Page 81 of Forgotten Sacrifice

My phone buzzes, and I fish it out of my purse.

Hey, Luna. It’s Bridget. I heard the news you didn’t get accepted into the Chess Hall. That’s total bullshit. In other bullshit news, Coach Petrov unceremoniously dropped me.

“Oh, wow,” I comment.

“What?”

“It’s Bridget. The chess player I was making friends with in the bathroom of the Chess Hall. Coach Petrov dumped her too.”

So much bullshit!

Agreed! You want to meet up for coffee tomorrow morning? This deserves an in-person bitch fest.

“Before you say no, I’d like to meet up with her in New York for coffee tomorrow morning.”

“Sure.”

“Really?” I say, surprised.

“I’ve got to handle business in New York anyway.”

I send a text before Vince changes his mind.

Absolutely! Where do you want to meet up?

Bridget sends me the coffee shop information, and I relay that to Vince.

“And what do I tell her if she asks who you are?” I wonder.

“I’m your manager.”

For some unknown reason, I’m not crazy about that response, but I nod.

“We’re not finished with this discussion about you cutting yourself,” Vince says, and I roll my eyes. “Nicky printed out a list of things to do when dealing with self-harm urges. I want you to pick one and commit to it.”

I grab the printout, scanning the list. “Working out? No. Singing? No. Knitting? Fuck, no. These are dumb.”

“Then we’ll create a new one: you will tell me when you have the urge, and I’ll tie you to the bed and lick your pussy until you cry.”

“But Daddy, what if I have an urge before the seven days is up?” I smile, thinking I’ve caught him in a loophole.

He side-eyes me with amusement. “You’ll cry because I won’t let you come.”

“Hrmph.” I cross my arms.

We return home to find a Parisi Construction truck in the driveway. “What’s going on?”

“Luna-proofing the house,” Vince says.

Stepping inside, I see what he means: a burly man is carrying a door, followed by another man with a second door. I hurry down the hall to confirm: yep, those were the doors to my room and bathroom.

“You lost the right to privacy, along with access to sharp objects,” Vince informs me. “Knives. Razors. Scissors. You get the gist.”

“Ugh, you are so?—”

“Meticulous? Thoughtful? Assiduous?”

“Annoying. How am I supposed to shave without a razor?”