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“Oh my God, Vito, it’s not your fault. Don’t you dare take the responsibility. She fooled you. She fooled us both.” My voice carries, and I feel more than see people turning their heads. I lower my voice. “We need to call the police.”

He closes his eyes for a brief moment, sighing. “Saar, before we find out more—and rest assured, I have a private auditor on the case already—we need to keep it quiet. What if she covered her tracks and you’re accused of tax evasion? You know how eager the authorities are to use those who are well-off as scapegoats. It’s good PR for them.”

“Tax evasion?” My hand flies to my mouth. Fuck. “When will you know more?”

“Hopefully by next week.” He takes my shaking hands in his, and this time I welcome the comforting gesture. “Why don’t you return to New York and take a week or two off? We’ll talk once I know more.”

The beat pulses through me. I shimmy with the other bodies, moving in sync. The volume of the music drowns my thoughts and worries. Every muscle and joint screams, begging me for a break.

I’m exhausted, but I don’t let up. The bass thumps in my chest, my skin slick with the humidity of the club. Bodies move around me, their heat mixed with the scent of sweat and alcohol.

I don’t care. Amid this chaos, I can pretend I’m having fun. I can touch the illusion of freedom. And I can be anonymous.

Besides, it’s the only way to make sure I fall asleep at night. Funny how I thought that when I finally had time off, I’d sleep like a baby for a month.

Clearly, my body is so out of whack with any normal cycles that I’ve been unable to fall asleep. My current financial troubles haven’t contributed to my peace of mind. And the uncertain future is surely keeping me up.

The idea of slaving on the runways and at photoshoots makes me want to cry, and I haven’t cried since I was fifteen.

Instead, I’ve been going clubbing every night. A few drinks and hours of dancing are a highly effective avoidance tactic, but only if administered on a regular basis, with no time in between for grim reality to sink its teeth into my consciousness.

Someone’s hard body presses into mine. I rock my hips in the rhythm. I lean into it. Him, by the feel of it.

It’s a slower song. I hate the change of pace. I don’t want intimate, and I have enough melancholy taking up space in my head at the moment.

But I have to admit my body is ready to slow down. Closing my eyes, I let the stranger sway us. A smell of vodka and a way too strong aftershave tickles my nose.

I want to step forward, but it’s like my body is so grateful for some reprieve, I’m unable to follow through on that need.

I might just fall asleep for a moment here on this unfamiliar chest.

Fuck, I should go home.

Home? As if.

When in New York, I used to stay at my parents’ house. But since they stopped talking to us, I would usually crash at Finn’s or Cal’s.

My home this week has been an impersonal hotel room. My brothers are ridiculously happy with their new wives, and I didn’t want to bother them with my moping. Especially since I’m not ready to share my failure with them.

A new song calms the rhythm even further, and I shiver as the dancefloor empties a bit. Only couples pressed tightly together remain moving around us.

Okay, I really should go home. But the smelly guy feels like a welcoming pillow. Maybe I can rest here for a moment longer. Only a moment, for my brain to make my legs walk.

Unfortunately, after a few beats, he dips his head and his mouth dusts my neck. I rock away from him.

Before I manage to leave, he stumbles and reaches for me. I shake off his arm, his touch snapping me out of my dance-induced stupor.

“I’m leaving.” I raise my hand to stop him.

“Come on, don’t be a bitch after you teased me with those moves.” His hand grazes my waist again.

Fucking asshole. I’m not in the mood for this. I spin around to slap him, but my hand slashes through empty space, nothing but air rushing through my fingers.

I waver. I’m not even drunk, but the momentum and the missed target shifted my body. I blink, disoriented. Jesus, I should have left sooner.

A security guard is dragging Grabby Hands away, his face a blur in the flashing disco lights.

Fuck. A decent slap would have been cathartic. I fist my hand, but before I can turn to finally get to the exit, a bulky man steps in front of me.