"Okay."
My voice came out hoarse, scraped raw from somewhere deep in my throat.
Anthony was far from satisfied with my compliance; a flash of cruelty passed through his eyes.
"Get in the car."
The heat inside hit me like a wall, sharp with cedar.
A pink cartoon throw pillow sat on the passenger seat—Audrey Swanson's style.
I was soaked through, shrinking back, not daring to sit fully.
Anthony got in. Seeing me like this, his brow furrowed deeper.
"What's with the innocent act?"
He clamped a hand around my waist and yanked me onto his lap.
Mud and dirty water smeared across his expensive suit pants.
I panicked, trying to get up. "Mr. Vance, it's dirty—"
"So you know you're dirty too?"
His tone was mocking, and his fingers traced mercilessly across the burn on my forehead.
"Who you are now is only worth this price."
The car sped through the city, arriving at a hillside villa in the south.
That was where Anthony lived now.
Inside, he pointed straight at the bathroom.
"Go wash yourself clean. Don't dirty my floor."
There were no clean clothes to change into.
I came out wrapped in a bath towel. Anthony was on the sofa, smoking.
He tossed me a silk nightgown.
It wasn't new.
"Put it on."
I unfolded it and caught the scent of perfume.
Mon Paris. Audrey's signature.
I turned my back, untied the towel, and pulled on the nightgown.
When I turned around, Anthony was on a video call.
On the screen, Audrey smiled sweetly. "Anthony, are you asleep? I miss you."
The man who'd looked so cold moments ago now spoke in a voice so gentle it didn't seem like him.
"Not yet. Just finished dealing with a bit of trash. Go to sleep early. I'll pick you up tomorrow."
I stood three yards away, listening to him be tender with another woman.
After he hung up, the gentleness vanished from his face.
He looked at me—undisguised desire and disgust intertwined in his eyes.
He stood, crossed the room in a few strides, and shoved me down onto the sofa.
I squeezed my eyes shut, my body tensed like a bowstring.
The violation I expected never came.
A snort of laughter sounded by my ear.
"Smells poor. Makes me lose my appetite."
He let go and pulled out a wet wipe, carefully wiping his hands.
"Get out to the guest room and sleep on the floor. Don't let me see you."
Clutching my collar, I scrambled into the guest room.
The room was big, but I didn't dare touch the bed.
I curled up on the floor, fingers brushing the spot on my left ring finger.
A faint ring-shaped mark still lingered there.
Once, a straw-braided ring had circled that finger.
That poor boy, Anthony, had made it for me in the Sullivan family's back garden, his hands covered in blood.
He said: Layla, someday I'll replace it with a real one.
Now, the ring had long since rotted in the mud.
Me too.
At six in the morning, I fried eggs and toasted bread, cutting off the hard crusts.
Anthony doesn't eat lettuce, and he doesn't eat fried eggs with overcooked yolks.
I remembered his habits more clearly than my own birthday.
Out of habit, I swapped the lettuce for cucumber slices.
At seven, Anthony came downstairs.
Seeing the breakfast on the table, his steps faltered.
I stood by the dining table, hands folded, eyes lowered.
"Mr. Vance, breakfast is ready."
He walked over, his gaze landing on the sandwich.
The next second, he swept the plate straight into the trash.
A crisp clatter.
Anthony looked at me coldly. "Layla, who do you think I am? I stopped eating this cheap taste a long time ago."
