He’s too strong to fight off, but I try. I can’t not fight. Thing is, I know he’ll win. He’ll get the pictures. But maybe I can hold on to one shred of dignity if he has to make me.

When I went to the bathroom, he must have taken his suit jacket off, and watching him roll up his sleeves a minute ago, seeing his thick forearms, it just made me realize how weak I am. I wonder if he expected this. Expected me to fight. Because he was ready for me.

The Henley’s first. I hear it tear as he forces it from me and I stumble back when he does, hit the back of my knee on whatever’s behind me. I fall backward. It’s an ottoman. I fall onto the ottoman and Sergio Benedetti comes at me with that grin. It’s wicked and dirty and makes his eyes shine bright. And when he drops between my legs and grips my boots, I kick at him.

He laughs. He’s actually laughing.

“Stop, you’re sick!”

He gets my boots off. Then kneels up, grips my wrists and twists my arms. “Sure you don’t want to give me that slow strip tease?”

“Go fuck yourself!”

“I’ll be honest,” he says, pulling me in close. “I like this better. I like it rough.”

I don’t know why but I’m shocked. Why would that surprise me, though? He’s got my jeans undone and I slap at him as he tugs them over my hips, down my thighs, off my feet.

“Stop!”

“No.”

He stands, pushes me backward so I’m laying on the seat of the chair behind the ottoman.

“It’s enough. You can take pictures like this.”

“No, not enough.” He reaches down and with one flick of his hand, my bra is ripped in two and hanging off my shoulders.

I cup my breasts to hide them from view. “Stop! Please stop. I’ll do it. Please!”

He leans down over me, holding me with one hand. “Too late, sweetheart,” he says as he strips my panties from me and just like that, I’m naked. I’m naked and he’s standing over me and looking at me.

I sit up. Cover myself as best I can. “You bastard. I hate you,” I spit, but my voice is weak.

“He takes out his phone and snaps a photo. Then another. “Arms at your sides. I want to see it all.”

I slide off the ottoman, but he comes at me with that stupid phone snapping away. Picture after picture.

I hit the wall, the corner. There’s nowhere for me to go. “Please stop,” I say. “Please.” I wipe my face with the back of one hand. “I’m sorry. I just needed to see the stupid warehouse and it’s not even going to matter anyway. I’m so sorry.”

He ignores me and I cower, and only when there’s no more flash do I dare look up. He’s stepped backward, just one step, but he’s still looming over me, all dark hair and blue-black eyes and danger. He can make me do whatever he wants. Anything he wants.

I’m hugging my knees, using my legs, my hair, anything, to hide myself.

He studies me, just watches me for a long time before snapping another photo.

I turn my face away simultaneously. Hide myself from him.

“Take your arms away,” he says. His tone is different. Serious.

That shift in his mood changes things. I don’t know why, but it does. I know there’s no way out of this. Only through it. I’ve known it all along.

“Do as I say, Natalie.”

And so, I do. I move my arms away and he takes a photo. I look at him. He’s not grinning anymore. That cocky expression on his face is gone. He’s not making fun of me as he does it. He’s just taking pictures. I’m actually not even sure he’s enjoying it.

“Stand up.”

I do, but I can’t look at him. Not at his eyes.

“Turn around and put your hands on the wall.” I do that too. “Higher. Good. Walk backward.”

I take two tiny steps, but it’s enough. I know what he wants. My ass.

“Now look at me.”

I shake my head once, feel my hair on my naked shoulders. Wonder when it fell out of its clip.

“Look at me,” he repeats firmly.

I glance at him over my shoulder. I wonder if he wants my tears too.

“Good.”

I see from the corner of my eye he’s aroused. This could be worse. He could demand another, different sort of payment.

Who says he won’t?

“Get on the couch. Hands and knees. Ass to me.”

I want to weep. I want the earth to open and swallow me whole.

“Do it.”

I do. But then his hand is on me, on my hip, and I jump. He slaps my ass, snaps a picture.

“Just pictures. You said—”

“It’s just pictures.” His voice comes out hoarse, like his throat is dry.

I crane my neck to look at his hand. At the ring there—something big and ornate and old looking. There’s a dusting of dark hair on his arm and his watch is expensive. I can tell. It’s what I try to focus on until, with just the smallest tug of his thumb, he opens me. And I don’t know how or why because it makes no sense, but my belly feels strange and I’m holding my breath and when I look at his face, he’s got his eyes locked on my ass. He looks different again. He’s aroused, that’s obvious, but there’s more. There’s something darker about it.

He’s not taking pleasure in my humiliation. It’s something else now. And the second he snaps the photo, he seems to hurry to shove the phone into his pocket and get away from me.

“Get dressed. We’re done.” He walks out of the room. I hear him go into the kitchen. Open a can of something. It takes me a long minute to move. My dignity is in tatters, like my clothes. I pull my underwear and jeans on. Tuck the ruined bra into my pocket and draw the Henley over my head. There’s a hole at the seam. I finger it, try to think only of it. I don’t want to think about what just happened.

I can fix this later. Sew it back up. It’s not hard.

By the time I put my boots on, he’s back and he’s already got his coat on. He’s holding mine out to me.

I can’t look at him. I take my coat and put it on and zip it to my chin and, obediently and meekly, I follow him back outside. I get into the car when he opens the door.

“Where do you live?”

I give him the address. He starts driving and neither of us talk. Not during the drive. Not when he pulls up along my street. I live on Elfreth’s Alley, a historic street in Philadelphia. Vehicles are restricted and I’m grateful for it, especially tonight.

When I reach to open my door, he finally speaks.

“Remember what I said will happen if you talk.”

“I wasn’t ever going to talk.”

I slip out, my purse in my hand. I dig for my key in my pocket and he doesn’t drive away until I’m inside and Pepper, my fourteen-year-old German Shepherd greets me, and I’m sobbing. Sobbing on the floor of my kitchen.