Page 157 of With a Cherry On Top

“Don’t play dumb, Charlotte. Peter told me everything. About ‘Cherry.’ About your little peep show.”

Charlotte goes rigid, her fingers tightening in the hem of the oversized sweater she threw on. “Oh, that.”

That asshole! How the hell did he find out?

This is revenge over what happened at the club, isn’t it? I sent a cop to tell him to keep his mouth shut about us, so he threw Charlotte under the bus.

“I always knew you acted like a whore”—Beatrice steps closer, her voice dripping with disdain—“but I didn’t know you made ajobout of it.”

I wish I could burst out of here to shout in her fucking face that if she calls Charlotte a whore one more time, I’ll...I don’t know, put cheese in her food. Or poison.

Charlotte doesn’t flinch, but her throat bobs.

“Where’s the money?” Beatrice presses, crossing her arms. “I assume you don’t do it for free?”

Charlotte shifts her weight. “I spent it.”

Beatrice barks out a deranged laugh. “Yeah? On clothes? Makeup? Or is this some sad attempt at independence?”

Charlotte’s jaw tenses. “It’s my money, and it’s gone.”

Ohhh, no it’s not. I can see it in her face. She has the money, which means that no matter what her mom does, she has a way out of here without needing anyone’s help. I’m so proud of her, the urge to jump out of here is even stronger.

“How much, huh? What’s sex with you worth?”

“I didn’t havesexwith anyone.”

“Fifty thousand? Sixty? Maybe . . . eighty-four thousand dollars?”

Charlotte blanches.

“I have to commend you on something. You haven’t spent adime.”

“Did you take my money?” Charlotte whispers.

“You meanmymoney?”

“How is it?—”

“Because your body?Mydiet made it. The bed you use to sell your body?Ibought it.” She points around. “Everything in here is mine, and so is that money.”

Fuck. My. Life.

She took her fucking money.

“And we’ll need it, won’t we? Especially if this comes out. Your career will be over. You think brands will want to work with a model who takes her clothes off for strangers online? You think they wouldn’t drop you the second they found out? You’ve worked your entire life for this, Charlotte, and you’re just going to throw it away for...what? Tips from desperate men?”

“Maybe I don’t want to do this your way anymore.”

Beatrice slams her hand against the nightstand, making me flinch. “You don’t get a choice. You will delete that account immediately. You will do whatever it takes to clean up this mess. And you will focus on your real career.”

Silence stretches between them, taut and suffocating.

Then, quietly, Charlotte says, “I want my money back.”

Beatrice’s nostrils flare. “Excuse me?”

Charlotte’s gaze flickers toward the closet, where I am pressed against the back wall, barely breathing. There’s desperation in her expression.