In two hours, I’ve poured my story onto the page.
It’ll have to be enough. The sounds fade as the guys head down the path to breakfast, and my clock starts ticking before someone notices I’m missing.
I type a short email to Evie: Take this to print the second you hear from me.
I add an apology, then delete it. She wanted me here.
She gave me a hall pass. If any of this really is betrayal, it deserves a face-to-face conversation and an apology, I guess.
I try to picture her horrified by my article, but the image won’t stick.
She’s going to be elated. Cable Car Chronicles is about to take Alistair down.
I push it all onto my phone, and scroll through it until something cold and satisfied quiets my heartbeat.
Alistair thinks he broke me, but all that bastard did was remind me what I’m good at.
I shut the laptop, pocket my phone, and step out into the sun. Everything I need to destroy him is with me as I head for the beach house instead of the beach.
Let him think what he wants. I’ve finally got my story.