She woke up screaming.
A hand clamped over her mouth, stifling the sound.
"Quiet."
She thrashed, her back hitting the headboard. She was back in the bedroom. The monster's room.
Augustine was sitting on the edge of the bed.
She scrambled backward, curling into a ball in the corner. "Don't touch me."
He held up a small jar. "It's arnica. For the bruises."
He reached out. She tried to kick him, but he caught her ankle. His grip was firm, inescapable. He dragged her leg toward him.
He scooped a dollop of the clear gel and smeared it on her shin, right where she had hit the floor yesterday. His fingers were cool. He massaged the gel into her skin with efficient, circular motions.
It was confusing. His touch was clinical, yet possessive. He was tending to the damage he had caused.
"Is this part of the inventory check?" she asked, her voice trembling with rage. "Polishing the merchandise?"
He didn't look up. "Damaged packaging lowers the asset value."
He moved to her wrist. He rubbed the gel over the purple marks left by his fingers.
"We have a schedule," he said. "Tomorrow night is the Sterling Foundation Gala. We are attending."
Her heart skipped a beat. "Sterling? Grant's family foundation?"
"Yes."
"Grant will be there," she said. Hope, foolish and bright, flared in her chest. "He'll see me. He'll help me."
Augustine stopped rubbing. He looked at her then. His eyes were filled with a terrible mix of pity and amusement.
"You still think he cares."
"We've been together for four years," she said. "He loves me."
Augustine pulled a tablet from the bedside table. He tapped the screen and held it up.
It was a video. A news interview. Grant was standing on the steps of a courthouse, microphones shoved in his face.
"Mr. Sterling, do you have any comment on the charges against your fiancée's father?"
Grant looked handsome. And completely unbothered.
"Let me be clear," Grant said, his voice smooth. "I was unaware of Mr. Mann's illegal activities. The Sterling family does not condone fraud. As for Aislinn... our engagement is effectively terminated. I cannot be associated with a criminal enterprise."
She stared at the screen. The world tilted.
"It's fake," she whispered. "It's AI. You made it."
Augustine tossed the tablet onto the duvet. "Your life has been liquidated, Aislinn. You are bankrupt. Emotionally and financially."
He leaned in, his face inches from hers. She could smell the antiseptic from his head wound.
"Your only asset left is the title of Mrs. Hoover."
"I don't believe you," she said, tears hot in her eyes. "I need to see him."
"Fine." Augustine sat back. "I'll let you see him. I'll let you watch him ignore you."
He snapped his fingers.
Marta entered carrying a garment bag. She unzipped it.
A dress spilled out. It was black silk, backless, with a slit that went up to the hip. It was beautiful. And it looked like armor.
"Wear it," Augustine ordered. "Don't embarrass me."
An hour later, she stood in front of the mirror.
The dress fit like a second skin. It was designed to distract. To make people look at her body so they wouldn't look at the fear in her eyes.
Augustine rolled up behind her. He was wearing a tuxedo. He looked like the devil dressed for dinner.
He held up a diamond necklace. A choker.
"Lift your hair."
She obeyed.
He fastened the clasp. The metal was ice cold against her neck. It felt heavy. Like a collar.
"Remember," he whispered, his breath ghosting over her ear. "Tonight, you belong to me."
A low thrumming sound vibrated through the floorboards.
"The helicopter is waiting," he said.
Jericho came in and pushed the wheelchair. She followed, walking in her high heels like a doll on a string.
They went up to the roof. The helicopter was a black insect against the grey sky.
As they lifted off, she looked down at the island. It was shrinking, disappearing into the mist.
She put on the headset. The noise of the rotors was deafening.
Augustine's voice came through the headphones, clear and distorted by the static.
"Try to run," he said, "and your father has an accident in the shower block at Rikers."
She looked at him across the small cabin. She clenched her hands in her lap until her knuckles turned white.
"I hate you," she said into the microphone.
He looked out the window at the approaching skyline of Manhattan.
"Good," he said. "Hate is a motivator."
