Page 2

Two

Willow

Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

The aggravating noise has been sitting on the edges of my consciousness all day, but try as I might, I haven’t been able to part the fog that’s sitting so heavily on my mind.

Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

An alarm?

Am I late to set?

Or a fitting? Or?—

Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

To meet someone…?

Who’ll be very upset if I’m late.

The beeping speeds up, the blackness surrounding my mind fading a little further.

Why would they be upset?

Why would that thought have panic clinging to the edges of my brain?

Why is everything so freaking foggy and confusing?

The frustration is enough that I finally hear more than just that godforsaken beeping. There’s the rattling of a cart, the heavy whooshing sound of an industrial air conditioning system, and closer…

A voice that has the beeping speeding even further.

“...what game you’re playing, but if I find out you’re faking it, I will fucking end you.”

Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

“Do you hear me? You in there, Willow?”

Fingers grip my hand so tightly that I almost surface.

Only this time, instead of fighting my way toward the light on the other side of the darkness, I’m scrabbling against being pulled free of the fog, clinging to the shadows and the blackness, desperate to stay here.

Because there isn’t safe.

This man isn’t safe.

Thankfully, the thought has the shadows gathering again, dulling the pain in my hand, soothing the rough edges of my fear.

I still hear the rest of this man’s words; the man whose voice wrought such fear.

But from a distance.

Because I’m sinking down again, safe and protected in that fog.

“You fucking stupid whore—there won’t be any more of this fake coma shit when I get you home. And that’s happening soon. So whatever you think you’re doing, the jig is almost up.”

I’m jostled, rattling the cage I’ve gathered around myself fiercely enough that I am almost propelled to the surface again.

Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

But there are no more words.

And no more pain.

And…eventually no more fear.

At least until I sink even deeper into the shadows, until the memories crowd in and I remember why I’ve expended such effort trying to stay below the surface.

Away from reality.

Away from him.

“You’re so lucky, Jade.” The actress sighs and clasps her hand over her heart. “If I had a man like Dylan, I would ? —”

I can’t let her finish that.

So, I do what I’ve gotten really good at over the last years. “Oh, I’m needed over there.” I lean in and give her an air kiss. “So lovely to see you, Cara. Let’s get together soon.”

“I—”

I don’t let her finish, just zip over to the other side of the room, stopping to chat with one of the catering staff.

We’re hosting this party and it’s been going perfectly.

A requirement because if it doesn’t…

My arm twinges in memory of fingers gripping too tightly. My brain retreats from the recollection of Dylan’s angry face, his cutting words.

That won’t happen today.

There won’t be any spilled platters tonight. No flat champagne. Not a single strand of hair or an eyelash out of place, no matter the tizzy I’ve worked myself into making sure all of that perfect is taking place.

No awkward conversations.

No smiles or inappropriate contact with members of the opposite sex.

Just Willow St. Claire and Dylan Durand—the perfect Hollywood couple—hosting a party where everyone is having a great time and totally, completely jealous of how in love we are.

It’s all a facade.

But one that holds…

All the way until the last guest walks out the door and the caterers have been paid and tipped, the leftovers packed up.

All except for a plate for me and a single glass of now-flat champagne.

I’m ravenous because I haven’t eaten since breakfast.

I’ve been too busy with all the party’s last minute details and then hair, makeup, and getting myself into this dress to eat lunch.

And I was working the party—not all that dissimilar to how the caterers and waitstaff and bartenders had done.

No, I wasn’t hefting a tray or mixing drinks, but I was putting on that affectation of the perfect couple, sticking close to Dylan at the right times, disappearing as needed, so in tune with his needs and all the rest of the moving parts of the party that I feel like I haven’t breathed all night.

Instead, I played the perfect fiancée along with making introductions, ensuring conversations didn’t grow awkward or boring, keeping an eye on the platters of food coming out from the kitchen, that the buffet set up along the far side of the room was constantly stocked, and making sure there was plenty of alcohol—always, there has to be plenty of alcohol—because this is how deals are made.

Or at least, how Dylan makes his deals.

Get someone a little drunk and they are far more likely to agree to the terms he wants.

Something I know.

Something I’m living.

Something I have no idea how to escape.

Because I haven’t always been unhappy.

Once I thought he was my savior.

Now I’m worried he’s my jailer.

Tonight, though, I’m too tired to be worried about the fact that the cage I’ve been living in seems to be growing smaller with each year that passes.

Will it eventually get so small that I can’t breathe?

Can’t move?

Can’t—

“I told you that you can’t eat that shit.”

I jerk, nearly upend my plate of scavenged leftovers—two stuffed mushrooms, a couple of slivers of cheese, one piece of bruschetta, and a handful of carrots.

“You know that a pound on your frame”—Dylan’s eyes drag down my body—“is ten on the screen.”

“I’m hungry,” I say quietly. “I haven’t eaten all day.”

His mouth presses flat, unhappiness in his eyes.

“And I have a session with Margie in the morning”—the personal trainer he hired—“I’ll work out for an extra half hour tomorrow.”

He releases his lips. “An extra hour.”

God, that’s torture.

But I don’t argue.

I just nod. “All right.”

The unhappiness leaves his eyes and the tension bleeds from his frame—and the room.

I’m able to breathe a little easier, able to daintily chew on one of those mushrooms. Daintily because even though I want to shove it in my mouth, shove everything on my plate into my mouth, and then raid the pantry, I don’t.

Dylan requires manners.

At all times.

I set the half-eaten mushroom down, reach for the champagne, mouth already watering at the anticipation of the crisp, fruity taste on my tongue.

But I don’t so much as get the glass to my lips before it’s swept out of my hand.

“No,” he says.

“I—” My throat goes tight, nerves eating at my insides, but I press on. “I’m working out the extra hour. The champagne isn’t that many calories…”

I trail off.

Because his face is changing again.

And the sinking feeling in my stomach almost has me hurling that half of mushroom right back up.

“You shouldn’t drink,” he says.

“I—” My throat is even tighter. “Why?” I manage to force out, and the flash of anger across his face has my throat loosening, the words coming quickly now. “I mean, I don’t have to, and I won’t. I promise, I won’t. I just…you never seemed to mind before…and I’m just wondering why tonight…”

“Because it’s not good for the baby,” he says slowly, as though I’m the dumbest person on the planet.

And maybe I am.

Because those words don’t compute.

“But I just had my—” I cut that off because he doesn’t like to hear about my periods. “I mean, I’m not pregnant.”

He slides his hand down my arm, taking my hand and drawing me to my feet, stepping close and pressing his body flush against mine.

He’s hard.

I can feel his erection pressing against my belly.

I’m not turned on. In fact, I’m so not turned on that bile burns the back of my throat.

“You’ll be pregnant soon enough and it’s better to have good habits now.”

Like not eating?

Like walking on eggshells so I don’t set him off?

Like living in an ever-decreasing gilded cage?

Like…

No.

Just…

“No!”

The word blasts through my mind the same time it leaves my lips, the sudden horror and revulsion and terror over bringing a baby into this fucked-up situation erasing every bit of common sense I possess.

“What do you mean NO?” he asks coldly, his fingers tightening, his expression going scary.

I try to pull out of his hold.

But the move is far too late.

He’s holding me. He’s holding me far too tightly.

“Let me go,” I whisper.

He doesn’t. Instead, he grips tighter, pulls me closer, tone deadly when he says, “What the fuck do you mean NO?”

“Dylan,” I begin, my hands covering his, trying to peel them free.

“I asked you a question, Willow.”

I scramble, desperately trying to come up with something that will defuse this, something that will get this insane thought out of his head.

“I…well, we were talking about doing that film. It would be really hard to do pregnant or with a newborn or ? —”

“I’ll adjust the schedule or we can get creative with shots and hiring help.”

“I—”

“It’s not up for discussion, Willow. You’re having my baby.”

I blink once. Then again. Then the only thing I can say is…

“No.”

His fingers tighten. “No?”

I shake my head. “No, Dylan. I can’t— I can’t have a baby with you.”

I haven’t stood up to him in so long that the shock rippling across his face is abundant and it loosens his grip on me.

I jerk away from him, spinning on my heels, running for the hall.

I have nowhere to go, no one to trust, but I just know that I can’t stay here.

Only I don’t make it more than a couple of steps before a hand is wrapping around my arm, yanking me back.

He spins me around, his angry face in mine.

“You fucking bitch.” He shoves me and I stagger back a step.

“You will do”—another shove and I teeter on the heels I haven’t taken off yet, struggling to stay upright—“whatever the fuck—“another and I nearly go down, nails scrabbling at the edge of the counter to keep my feet—“I tell you to do!”

The last is a roar and accompanied by a push so hard that I don’t have a hope in hell of staying on my feet.

I tumble backward.

It happens in slow motion.

I fall.

Not toward the floor.

But, off-balance, I topple toward the island…

Toward the sharp edge of the countertop.

I gasp, try to get my hand up.

Too late.

A crack.

A burst of pain through my temple.

And then the world goes black.