Dewitt pushed his car door open. He stepped out onto the concrete. He didn't smooth his suit. He didn't adjust his cuffs. He just stood there, leaning against the side of his car, radiating a cold, lethal calm.
Barnett jogged over, fumbling with the top button of his shirt.
"Mr. Knight!" Barnett's voice was too loud, too eager. "I didn't realize you were in the city. We were just... having a private meeting."
Dewitt took a drag of his cigarette. He looked Barnett up and down.
"A meeting," Dewitt repeated. "Is that what they call it now?"
Inside the Lincoln, Felicity froze. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She knew that voice. It was deep, velvet wrapped around steel. Dewitt Knight.
She remembered him from the gala last year. Before the fall. Before the handcuffs and the headlines. He had looked at her then with polite indifference. Now, if he saw her like this, he would look at her with disgust.
She couldn't let him see her.
She looked around frantically. On the floor, tangled in her torn dress, was Barnett's suit jacket. He had taken it off earlier when the heat in the car rose.
It smelled like him. It made her skin crawl. But it was coverage.
She grabbed the jacket and pulled it around her shoulders. She buttoned it with shaking fingers. It was huge on her. It swallowed her frame. She pulled her knees up and huddled in the corner, praying he would just drive away.
"Who is in the car?" Dewitt asked.
Barnett shifted his weight. "Oh, just some talent. Nobody important. We should get out of your hair."
Dewitt dropped his cigarette. He crushed it under the heel of his Italian leather shoe.
"I asked who is in the car."
He didn't wait for an answer. He walked past Barnett.
Barnett tried to step in front of him. "Mr. Knight, really, it's not appropriate-"
Dewitt didn't even slow down. He just looked at Barnett. One look. It was enough to make the producer step back as if he'd been physically shoved.
Dewitt stopped at the open door of the Lincoln. The smell hit him first. Sweat. Expensive perfume. And something metallic. Blood.
He leaned down.
Felicity pressed herself against the far door. She pulled the jacket tighter, burying her face in the lapel.
Dewitt saw a small figure wrapped in a man's oversized jacket. She was trembling. Not a little shiver. She was vibrating with it.
"Look at me," Dewitt commanded.
Felicity shook her head.
Dewitt reached out. He didn't touch her skin. He grabbed the lapel of the jacket.
Barnett appeared at Dewitt's elbow. He reached in and grabbed Felicity's arm, yanking her forward.
"Don't be rude, darling. Say hello to Mr. Knight."
The sudden motion dislodged the jacket. It slipped off her left shoulder.
The strap of her dress was torn completely. The silk hung in tatters. On her upper arm, five distinct finger marks were blooming into purple bruises.
Dewitt saw the bruise. Then he saw her face.
Her lip was swollen. A small trickle of blood had dried at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were wide, amber-colored, and filled with a terror so raw it felt like a physical blow. And on her hand, the one he had seen from his car, was the unmistakable fire of the Aguilar pink diamond. He had seen it in the Christie's catalog months ago. One of the few assets the family hadn't liquidated before the scandal broke.
"Felicity Aguilar," Dewitt said. His voice was flat.
Felicity yanked the jacket back up. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks, burning through the shame. She wished the ground would open up and swallow her whole.
Barnett laughed nervously. "You remember her. Hard to forget the Aguilar name, right? Even if it's mud now."
Dewitt stared at her. He saw the torn dress. The bruises. The man's jacket.
And in his mind, the pieces clicked together into the only picture that made sense to a man who saw everything as a transaction.
She was selling herself. And she had let things get rough to increase the price.
