Elinor woke up to the smell of butter and toasted bread.
Her entire body ached as if she had been beaten with a baseball bat. She slowly opened her eyes. The heavy curtains were pulled back, letting the bright morning sun flood the cage.
Boyd was gone. The space beside her on the bed was cold.
She sat up, wincing as the bruised skin on her neck stretched. On the mahogany nightstand beside the bed sat a silver tray.
On the tray was a plate with a perfectly fried egg, shaped exactly like a heart. Next to it sat two slices of golden toast and a crystal glass of milk. Beside the plate was a small tube of expensive medical-grade bruise ointment and a piece of heavy cardstock.
Elinor picked up the card. Boyd's sharp, aggressive handwriting slashed across the paper: Apply it. School today.
A wave of pure nausea hit her stomach. The combination of the brutal violence from yesterday and this twisted, domestic 'heart-shaped' breakfast made bile rise in her throat. It was the ultimate psychological torture. A carrot and a stick.
She threw the note onto the floor. She picked up the silver tray. Her hands were steady.
She walked straight into the marble bathroom. She stood over the toilet, tilted the plate, and watched the heart-shaped egg and the toast slide into the water. She poured the milk in after it.
She hit the flush handle. The water swirled, sucking the food down into the pipes. She watched it disappear, her face completely blank.
An hour later, Frank Gallo, Boyd's head driver, was waiting for her in the underground garage. He drove her to the New York University campus in silence.
The moment Elinor stepped out of the black SUV, she felt the shift in the air.
Students walking past her stopped and whispered. Eyes tracked her every movement. She heard fragments of sentences floating in the cold air: "...sugar baby..." "...old billionaire..." "...bought her..."
Elinor tightened her grip on the straps of her backpack. She bit the inside of her cheek and kept her eyes locked on the pavement. She needed this degree. It was the only raft she had in this ocean of debt and control.
She walked toward the main plaza in front of the library.
Suddenly, a loud screech of microphone feedback echoed across the quad.
Elinor looked up. Standing on the steps of the library was Preston Vance. His father sat on the university's board of trustees. Preston was wearing a designer sweater, holding a massive bouquet of ninety-nine red roses in one hand and a red megaphone in the other.
"Elinor Richardson!" Preston's voice boomed across the plaza.
Hundreds of students stopped. Cell phones were immediately pulled out, camera lenses pointing directly at her.
Preston smiled, a confident, arrogant smirk. "I like you! Be my girlfriend!"
The crowd erupted into cheers and whistles. Preston walked down the steps, holding the roses out toward her. He looked like a prince in a movie. He expected her to melt.
Elinor didn't melt. The blood drained from her face, leaving her skin the color of chalk.
She didn't see romance. She saw a death sentence.
Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She knew Boyd. She knew his paranoia. Somewhere, somehow, Boyd was going to see this. If he thought she was entertaining another man, the punishment wouldn't fall on her-it would fall on Preston, or worse, Deshaun again.
She had to stop this immediately.
Elinor pushed through the crowd. She walked right up to Preston. The cameras flashed around them.
Preston's smile widened. He held the roses out further.
Elinor looked him dead in the eyes. Her voice was ice-cold and loud enough for the front row of students to hear. "I do not like you. Do not ever bother me again."
Preston's smile froze. The confidence shattered, replaced by instant, humiliating shock. He had never been rejected in his life, let alone in front of the entire campus.
The crowd gasped. The cheers turned into loud, mocking whispers.
"Did she just reject Vance?"
"Guess the billionaire pays better."
Elinor didn't wait for his reaction. She turned on her heel and walked away fast.
Preston's face flushed a dark, angry red. He dropped the megaphone. "You'll regret this, Richardson!" he screamed at her back.
Elinor ignored him. She practically ran into the library, seeking the darkest, quietest corner in the back stacks.
She collapsed into a wooden chair, her chest heaving. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably. She pulled her cheap, cracked phone from her pocket. She needed to know if Deshaun was alive. She opened her messages and typed: Deshaun, please tell me you are at the hospital.
Her thumb hovered over the send button.
She leaned her head back against the window, trying to catch her breath. As she looked out the glass, her eyes focused on the tall, glass-fronted office building across the street from the library.
On the roof of the building, a tiny, unnatural flash of light caught her eye.
It was the sun reflecting off a long-range camera lens.
The phone slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the desk. A paralyzing cold seeped into her bones.
Boyd hadn't let her go to school out of mercy. He had put her on a larger stage, and he was watching every single second of it. The cameras were everywhere.
She slowly picked up her phone. She deleted the message to Deshaun. She couldn't contact anyone. She was entirely, hopelessly alone in a transparent prison.
