Page 111 of Dirty Game

He walks over to me, careful and quiet, each step deliberate.

He stops just out of reach, then slowly, like he's approaching a wounded animal, comes closer.

Reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small toy car—red, expensive-looking, the kind of detailed model that Varrick would buy. A Lamborghini, I realize. Perfect in miniature.

"For you," he says quietly, pressing it into my hand with both of his small ones. "Sharing makes people feel better when you're sad."

My heart breaks completely, shatters into pieces that will never fit back together right.

"Thank you," I whisper, my voice destroyed, barely audible.

He nods solemnly, like we've completed an important transaction.

Then he leans closer, so close I can smell his little boy smell—soap and something sweet, maybe juice.

Then he's gone, returning to his mother's side, taking her hand like the good boy he's been trained to be.

The elevator descends, taking with it the boy with Varrick's eyes and the woman who had him first.

Who had him when he could still smile like that. Who knew him before he became the monster I love.

I make it to the bathroom just in time to vomit.

Everything comes up—breakfast that Varrick made me eat, coffee he brought me exactly how I like it, bile that burns my already destroyed throat.

I heave until there's nothing left, then curl up on the cold tile floor, pressing my cheek to the marble because it's the only thing that feels real.

My phone buzzes. Three missed calls from Varrick.

A text:

Something's wrong. Getting out now. Don't leave the penthouse.

Rosalynn, answer me.

I'm coming back. Stay safe.

I try to call him back, but my hands are shaking too hard to unlock the phone.

The numbers swim before my eyes, and even if I could dial, what would I say?

That his ex-girlfriend just strangled me for fun?

That she brought his bruised son to show me what I'll never be—the mother of his child, his first love, his equal?

That I know he'll choose blood over me because that's what men like him do? Because blood is permanent, and I'm just borrowed time?

I pull myself up using the sink, muscles screaming in agony.

In the mirror, I look like death warmed over.

There's already a line of bruising across my throat where the wire was, perfect and precise, just like her training.

My lip is split from her slap, already swelling.

My eyes are bloodshot from oxygen deprivation.

I look exactly like what I am—a woman in over her head, drowning in a world of violence she'll never truly belong to.