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The sultry music thumps in my ears. It’s an eclectic mix of jazz and hip-hop, sensuous and raw. I’m surprised to find myself actually enjoying the glitzy surroundings.

I take a sip of the carrot vodka flambé the bartender recommended when I first arrived at the rooftop bar in The Orchid for its invite only open house.

Grace settles next to me, a fruity drink in her hand. She eyes my cocktail and arches her brow. “Carrot again?”

“You know it.” I waggle my brow.

Shaking her head, she sighs. “I miss this, Tay. You and I never go out anymore. You’re busy with ballet and I’m busy with work.”

“And your boyfriend.” I snort, watching her flush a pretty pink. It’s almost sickening how much she and Steven are in love with each other.

I ignore the small twinge in my chest. It’s also very sweet.

“And Steven.” She chuckles.

“You know you have an open invite to watch Stalk Me if You Dare later tonight!” I wink, knowing she’ll give me shit about it. “I can’t believe they made three back-to-back movies to be released one after the other. Marketing brilliance. Heaven is listening.”

Grace shudders in mock horror. “How are we even related? I like my swoony romance and you and your blood and gore.”

“It’s satisfying. Gets the heart pumping. What do you say? I’m ordering pizza like the old days.”

She laughs. “Ah, the good ol’ days. I always had to hide in the bedroom while you watched that crap. Call me if you want to watch The Notebook afterward. That I can get behind.” She lets out a satisfied sigh. “Do you remember when we were kids, we’d walk past this building, wondering if we’ll ever get in?”

I grin, thinking back to our childhood. Sometimes, when Mom was at work, Grace and I would ditch high school and wander on Fifth Avenue, eyeing all the expensive clothes costing more than our rent, the hordes of tourists snapping photos of the most famous street in New York City. We’d always make it a point to stop in front of the fifty-plus story building housing The Orchid.

We’d stand there in the sweltering heat, dressed in ripped jeans and thrifted T-shirts, jaw slacked at the chrome and glass exteriors of the building rumored to have everything anyone could ever dream of—top Michelin restaurants, spas, suites, bars, gyms, and other amenities. We’d even tried entering one time, only to be kicked out by the security decked in their suits and ties.

Grace vowed to me then she’d make it one day on her own and be rich and powerful enough to get one of these exclusive invitations even money couldn’t buy.

“It’s funny how things turned out, don’t you think?” She smiles.

“I’m happy for you, sis.” I nudge her gently on the side.

It is funny how things turned out. The girl who didn’t want love because she didn’t want to depend on anyone ended up being hopelessly in love with a wonderful man who treats her like the queen.

And the girl who wished she could find her prince and dance with him until the end of time ended up…

Broken.

The pinch in my chest becomes a throbbing ache. None of that shit, Lochness Monster! Go away!

“Ladies, glad to see you here,” a deep voice murmurs and we turn to see Ethan striding toward us with a few of our half-siblings and Steven in tow, looking like stock photos for handsome, powerful businessmen in their tailored suits and shiny shoes.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. You guys are unveiling a few new lounges and spaces in here. So exciting!” Grace smiles at him as Ethan pulls her into a side hug.

He grins, a dimple appearing on one side of his face, and the transformation is almost astonishing. Even though he’s the second youngest in the Anderson sibling pecking order, Ethan is serious and sharp, part of what makes him a great CFO.

“I approve. I was afraid of my sisters being boring like someone over here,” Rex quips, waggling his brows at Ethan, who rolls his eyes heavenward.

“How are you older than me, C? Are our birth certificates wrong?” Ethan mutters, referring to his older brother by a year with his middle initial.

Apparently, there were too many Anderson offsprings, so their parents alphabetized their middle names—Maxwell, the eldest with the middle name Angus, Ryland with Benedict, Rex with something he won’t tell us, but it starts with a C. Then Ethan with Delaney, and Lana with Elise.

It turned out Mom secretly continued the tradition with our middle names. Grace is Felicity and mine is Gianna.

Maybe our lives would’ve turned out differently if we discovered our lineage earlier. The Andersons are a rare breed—even I have to admit they have good heads on their shoulders despite hailing from one of the richest and most powerful families in the country.

“So, have you checked out the new spaces yet? I spent a lot of time working with the designers on them.” Rex arches his brow expectantly.

“He only worked on one of them,” Ethan murmurs. “Because interior design is not part of the business of our chief marketing officer. He only butt in because he’s going to take advantage of that space.”

“Which space?” I ask.

The brothers stare at each other, and just as Rex is about to answer, another person joins us.

“The Sanctuary on the Rose floors, which you ladies will not visit,” Ryland announces, referring to the few floors in the building dedicated to pursuits of a more lustful nature.

“Why not? We’re adults.” I scowl at my second-eldest brother, the Prince of the USA as the media calls him, the more charismatic half of the brooding Anderson fraternal twins. He’s the powerhouse of the family—chief operating officer by day and college professor by night.

Ryland smirks. “Barely legal. Nope. Not happening.”

“Stick to bossing your students around, Ryland, not us,” Grace quips as Steven slides up to her and pulls her to his side. The king of Wall Street loosens his tie and unleashes a devastating smile as Grace melts into his embrace.

“She’s got a point, Ryland. They aren’t your students. They’re modern, independent women who can decide for themselves.” Steven presses a soft kiss on my sister’s lips.

Like I said—disgustingly besotted with each other.

“Sellout, Steven. You’re a sellout,” Ethan mutters, his dark eyes twinkling.

“Who’s selling what? You guys aren’t giving me another PR nightmare to deal with, right?” Lana, our older sister, sweeps in, her long brown hair tied up in a ponytail. She’s the head of PR at Fleur.

“Ryland thinks as women, we can’t visit the Rose floors,” Grace volunteers, doling out an evil smile at Ryland.

Lana narrows her eyes. “As if! Stick to bossing your students around!” Grace gives her a high five.

Ryland chuckles and rakes his fingers through his perfectly coiffed hair. “A smart man knows when to shut up when he’s outnumbered.”

“Where’s Maxwell?” Grace asks, looking for our oldest brother.

“In his cave, as usual—painting and brooding. Couldn’t drag him out.”

“But he’s the CEO. Shouldn’t he be here?”

“The frigid king doesn’t attend commoner events. This is why we have our prince here.” Rex claps Ryland on the shoulder and Ryland lets out an exasperated sigh.

Steven tips Grace’s chin up and whispers, “You want to stay for longer? I’ve cleared my plans for the evening. We can do some exploring.”

Grace flushes and bites her bottom lip, looking like she’s down for any exploring Steven has in mind. Suddenly, she freezes, and I know she’s thinking about me, because she looks my way with a question in her eyes. Do you want to come with us?

I shake my head and strain a smile. There’s no way I’ll be a third-wheel. “I have ballet practice. You guys have fun.”

“You sure?”

I nod and Grace pulls me into a light hug. “Okay, don’t work too hard, our next principal ballerina! Don’t be too good or everyone will hate you. No one likes a showoff.” She winks before sinking back into Steven’s embrace.

“Pssh. Competition only makes you work harder. They can eat my dust.” I dole out a lazy wink, pushing down a pinch of guilt for not telling her about what happened and my resulting demotion. Madame Renoir told me despite ABTC’s zero tolerance policy toward violence, Sir Ian really wanted to forget the snafu and they decided to give me another chance. But I was demoted from soloist to demi-soloist, which was lucky, all things considering.

It’s better to keep Grace in the dark. She’d ask questions if she knew. Questions I don’t want to answer because she still doesn’t know what happened to me that night. Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s PTSD from what Camden and Alexis did, or what the cops and therapist didn’t do. I don’t want her to look at me differently or handle me with kid gloves. I don’t want her to see me as damaged. I want to be the Taylor Peyton I used to be in her eyes. Maybe if she sees me as that person, then…

That person would still exist.

She cackles. “That’s my badass ballerina.”

Waving goodbye to my siblings and Steven, I head toward the elevators, the ball in my throat growing by the minute.

“Have you visited The Sanctuary?” a woman standing in front of the elevators asks her friend.

“I haven’t. Definitely planning to, though.” Her companion giggles. “Anything new on the Rose floors is always worth checking out. I tell you—the Anderson men are gentlemen in public but beasts in the sheets.”

I almost vomit in my mouth at the idea of my half brothers being anything in the sheets, but my ears prickle at the mention of the Rose floors. Grace told me they have rooms for every kink there—a voyeur lounge, a faux outdoor forest for doing the deed outside, glamorous strip clubs, private suites with special equipment and toys. There’s also a companionship service—men and women who sign nondisclosure agreements and provide anything from fake dates to the entire boyfriend/girlfriend experience with happy endings.

More hushed laughter echoes in the elegant foyer, and I glance at the ladies as we step into the spacious marble elevator. They eye my attire—bleached jeans and a black T-shirt—in distaste and look away as if they know I shouldn’t be here mingling with the likes of them.

But too bad for them. Being an Anderson earns me a lifetime ticket to do as I please. So screw them. Ah, the irony—my distrust for rich people before, but now I’m one of them.

Even so, pettiness feels so good.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I stare them down until they shift uncomfortably and look away. The elevator dings, indicating we’ve reached the ground floor. Hiding my smirk, I glance at the button panel as the doors open and the women scurry out. I follow them.

“Anything new on the Rose floors is always worth checking out.” Their words vibrate in my mind. My feet stutter to a stop.

I think back to the therapy books I’ve read over the last six years—putting myself out there, having a year of yeses, exposure therapy, overcoming tragedy and all the rainbows and butterflies to follow. It’s been six years. It’s time for me to reclaim my body and sexuality.

My skin breaks out in hives as cold sweat beads on my back. Saying yes to new experiences doesn’t mean checking out the Rose floors when you’re a survivor. Don’t be an idiot, Taylor.

The elevator doors start closing, and I stick my hand out to block them from shutting.

“Look at this slut asking for it. Let’s have some fun.”

My breath catches. I’m tired of it—of the past haunting me, never letting me go.

Visions of Grace smiling at Steven with hearts in her eyes. The way they fold into each other’s embrace.

Don’t you want what they have? To be with a man without fear? Even if it’s just for sex?

Phantom hands graze my body and my skin itches. My pulse rams into my ears like a freight train.

“You’ll never be free of me,” the imaginary voice whispers, a ghostly menace filling the elevator.

No. I refuse. The past won’t define me. I’m in charge of my future. I might not want to trust men or open myself up emotionally again after Camden, but I will take back control over my body—to be with men without breaking out in hives.

To experience sex. Sex that I consent to.

Heaving in a deep breath, I retreat into the elevator and press the button for The Sanctuary.

The doors quietly slide closed with a click and I’m on the move.