POV: Sophie Clark
"Hold still. You are trembling."
"I am cold, Andrew."
"You are safe now."
He wrapped a rough towel around my wet hair and twisted it at the nape of my neck. The gesture would have looked tender from the doorway. From where I sat on the edge of his bed, it felt like a hand closing around a leash.
"I swallowed half the pool because you would not let me get out," I said.
"The dress snagged. No one could have predicted that."
"Julian did. He told you to stop."
Andrew picked up a tortoiseshell comb. "Julian enjoys making scenes. It is part of his brand."
He dragged the comb through a knot. Pain pulled tears into my eyes.
Across the room, a black model car gleamed inside a glass cabinet. It was a Lincoln Town Car, the same model that had waited outside my old apartment when I left Julian.
Seven years ago, I had carried two boxes into the snow while a lawyer watched from that car. Half a million dollars sat untouched in an account I never asked for. By morning, every number Julian knew had been disconnected.
"Why him?" I asked.
Andrew paused. "Why who?"
"Julian. There are hundreds of photographers in Boston. You could have hired anyone."
"He is the best."
"He does fashion campaigns and gallery work. He does not photograph weddings."
"He photographs whatever I pay him to photograph."
Andrew set down the comb and lifted a porcelain bowl from a tray. Steam curled from oatmeal sweetened with honey.
"Eat."
"I am not hungry."
"You need something warm."
He brought a spoon to my mouth. I turned my head.
His other hand settled beneath my jaw. "Open."
"It is too hot."
"Do not start another argument."
I opened my mouth because resistance always had a cost. The oatmeal scorched my tongue. I swallowed without coughing.
"Good," he murmured. "You make everything harder when you panic."
I looked at him. "I was drowning."
"And now you are sitting in a warm bedroom wearing a robe that cost more than most people's rent. Perspective, Sophie."
He wiped the corner of my mouth with his thumb, kissed my forehead, and left to take a call.
The bedroom door clicked shut.
I waited until his footsteps faded before I crossed to the bathroom and held cold water in my mouth. My tongue throbbed. So did the place on my neck where his thumb had pressed beside the pool.
My phone lay on the nightstand.
Julian's message still waited on the screen.
Why did you let him leave you in the water?
I typed three answers and deleted all of them.
Because my father has two hundred employees.
Because Andrew owns the debt on the company they work for.
Because I forgot what it felt like to be asked what I wanted.
I locked the phone without replying.
Andrew had replaced my old number when we became engaged, saying too many charity donors abused direct access. Julian should not have been able to reach me. Either he had kept searching for seven years, or someone inside Andrew's operation had given him the number. Both possibilities felt dangerous.
I erased the notification from the lock screen but not the message. I could not bring myself to destroy the first honest question anyone had asked me that day.
The estate was quiet when I slipped into the hall. I wanted ice water and distance from Andrew's version of care. Near the study, a line of yellow light cut across the floor.
"He is threatening to walk," Marcus Cole said inside.
I stopped.
Marcus served as Andrew's chief of staff and security director. He arranged contracts, managed guards, and made problems disappear before they reached Andrew's desk.
"We have a signed agreement," Andrew replied.
"Julian Hayes does not care. He called the pool session abusive and said he will not participate in another one."
"I paid him twenty thousand dollars a day."
"He can earn that in Paris without watching a bride drown."
Silence followed. I moved closer to the cracked door.
"Did he give another reason?" Andrew asked.
"His agent says Cassandra Vale lands tonight. She is his partner on the gallery project. They planned to leave for Paris at the end of the week."
Cassandra.
The name tightened something beneath my ribs. She had been beside Julian in magazine profiles for years, elegant and fearless, the muse critics claimed had transformed his work.
"He is leaving with her?" Andrew asked.
"That is the plan."
A match flared inside the study. Cigar smoke drifted through the opening.
"How romantic," Andrew said. "What does his mother think of Cassandra?"
"Eleanor Hayes adores her."
"Of course she does. Eleanor always valued pedigree."
My skin went cold.
Andrew had never met Eleanor in my presence. He spoke of her like an old acquaintance.
Marcus lowered his voice. "Should legal send a breach notice?"
"Not yet. Litigation is slow. I want him here for the entire campaign."
"Then we need leverage."
"Everyone has leverage." Andrew exhaled smoke. "Eleanor's medical care is expensive. Her suite at Oakwood costs more each month than some houses. Find out who pays the balance."
"And if it is Julian?"
"Then remind him how fragile that arrangement is."
I pressed my hand over my mouth.
Andrew was not keeping Julian for photographs. The shoot was a trap, and I was the bait.
A floorboard creaked beneath my bare foot.
The conversation stopped.
I stepped back, but the study door opened before I could move.
Andrew stood in the doorway with a cigar between his fingers.
"Could not sleep?" he asked.
I forced my face blank. "I wanted water."
His gaze dropped to my empty hands, then returned to my eyes.
"The kitchen is the other way."
"I got turned around."
He smiled and touched the burn-red corner of my mouth.
"You should be more careful where you wander," he said. "Some doors are safer left closed."
Behind him, Marcus shut a folder on the desk.
On its cover, in bold black type, was Julian's full name.
