Chapter 3

T he light of dawn brings with it shame. I am weak. I was weak. The nightmares, they sap me of my strength. Turn me into this creature, this soft, vulnerable thing, all underbelly and no armor. Starved for oxygen, starved for light, hungry for touch to remind me that the dreams are only fiction, to remind me that I am safe, I turn to the only comfort I can find.

The ritual.

The words.

The history.

But in the light of day—showered and dressed, hair braided and twisted into a knot at the back of my head, makeup carefully applied, feet sheathed in expensive heels—garbed in my armor, I am not that mewling kitten, and I despise her. If I could get my claws into that version of myself, I would shred her without mercy, tear her to bits. Shake her until her teeth clack together, give her a taste of the verbal venom I use to keep errant rich boys in line. Tell her a lady does not show fear. A lady does not cry in front of anyone. A lady does not ever show weakness. Chin up , I'd say. Back straight. Find your dignity, put it on like a suit of armor.

I do those things. Scour myself of emotion. Turn away from the mirror in my walk-in closet, away from the temptation to examine the scars on my belly, my arms, my shoulder, beneath the roots of my hair on the left side of my skull, midway up between the top of my ear and the crown of my head. There are no scars. No reminders of a lost past. No weakness, no nightmares, no need for comfort.

I am X.

It is just past five in the morning. I prepare a breakfast of free-range egg whites, hand-ground wheat toast with a thin scrim of organic butter. Slice open a grapefruit, cover half with plastic wrap and return it to the refrigerator, tap a few granules of Truvia onto each wedge of the grapefruit. Black tea, no sugar or milk. Organic vitamin supplements.

Later, between clients, I will spend an hour on the rowing machine, and then an hour doing yoga. Then there will be lunch: a salad of fresh, organically grown spinach, walnuts, dried cranberries, crumbles of bleu cheese, and a drizzle of vinaigrette, a bowl of fresh fruit sliced and mixed, a bottle of distilled, deionized water. Or, alternatively, a superfoods smoothie, green, bitter, and healthy.

An extra twenty minutes in the gym , I'd been told. Trim down, that meant. The diet and exercise instruction had come with the packet I received every morning, a large manila envelope slipped under the door, containing the dossiers on my clients for the day and the attendant contracts.

Timed correctly, there are always a few extra minutes after breakfast and before my first client of the day. I finish breakfast at 5:45 a.m. , and my first client arrives at 6:15 a.m. ; the earliest slot is reserved for the most difficult of clients, those most in need of a jarring lesson. If you cannot make the early time, you fail the course, and you are charged the termination and grievance fee.

In the thirty minutes to myself, before William Drake arrives, I stand at the window in the living room, staring down at the bustling streets below. This is my favorite pastime, watching the people scurry here and there, talking on their cell phones, newspapers tucked under business-suit arms, slim pencil dresses slit just so in the back and hugging stockinged legs. I imagine their stories.

That man, there, in the charcoal suit just a little too loose around the middle, shoulder pads a little too thick, slacks a little long at the heel. Balding, a tea-saucer-sized bare spot at the back of his head. Talking on cell phone, hand gesturing frantically, angrily, forefinger stabbing the air. Red in the face. He's a struggling businessman, fighting upstream in a cutthroat business. Stocks, maybe. Or law. Corporate law. He's always behind, just barely not making it. A wife, a young son. He's older than his wife by several years, and his son is just starting school. He's old enough that taking care of a child on top of fighting to make it at the firm is a Sisyphean task. His wife married him because she thought their fortunes would improve, a promotion would put them in an easier place, and she needed a green card, maybe. There's affection, but no real love. He's too busy for love, too busy clocking sixty or eighty hours per week trying to make the exorbitant New York City rent. They live in the Bronx, maybe, so she can be nearer to her family, because she needs help. She's probably working a job on the side while her son goes to school, stashing away money unbeknownst to her husband, because she's losing faith in his ability to take care of them. Enough that she could move out and provide for her son if worse came to worst.

It is a pleasant distraction, focusing on the fictional, normal lives of random people. It allows me to safely wonder what life is like out there, for them. Safely, because to wonder what such a life out there would be like for me? That's dangerous. A threat to my sanity, which depends on a careful balancing act.

I hear the faint ding of the elevator arriving. I glance at the Venetian-style wall clock: 6:10 a.m. ; five minutes early. But a moment or two passes and there is no knock at the door. I move across the room, keeping my heel clicks as silent as possible, and stand by the door, listening.

"Yeah, I'm almost there," you say, your voice low. "I fucking hate these early-ass appointments. No, my dad makes me go. Some kind of stupid corporate training, basically. Make me a better leader, bullshit like that. Put my ass in line. No, man, it's not like that. I can't really get into it. No, for real, I'm not allowed to talk about it. I signed a contract, and if I fuck this up my dad's going to cut me off totally. After what happened with that slut Yasmin, I'm on real thin ice with him, so I've got to toe the fucking line.... Or what? Or he'll basically gut the position of president out of the charter and turn all the power over to the board, which means I won't inherit dick when he retires. He's got the documents drawn up. He showed them to me. No, man, I fucking saw them, okay? It was after he got the judge to let me out on bail. He had to pay a shitload of money to keep the whole thing quiet. Paid Yasmin like half a mil to keep her fat mouth shut about what happened. My plan? My plan is to go along with this training program, keep my dad happy, play the game. I've got friends on the inside, on the board, certain members who are unhappy with where Dad's been taking the company. If I can string things along another year or two, I can probably work a little magic behind the scenes, steal the whole shit show from the old fucker, and I mean pull a real-deal coup d'état. And as soon as I've got my hands on the company... man, I'll be set. I've got plans... no, I can't make it out tonight. I've got... other plans.... No, I let that bitch go, she was a screamer. This is a new one. She's all wrapped up like a sweet little present. She ain't wearing a damn thing except the handcuffs, and I didn't even have to gag her. No, you asshole, you can't help . Last time I let you help, you took it way too fucking far, and I had to pay the slut to keep her from yapping about what your stupid ass did to her. I've told you, there's an art to it. Listen, dude, I'm gonna be late, I've gotta go. The bitch that runs this show doesn't fuck around, I can tell you that much for free. Anyway, for real, I've got to go. And Brady? Stay the fuck away from my place, okay? I'm serious. I'll kill you for fucking real if you go anywhere near her. All right, bye."

My heart thuds as I take a couple quick steps away from the door, smoothing my expression into neutrality.

Deep breaths. Focus. Put on the armor. No cracks, no chinks. Hard. Cold. Smooth. Unassailable. Imagine claws in place of fingernails. Viper eyes. Ice.

Knock-knock.

I glance at the clock: 6:17 a.m. One last deep breath, blown out through pursed lips. Twist the knob, swing open the door. "Mr. Drake." An arched eyebrow. "You're late."

You bring up your arm, extend your wrist, bare your extravagant Blancpain watch. I loathe that movement: arm rises, flick the wrist forward. It's ostentatious, vain. And that watch? Easily three hundred thousand dollars. Alligator leather, eighteen-karat gold, sapphire crystal face... all the fancy trappings of the insecure wealthy. I am not impressed.

"By like, two minutes, X." You breeze past me, and I gag on your cologne. You had to have bathed in it to stink so thickly of it. "It's cool, man. No big deal. Two minutes, whatever. I'm here."

I remain standing by the door, hands at my sides, head high, staring down my nose at you. "No, Mr. Drake. Not whatever." I gesture at the door. "You may go. We are done here."

You have the decency to look at least a little worried. "X, come on. It's two minutes. Who the fuck cares about two little minutes? I was on the phone."

I know, I heard—I know better than to say this, however. " I care about two minutes, Mr. Drake. One minute, thirty seconds, a single moment. Late is late . You should be knocking on this door at six fourteen. Punctuality is a key trait of the successful, Mr. Drake."

"My dad is late for board meetings all the time," you point out, not moving from your position three steps into my condo.

I quirk an eyebrow. "Your father is the founder, CEO, and majority shareholder of one of the most powerful corporations on earth. He has power, which grants him the privilege of being late, to show up whenever he wishes, because he wields the control. You wield nothing , William. You receive an allowance. You are tolerated . Your lot in life is do what you're told, to show up where you are told to show up, when you are told to show up, and not a single millisecond later. Your father is one of the biggest, baddest sharks in the ocean, and you are a guppy . Good-bye, William. Perhaps next week you will think twice about yapping on your mobile phone outside my door, thus wasting my time, which—need I remind you—is infinitely more valuable than yours will ever be."

You cross the three steps between us in a blur. Your hand is on my throat, cutting off my air supply. Leaving bruises, certainly. You are nose-to-nose with me, eyes radiating fury, panic, and hate. "What did you hear, whore ?"

I blink, forcing myself to remain calm. My toes barely touch the floor, my high heels drooping off my feet. I cannot breathe. Stars blink and flash in my eyes. I do not fight, do not scrabble at your arms or wrists. I stare at you. Make sure you are holding my gaze. And then, deliberately, I let my gaze flick upward, to the corner of the ceiling where the camera is hidden. Your eyes follow mine, and although you cannot possibly see it as it is far too well hidden, my meaning is clear. I lift my chin, arch an eyebrow.

You drop me. I inhale a deep breath, forcing myself to do so slowly, to lock my knees and remain upright, on my feet. Instinct has me wanting to collapse to the floor, gasping, rubbing my throat. But I do not. Dignity is my armor.

Ding.

Elevator doors whoosh open, and you go pale. My door is still open. You back up a step, two, three. Shake your head. Four enormous men stalk through the doorway, wearing identical black suits, white shirts, and slim black ties, with earpieces in their right ears, cords trailing under their collars.

"You will come with us, please, Mr. Drake." One of them speaks, but his lips barely move so it could have come from any one of them.

It is politely phrased, of course, because you are heir to a multibillion-dollar company. But then, you put your hands on me, and Caleb does not tolerate that. Not at all. Not from anyone. If you were not such a pathetic, nasty piece of scum, I would almost pity you. I know these men, and they do not feel mercy.

But then, neither do I.

You puff out your chest. Your lip curls in a derisive sneer. "Fuck off. You can't tell me to do shit." You breeze past me.

You make it perhaps four full strides, which brings you out of my condo and into the hallway. You even round the corner. Big mistake, William. There are no cameras out there. One of the guards moves like a striking cobra, faster than thought. A single blow, jackhammer hard, to your liver. You drop like a sack of flour, moaning, writhing.

"Len," I say. One of the guards swivels his head on his thick neck, glances at me. I beckon to him, a crook of my finger.

He moves to stand in front of me, hands clasped behind his back. "Ma'am?"

"I overheard him speaking on the phone to a friend. I heard some... rather unsavory pieces of information." I point at the ceiling. "Are your microphones powerful enough to have caught it?"

Len's face remains impassive. "I don't know what you're—"

"Don't insult my intelligence, Len."

A pause. "I'll check the tapes, ma'am." He glances at you. "He's a piece of shit."

"He's a predator, Len. A sick, twisted criminal. He has a woman held captive somewhere, and he's going to do something awful to her, if he hasn't already."

"You fucking bitch!" you rasp from the floor. "You can't prove shit."

One of the guards puts a large, polished-to-a-shine dress shoe on your throat. "You don't speak to Madame X that way, boy."

"My father will have all of your jobs," you threaten.

Len laughs. "There are people in this world far more dangerous than your father, kid. Our employer makes your daddy look like a sad little kitten."

You glance at me, curious now. "X? She's just a whore."

The shoe presses down, and you choke. Len strides over to you, kneels beside you. "Kid, you have no clue what you're talking about. My friends and I? We're just pawns on the chessboard. X? She's the queen. And you? You're not even on the board. Your precious papa? He might rank as high as a knight. Maybe. " Len reaches into his suit coat pocket, pulls out a copy of the contract. "And this? This is a legally binding document, signed by you and your daddy. There's a whole shitload of fine print on this thing, son. You know what that fine print says? It says that my friends and I are going to stomp the sniveling fuck out of your puny little corpse, and then you're gonna show us your little playroom, and then we're going to drag you to the nearest police precinct. And then ... and then our employer is going to sue your father for every dollar and every share he's worth, and there's nothing anyone can do stop us. Get me... son ?"

You quiver. You want to bluff, you want to bluster. You have never been bullied or threatened before. I doubt you have ever even felt pain. Lily-white little pissant. But Len's eyes, they are a shade of steel-gray that brings to mind razor blades and gunmetal. They are not just cold eyes; ice is cold, winter is cold. Len's eyes? They are vacuum cold. Deep space cold. Zero Kelvin cold. They are not lifeless, because they exude threat, like those of a leopard stalking prey. They hold truths of a dripping-scarlet variety.

Len glances at me. "We can handle things from here, ma'am."

I take that as the cue it is and return inside. Close the door. But I can't resist standing with my ear to the door. There are sounds that make my gut twist. Thuds, smacks, crunches. The sounds gradually become... wet.

I shiver, and push away from the door.

Eventually there's the ding of the elevator, and I am alone once more. Forty-seven minutes until my next client.

Hands shaking, I make a mug of tea. Earl Grey, a touch of milk. By the time I'm swallowing the final mouthful, the elevator ding s again, and my door opens.

The figure that stalks through my door is not a client.

Fury turns dark eyes darker. Lids narrowed to slits. Chest swelling and compressing, fingers curled into fists.

"Are you okay, X?" Voice like thunder, rumbling on the horizon.

I shrug. "It was... unpleasant, but I will be fine." My voice is steady, but raspy from being choked.

Hands on my shoulders, gently but firmly holding me in place. Eyes sweep over my face, searching. Flick down to my throat. "He bruised you."

I touch my throat where William grabbed me. The flesh there is tender. I twist gingerly out of the hold on my shoulders, turn to the mirror on the wall above a small decorative side table. My skin is dark, the color of caramel, maybe even a shade or two darker. I don't bruise easily, but there are fingerprint-sized bruises on my throat. My eyes are reddened. My voice is hoarse, raspy.

Presence behind me, hot and huge and angry. "That little fuck is lucky Len got to him before I did."

That makes me shudder, because I'm pretty sure William will never again be as pretty as he once was. Nor as... healthy. "I'm fine."

"He's cost me money. You can't work the rest of today, at least. Maybe longer. You can't see clients with bruises on your throat."

So much for concern, it would seem. I push away a knot of bitterness.

"Did Len check the tapes?" I ask.

"Why do you care?"

"I heard what he said to his friend. He should be stopped."

"A report has been filed. The police are investigating." It is not an answer, but then I know better than to expect a confirmation of the cameras and microphones.

I know they are there, but no one will outright confirm it. It is some kind of secret, as if I am not supposed to know that every move I make, every word I speak is watched and overheard. It is for my own protection, I do realize that. Today's events prove as much. But most days, the utter lack of privacy grates, weighs heavily.

"I will be able to work tomorrow," I say.

"Dr. Horowitz will be by later today to check on you. Take it easy for the rest of today." A nose in my hair, near my ear. Inhalation, exhalation, slow, deliberate, with ever so slight a waver in the exhalation. "I'm glad you're okay, X. No one will ever put their hands on you ever again. Clients will be even more thoroughly vetted from now on. That should not have happened. If you'd been seriously hurt, I don't know what I would have done."

"Trained a new Madame X, probably," I say, recklessly. Foolishly. Stupidly.

"There will never be another Madame X. There is no one else like you. You are special." This voice, these words, low, quavering with potent emotion, I do not know how to absorb them, how to react to them. "You are mine , X."

"I know, Caleb." I can barely speak, do not dare glance in the mirror, do not dare witness such vulnerability, such strange and alien passion.

Fingers, just the tips, the pads, brushing down my cheek. Tracing my high cheekbone. I finally must glance in the mirror, see the dark hair head-and-shoulders above me. Nearly black eyes, pinning me in the reflection. Fingertips, trailing down the side of my neck. Hand, twisting, reaching around my throat, fitting fingers one by one to the bruises, but gently, tenderly, barely making contact.

"Never again."

"I know." I whisper it, because it hurts to speak, and because I somehow dare not speak any louder.

I see the tableau, frozen in the mirror glass: Charcoal suit coat-sleeve, slim, tailored, molded to a thick arm. Coat unbuttoned, tie knot just barely visible over my right shoulder, a perfect triangle of crimson silk against spotless white. Dark, potent eyes on mine, a hand clutching my throat. Possessive, owning, yet somehow gentle. A promise, not a threat. Yet... still a warning. Mine , that hand on my throat says.

A sudden, deep inhalation, and then I am alone at the mirror, watching a broad back and wide set of shoulders recede.

When the door clicks shut, I can finally let the breath I've been holding rush out, can slump, shaking, hands on my knees. Step out of my bright red Jimmy Choo heels, leave them at the mirror, one upright, the other tipped onto its side.

I suck in a breath, let it out. Another. Shake my hand, curl fingers into a fist, a vain attempt to stop them from trembling. A sob rips out of me. I stifle it. Another, louder. I cannot, cannot. If I give in, that door will open again and I'll succumb to the need for comfort. And I, at war with my disparate selves, need that physical comfort, that carnal reassurance... and I also loathe it. Hate it. Revile it. Feel a deep, secret need to shower and scrub the memory of it off my skin as soon as the door closes behind that broad and muscular back.

Yet I need it. Cannot fight my body's reaction to such raw, masculine, sexual, sensual primacy.

I grab a throw pillow from the couch, cross my arms over it, bury my face in the scratchy fabric, and let myself cry. The camera is behind me; it will only see me sitting on the couch, finally processing the events of the morning. It will only see me engaging in a normal, natural reaction to trauma.

I shake all over, shaking so hard my joints hurt, sobbing into the pillow. Alone, I can strip off the armor.

It isn't until I've nearly cried myself out that it hits me: That was the first time in recent memory that a visit came and went, and I remained fully clothed the entire time. An anomaly.

I let my tears dry, find my breath, find my equilibrium. Set aside the pillow. Stand up, shake my hands and toss my hair. No more weakness. Not even alone.

I glance at the clock; it is 7:48 a.m. What am I going to do with the rest of the day? I've never had a whole day to myself. It should a luxury, a precious gift.

It isn't.

A whole day, alone with my thoughts?

I am terrified.

Silence breathes truth; solitude breeds introspection.