I wake to the warmth of the sun on my face and the sound of the shower running in the attached bathroom in the Tower Apartment. I stretch, my body stiff and deliciously sore. And while I’m tempted to join Damien in the shower, the gurgle of the coffee maker and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee is too compelling. I slide out of bed, slip on my robe, and head toward the kitchen, planning on pouring us both a cup and then heading for the shower.

The Tower staff keeps the apartment’s refrigerator stocked, so there is fresh cream for my coffee, and I pour in a nice dollop, feeling indulgent. I take my first sip and sigh with pleasure, then pick up both mugs. I’m heading toward the bathroom when I hear my phone ring, and I detour toward my side of the bed just in case it’s Bree or Moira calling about the kids.

It’s neither. The caller ID shows up as Jenny Neeley, our neighbor, and I frown in concern as I answer. “Jenny? Is everything okay?” We’re casual acquaintances, not close friends, and the first thing that pops into my mind is that there’s an issue with our adjoining properties.

“What? Oh, everything’s fine. At least, I assume it is. I’m still at Martha’s Vineyard.”

“You’re in Massachusetts?” Something about that strikes me as wrong, but I can’t put my finger on it.

“That’s why I’m calling. Our trip went longer than we planned, and I’m supposed to be hosting a lunch for a small group of volunteers just a few days after I get back. I thought I’d have plenty of time to get everything organized, but, well, you know how it goes.”

“I—sure. What can I help you with?”

“Could you text me the contact info for the caterer you used when you and Damien hosted that lovely open house at the bungalow? The one last summer.”

“Oh. Of course. Hang on.” I switch the call to speaker so that I can continue the conversation while I look up the information, then press the button to text her the contact card.

“You’re a doll. This is one less thing to worry about. We’ll be back the day after tomorrow. I’m picking up Dover at ten. Thank goodness that dog thinks that going to the kennel is a vacation. He’s been there four days longer than we’d planned.”

I can practically feel my thoughts sliding into place. “So Dover wasn’t loose on the beach recently?”

“God, I hope not or I’ll be speaking harshly to someone at Happy Tails.” There’s a pause, then she asks, “Why?”

“I saw a dog on the beach,” I lie. “Since Dover’s an escape artist, I assumed it was him. But obviously it wasn’t, not if he’s kenneled.”

“Maybe that means someone near us has a new dog. Dover could use a buddy. At any rate, I need to run. And thanks so much for the info.”

I assure her it’s no problem, then end the call. I sit on the edge of the bed and pick my coffee back up, frowning as I take a sip and consider everything she said.

There was no loose dog. Jenny isn’t in Malibu.

I look up as Damien comes into the bedroom, his hair damp, a towel wrapped low around his hips. He looks magnificent, and all I feel is cold. All I can think about is last night. About how much I trust—trusted—this man.

“Who was she?” I ask, proud of how steady my voice is.

He cocks his head, his confusion obvious. “Who?”

“The woman on the beach who wasn’t Jenny Neeley.”

I watch his face, looking for a reaction, but there’s nothing. That goddamn, famous control. Something I obviously don’t have, because I’m on my feet now, coffee sloshing all over the sheets. I slam my mug down onto the side table, then clench my hands at my side. “Dammit, Damien, answer me. Who the fuck was she?”

“Sofia.”

My knees go weak, and I sit back down, realizing that I knew it all along. Who else would he keep secret from me? I know he wouldn’t cheat on me, and we’re nowhere close to my birthday or our anniversary or any other event that would have him planning a surprise for me. Certainly not on the beach in the middle of the night.

Which means Sofia Richter, Damien’s childhood friend. The woman he suffered through abuse with at the hand of her father, his tennis coach. Sofia, the woman who harassed me and gaslighted me, all with the intent of getting me to cut again. Or worse.

“I thought she was better,” I say, my voice tight. For years, Damien has paid for her care. The best doctors at the best facility money could buy. And two years ago, her doctors assured Damien that she was better. She went through a twelve-step program and everything, apologizing to me as part of that process. She even came to Lara’s welcome party when we brought her home from China and was very sweet and sincerely apologetic about the past. Or she seemed to be.

“She is better,” he says.

A slow rage starts to bubble inside me. “Then why the hell are you keeping secrets? Seriously, Damien, we’ve been down this road before.”

“Because she asked me to,” he says. “She called and said she was outside on the beach. That she needed to talk to me. And she asked me to not say anything. She wanted my opinion before I talked with you—before she talked with you.”

“With me?” I stand. “Sofia wants to talk with me?” I press my fingertips to my temples. “Have you been paying attention? The note on my car? The vandalism in my office? And oh, so coincidentally, there’s Sofia sneaking around?”

“She had nothing to do with that.” I hear the tight edge in his voice and know that his temper is rising, too. Well, that’s too fucking bad.

“Oh, really?” I snap. “And how the hell do you know that? What did she want? Why exactly did she come to Malibu and creep around on the beach in the middle of the night?”

His entire body seems to crumple, and he moves to sit on the bed. I shove my hands in the pocket of my robe, forcing myself not to go to him. To wait, and to learn.

“She had a miscarriage,” he says, and I take a step back, shocked and saddened by his words.

“I—I’m sorry.”

He nods. “Me, too. It got under her skin. She told me that she spent days crying, then days wrapped in relief because she’s not ready to be a mother. Then she’d do nothing but sleep from the guilt of feeling even the slightest bit relieved at having lost the child.”

“How far along?”

“Two months,” he says. I just nod, remembering those horrible days after I miscarried. Then the euphoria when I finally got safely past the first trimester. The plans I made. The joy. But I’m not Sofia. Not by a long shot.

“She didn’t want you to know.”

“Why on earth not?” I ask.

“Don’t you get it? She holds you up as a standard.”

The words knock me backward, though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. For so long, she wanted Damien. Maybe she still does. And I’m the woman who won his heart. Maybe that’s all the standard she needs. “She shouldn’t,” I say softly. “She knows better than anyone how weak I am. Back then. Today.” I think about the brunch and meet Damien’s eyes. “Nothing has changed.”

“Bullshit, Nikki. Everything has changed, and you know it. You’ve changed. And Sofia’s changed, too.”

He’s right, of course. And I’m truly glad for Sofia’s recovery and sorry for her loss. But that doesn’t change the fact that whenever Sofia’s name is mentioned, my composure goes to shit. I want to trust her—I know how much she means to Damien—but there are hard memories wrapped up with that woman, and I just can’t manage.

“Nikki?”

I hold up a hand as I gather myself. Then I take a deep breath and look at my husband. “So you’re telling me that she came to the beach in the middle of the night to tell you that she had a miscarriage? Did she go to a hospital?”

He shakes his head. Just one small movement. “The miscarriage was a few months ago. She called me because she wanted my help. I don’t know why she wanted to meet in the middle of the night—why she didn’t come to the office or ask me to meet her somewhere during the day—all I know is what she asked.”

I wait, saying nothing.

“She wanted a job, Nikki. She knew that Bree would be moving to New York, and she wanted to talk to me about being our nanny.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” The words explode out of me, and I realize that I’m in motion, pacing the bedroom with my eyes on Damien. “How the hell can her doctors say she’s sane? That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. If you think I would let that woman near our kids like that, then—”

“I told her no.” He’s on his feet, his hands on my shoulders, his eyes hard on mine. “Of course, I told her no.”

Relief washes over me, and I step back, breaking contact, then look around the room, my mind whirling. After a moment, I go to the chest of drawers and pull on clean underwear and a T-shirt, not bothering with a bra. I find a pair of jeans in the closet, then slip my feet into a pair of flats. The dress I wore to Masque is still in a wad on the floor where Damien tossed it. I glance at it, swallowing as I remember last night. His touch. The way I’d curled against him, warm and safe and satisfied, before drifting off to sleep.

Damien just watches me. When I grab the keys to the Lincoln off the chest of drawers, he stands. “Give me five minutes to get dressed.”

“No. I’m going home. We’ll get past this—we both know that. But right now, I want to think.”

“Nikki. Baby, I—”

I hold up my hand. “I’m not mad. I’m not sure what I am. All I know is that you should have told me all of that. We talk about trust and secrets, but where Sofia is concerned it never seems to apply. And maybe I understand that there’s baggage there. Maybe I get that you’re trying to protect me. But, Damien, that’s not good enough.”

I turn and walk toward the door, half-afraid he’s going to follow me, and then a little bit disappointed when he doesn’t.

It’s not until I’m in the car and exiting the garage that I finally truly believe that he’s not coming. I tell myself that’s fine; it’s what I want. I need time alone. Time to think.

I eschew the highway, taking the long way home and eventually climbing the hill to Mulholland Drive. I have no particular reason to be there, but it’s one of my favorite places in the city, and driving that winding route always clears my head. This morning, I want to be clear.

There aren’t many other cars on the road, and I’m taking the curves faster than I should when the phone rings. It’s Damien, of course, and I punch the button to answer even though I’d be perfectly justified in simply ignoring it. “I told you I’d see you at home.”

“Baby, pull over.”

His voice is odd, and I frown in confusion. Then even more as I hear the steady thump-thump of a nearby helicopter. Around me, the plants blow in the sudden wind, and as a shadow falls over the car, I hit the brakes, careening to a stop as a familiar gray helicopter with Stark International printed on the side sets down on the turnaround just ahead of me.

The rear door opens and fear explodes in my chest as Damien climbs down, then runs to my car, his body bent over and his shirt tail flapping in the copter’s down draft.

I throw my door open and leap out, my hand shielding my eyes from the dust. “Damien? What the hell?”

“It’s Anne,” he says as ice fills my veins. “She and Bree have been taken.”