Page 4

CHAPTER 2

SLOANE

FOUR YEARS LATER

I sat on the floor, cross-legged, sipping my French latte. The steam from the cup curled up toward my face as I stared at the painting I was working on. The strokes across the canvas felt dark and heavy, the moody blues and blacks swirling together in a way that felt suffocating, even to me.

The woman in the painting sat alone on an old pier, her back hunched, shoulders slumped under a cloudy night sky. The pier stretched out into an endless sea of dark, churning water, the whole scene drenched in shadows. It felt like looking into the heart of despair.

And that was the point.

I took another sip of my latte, the rich flavor tasting like ash on my tongue. The painting wasn’t supposed to be this way. It had started with a photograph I took in Majorca. That day had been…as close to perfect as I could get in my life. Sun shining, the water sparkling in the light, the sky a clear, endless blue. The woman in the photo had been of a local girl smiling, the sunlight bathing her skin and the pier in a warm glow.

But of course, when I’d started painting, the picture had shifted. The happiness in the photograph had drained away with every brushstroke. Now, all that remained was a version of the scene that felt like it had been submerged in grief. It was as if I’d taken the original image and dunked it in anguish, letting it drown in the emotions I was careful not to let myself feel.

I set the cup down on the floor beside me, my fingers stained with paint from hours of work. I studied the brushstrokes—heavy, uneven, almost angry. The woman in the painting felt lost, isolated, grieving.

Like me.

I shook my head. All my paintings seemed to end up like this. I eyed the stacked canvases strewn all over the room, all of them macabre versions of the photos they’d been based on.

“What the hell am I even doing?” I muttered to myself, running a hand through my dark brown hair, smudging a streak of paint across my temple.

I reached for the brush again, not ready to give up on it, but not sure what else to add. What else was there to say? The painting already screamed everything I didn’t want to admit.

My phone rang, and I knew who it was before I picked it up. It had been a week since my last job, and I’d been on eggshells the last couple of days, wondering when I’d get my new assignment. I stared at the screen, the familiar number flashing like a warning.

Everett.

The only other calls I got were from telemarketers—although those calls were much more welcome than his.

I took a deep breath and swiped to answer, steeling my emotions for what would come next.

“Sloane.” His voice crackled through the line, cold and impersonal, just like always nowadays. “Tyler Miller has requested you for the Stanley Cup Finals coming up.”

My stomach twisted. Tyler Miller. The cocky asshole who booked me every time he was in town for a game. He acted like he was God’s gift to women and liked to stare at himself in the mirror while he fucked me, pumping his muscles and changing positions if he didn’t like how he looked. I hated him.

But I guess he wasn’t as bad as some of my other clients.

Not that it mattered if I liked him or not. I didn’t have a choice.

“For this contract, you’ll be traveling to attend all of his games during the series. You’ll stay at whatever hotel he’s staying at, in a room he can visit.”

“You want me to go to his games?”

I bit down on my lip, going through the logistics. Tyler played for Tampa Bay. Not a terrible place to travel to for work considering how close that arena was to the beach. Going to his games had never been part of the job, though. That sounded…almost like it could be fun—especially watching Tyler get hit.

As long as I didn’t think about what would happen after the games.

“He’s offered up a large sum for your services. So I’m allowing it. I’ve advised him that I don’t want any undue attention on you, though. No cameras focusing on your face, no press, and no media. He’s not one of their star players, so I don’t think there should be any issues,” my uncle continued, his tone clipped, efficient. “He just wants you hanging on his arm, making him seem like the up-and-coming star who’s already scored. You’ll need to sell it to his teammates and the spectators. Make him seem desirable. Wanted. A sex symbol. Get people interested in him. And then, you’ll wait in the hotel and fuck him however he wants. You know what to do—keep your mouth shut and remember this is a job. Is that clear?”

That was always the reminder he gave me. As if it was possible for me to catch feelings for the assholes who paid him to have my body for a night or two.

I bit my lip harder, hard enough that the taste of iron and salt flooded my mouth. Oops. I tried to relax my body—my hand was gripping the phone so tight my knuckles had turned white. “Of course,” I muttered, already feeling the familiar numbness creeping in.

“And, Sloane?” His voice dropped to that concerned tone he liked to use whenever he felt like I was acting too…sullen. “Make sure you have a check-up with Dr. Jennings before the first game—we can’t let any slip-ups happen.”

There was a beat of silence as I choked back the pain that sliced through my chest. We were both on the same page about making sure my birth control was up to date. Perhaps the only thing we were on the same page about at this point in our relationship.

I forced myself to let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow in my ears. “Of course.”

“Good. His payment will replenish your accounts. You’ll be good for several months after this.” He hung up without another word.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the phone, as I began to mentally prepare myself for the next week and for Tyler’s touch —when every second would feel like I was crawling out of my own skin. Realizing I was still clutching my paintbrush in my free hand, I set it down and walked out quickly.

I wouldn’t be back in that room until after the job was done.

Painting was when I allowed myself to feel . I couldn’t have that happening now.

Walking into my bathroom, I stared into the mirror in front of me, studying my reflection. My face was the same as it always was—perfect, composed, blank. And inside? Inside I felt nothing. Not anger, not sadness, not fear. Just… numb . Like I was floating above it all, detached from my own body, like it wasn’t mine anymore.

Although, wasn’t that the truth? It wasn’t mine. It hadn’t been for a long, long time.

I leaned forward, my hands gripping the edge of the sink, examining the…emptiness.

My phone buzzed again, and I glanced down, already knowing what it would be. A text with my appointments over the next few days to prepare for my assignment. A list of providers and times.

There would be my eyebrow wax, my hair appointment, and my facial. Another appointment was for laser hair removal on my entire body. Whatever I was doing at those appointments was already chosen for me. I would show up to do my hair, and they would tell me if it was going to be highlights or lowlights, or even to dye my hair a different color if it was what a client had requested and Everett approved it. I would have no say in the matter.

The words blurred together on the screen as my chest tightened. Staring back into the mirror, I had the urge to break it, shatter it into a million pieces just so I didn’t have to see myself like this. More of a shell than a person.

I closed my eyes, pushing down the flicker of anger that threatened to break through. Anger was dangerous. Feeling was dangerous. I couldn’t afford to let either one in. Not now.

Not ever.

I took a deep breath. I could do this. I knew how to survive this, how to detach, how to make myself disappear into the role I was forced to play.

It was the only way to get through it.

Pushing away from the counter, I walked into my large closet, trying to decide what I was going to wear today—the last day I would have a choice for a while. The tags were all still designer, luxury that had only increased as the years had passed. Everett ensured I had everything I needed in order to take on more high-profile clients, so he could charge them more. So more money could go into his accounts, and the account he kept for me that paid for everything in my life.

What I wouldn’t give to have told myself that first day, as I’d wandered through my closet in Everett’s mansion, that those tags and those fancy clothes, they were just a trap. That I should have been happy in that run-down apartment with my dying mother. That those foster homes had actually been havens.

Because they were so much better than anything I would have after that.

I picked out a pair of tailored black shorts and a muted tan blouse that wouldn’t earn me any attention while I was out. People liked to stay in the dark about what was happening right under their noses. They didn’t want to be confronted with the darkness that permeated polite society.

At first, I thought the auction would be enough. I’d get a percentage of what the man had paid and I’d move on. I hadn’t understood what I’d chosen that night. Not at all.

But a month later when I’d had to dress up in a slutty schoolgirl costume to service a senator who liked them young, I’d finally gotten the message—this was my life now.

I was twenty-two, and I’d lost track of all their faces. Their touches haunted my nights, though.

And I never felt clean.

The phone buzzed again, letting me know what my account balance was after Tyler’s deposit, but I couldn’t have cared less; it wasn’t like I had access to withdraw the funds.

I lived in an expensive penthouse. I drove a black Mercedes, and the account to pay for my life was full of money.

And I would give every single bit of it up.

Shoving the phone into my pocket, I left the closet to head to the first of my appointments.

I had work to do.

And whatever I felt—it didn’t matter.

Because my life wasn’t mine, and it never would be.

But as I always reminded myself when my thoughts got too dark.

I’d chosen this.