“Y ou did this . This is your fucking fault, you stupid cunt!” Paxton’s face is a rictus of rage. He stalks back and forth in front of the balcony, tearing at his hair with both hands. His cheeks are almost purple. I don’t care, though. I don’t really notice. I don’t register anything bar the fact that Thalia, who was standing on the balcony two seconds ago, is now gone. She was there. She was standing there, staring at her cigarette, hurt all over her face, and the next…the balcony was empty. I didn’t see her decide. I didn’t witness the moment when she made up her mind that dying would be better than living. I would have stopped her. I could have tried. Despite the cruel, terrible thing she did to Raphael, I would have—

Something tightens around my neck, jolting me out of my thoughts. My eyes flash—a bolt of pure, brilliant white light—and I try to suck in a breath of oxygen, to let out a scream, but I can’t. My airway is completely closed off. I reach up, scrambling, my fingers trying to loosen whatever’s around my neck, but it’s impossible. The length of wire around my throat is already biting deeply into my flesh. There’s no way for me to free myself. My fingernails scratch and graze my skin, stinging brightly, but my brain barely registers the pain.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid …” Paxton’s voice is in my ear, hard and filled with hate. His lips press up against my ear as he hisses and spits, and I want to shrink away from the vitriol, but he has hold of me, one arm wrapping around my chest, pulling me back, pinning me in place. I’ve done multiple self-defense classes. This is what they train you for: being attacked from behind. They teach you how to stomp on your attacker’s foot. How to twist and pivot, to strike to the groin, to rip yourself free and to run like fuck. None of that matters in this moment, though. It’s easy to go through the motions, to practice the repeated movements over and over again, but the reality of being assaulted like this is nothing like those scenarios. There’s no crash mat to break your fall. There are no pads to punch. No gloves protecting your hands. There’s no instructor, watching on from a couple of feet away, giving you pointers and clapping you on the back when you get it right. This is terrifying . This is your heart surging and faltering at the same time. This is your vision failing you, your mind seizing, all coherent thought and problem solving capabilities flying out of the window. This is the difference between living and dying. This is the moment that defines all others, and you feel powerless to do anything about it.

I was wrong about Paxton. I thought he wasn’t the kind of guy to kill with his bare hands. It seems he’ll happily kill me at close range. Something shatters behind me, the sound of breaking glass filling the room, and for a brief second, a mere heartbeat, the tension on the wire around my neck loosens. I react without even thinking; it appears I still have some common sense. Enough to turn around, anyway. Paxton’s back is up against the wall, the back of his head butting up against a photo frame still hanging crookedly on the wall. The glass is smashed, and small shards are falling down onto his shoulders, dusting them like tiny diamonds. Paxton snarls, baring his teeth, one hand grappling, trying to regain his hold on the noose he has around my neck. It’s not wire; it’s a cord, a power cable, thick and strong. Our faces are close. He grimaces as he spins the cord, taking hold of it from behind my head and pulling. The action has little power now, though. He only manages in sending me stumbling backward, out of his grasp, and I go crashing to the floor.

“You had no right to mess with us,” Paxton grinds out. “You had no goddamn right to push and pull and poke.” With every word, he lashes out with his two thousand dollar Italian leather shoes, kicking at me. He hits me in the ribs, the stomach, his last kick landing hard, impacting with the side of my head. The blow makes me see double for a second, but it’s not hard enough to knock me out. It’s a wake-up call, in fact. If I stay here, he’s going to kill me. If I continue to lie here sprawled out on the floor, I’ll never be able to defend myself. He has the position of power. From his vantage point, he can pretty much do anything he pleases with me. He can hit and kick and punch to his heart’s content. I have to act. I have to rally and fucking defend myself.

Paxton raises his foot, about to bring it crashing down on my head again, but I manage to scoot back. Pain sings through my body as my head hits the coffee table behind me. A wet, warm sensation begins to travel down my neck, down my back. I should be worried about that, I know I should, but there’s no time. No time at all. Paxton growls under his breath as he advances toward me again.

“You think he loves you? You think he really fucking cares about you? He barely knows you.” Paxton scrubs his hair back out of his face; his usually perfect, slicked-back hairstyle is in complete disarray. The action does nothing to help. His hand leaves a streak of blood behind on his face, fresh and bright and startling. He looks like a madman. “You don’t know anything about him , either. You weren’t there on his first day of high school. You didn’t visit him in hospital when his appendix nearly exploded. You didn’t travel all over Asia with him when you were twenty-one. You didn’t console him for weeks after both his parents died. You weren’t there for any of that. I was. Thalia was. You were rolling around in the dirt in some nasty little farm in the boonies, probably fucking your cousin. You’re just like her. You’re just like Chloe. You have no damn right trying to live like us. With us. We are your betters! ” There’s a crazed look in his eye as Paxton reaches out, his hand searching for something on the counter top.

I get up.

My whole body is thrumming in agony, but I separate myself from the pain. I have to. There’s no ignoring it altogether, but I somehow manage to box it up. To construct a wall in my mind between myself and my nerve endings. This is what my mother should have done when she was being attacked. She didn’t have the strength, though. She froze like a rabbit in headlights. She allowed what happened to her to take place. I will not do that. Paxton’s standing between me and the exit. There’s no way for me to sneak past him or get around him. I look around for something to defend myself with, but it’s hard to think straight. There’s nothing suitable. I need a gun. A knife. Something sharp, something heavy, something lethal. Thalia wasn’t exactly the type of person to keep lethal weaponry scattered around her living room, though.

I snatch up the first thing I find: a heavy silver candleholder.

Paxton’s holding up his weapon of choice now, and his selection is much better than mine. His fingers are blanched white, closed into a fist around the handle of an ornate letter opener. It doesn’t look particularly sharp, but that doesn’t matter. Its point is sharp enough for the task Paxton has in mind. I’ve toyed aimlessly with that very letter opener a hundred times before when I’ve been hanging out in Thalia’s open plan kitchen, leaning against the counter, talking to her while she cooks or cleans. I know that piece of silverware well. It’s heavy and weighted, perfect for plunging into a person’s heart. I never once imagined that it would one day be used to end my life. Suddenly, I’m filled with anger. It’s a weird reaction to have to the situation, but I can’t help it. It’s a living, breathing thing inside me, roiling and churning, filling every part of me.

“What do you think’s going to happen if you murder me, Paxton?” I snap. “You think you’re just going to be able to walk away? You think someone’s not already on their way up here right now? Thalia’s body’s down there on the sidewalk. The doorman will have identified her. The cops are going to come up here and they’re going to find…what? Me, dead on the floor? You standing calmly over me, my blood all over you and that letter opener in your hand?”

“It doesn’t matter what they find,” Paxton says. His tone is no longer venomous but rather flat, dashed with a little boredom. He seems eerily calm. “You forget…I’m a well respected business man. I come from old money. My family members have been entrepreneurs and philanthropists in this city for generations. We’ve donated millions of dollars to charity over the years. We’re the social elite. You are a working class nobody with aspirations of grandeur. A money-grabbing whore with stars in her eyes. When they sit me down and interview me, I’ll tell them in great detail what happened here tonight. I had an urgent call from a dear friend. She said she was being held hostage by a crazy woman in her apartment and was trapped on her balcony. I rushed to her aid to find you pushing her over the edge. When I confronted you, a fight ensued, and in the struggle you were unfortunately injured. I only say unfortunately, because you won’t be alive to answer for the trouble and hurt you’ve caused. You’ll be dead. I’ll get a slap on the wrist perhaps. I’m one of the most well respected investment bankers in this entire city. I have endless resources and enough money to buy the best defense attorney there is. I won’t spend a single night in a jail cell. At the end of this whole debacle, I’ll probably be lauded as a hero for catching you, Elizabeth. I’ll be a goddamn hero, and you…you and your whole family will be shamed.”

“I’m the one who’s ashamed .”

Paxton’s eyes grow wide. He hasn’t heard the door to Thalia’s apartment open. He hasn’t heard someone enter in behind him. Neither have I. We both spin around, and there he is, standing there in behind the kitchen counter. Only it can’t be true. It simply can’t be. Raphael … There’s no way he can be here now, his eyes filled with agony and anger. His body is vibrating, his shoulders shaking, those pale, flashing jade eyes of his filled with so much rage and disappointment. Paxton stumbles, reaching out and catching himself, holding himself up as he clings to the back of the armchair next to him.

“Raphael? What…how ? How are you here?” he whispers.

“I walked out of the front door,” Raph says stonily. “I drove across the city. I got out of my car, and then…and then my friend landed on the roof of my car and died .” He sounds numb. He sounds like he can’t even comprehend what he’s just seen. There’s no way Thalia could have survived that fall, I know that—her apartment is on the seventeenth floor—but I haven’t looked over the edge and seen for myself. It absolutely kills me that Raphael saw it happen with his own two eyes. It guts me, hollows me out, and leaves me gasping for breath. Raphael sends an assessing glance my way, his eyes quickly skating over my body. He looks concerned. Frowns. When he looks back to Paxton, his expression is murderous. “Nate told me he was worried about Beth. He told me I needed to get over here immediately…that he thought you were going to hurt the woman I loved. I didn’t believe him. I didn’t for a second think…”

“You don’t know what’s good for you right now,” Paxton says firmly. “You’ve been locked away from the world for so long that you can’t read people anymore. She’s not good for you. She’s worthless , Raphael. She—”

The world seems to stop.

The room smells like white musk and vanilla from Thalia’s candles, coupled with the rotten food on her counters. The air is filled with dust motes that catch and spiral, traveling lazily though the dim light cast off by a lamp in the corner.

Raphael’s shirt is creased into horizontal lines, probably from where he was sitting in his car.

Paxton’s mouth is moving, but strangely the space seems devoid of all sound. I can hear nothing but the staccato, frantic beating of my own heart, throbbing in my ears. Then suddenly Paxton’s no longer talking. He’s turning, and he’s spinning. His face is a bitter, cruel mask. And he’s lunging. Lunging toward me with Thalia’s letter opener still clenched tightly in his hand. He raises it, holding the blade high over his head. I know I should move, I should stagger back out of his reach, but I’ve lost command of my body. I am still as stone as he comes for me. I can’t even scream.

A loud, enraged yell splits apart the air, and Raphael is a blur of black and grey and white. He vaults over the back of the arm chair that stands between us, and then he falls on Paxton, grappling him, tackling him, sending him crashing to the ground. The scene before me turns to chaos. I’ve never seen such violence. I’ve never been so afraid.

“RAPH !” My own scream sounds flat and muted. The two men struggle, wrestling on the ground. Raph is on top of Paxton, and then Paxton somehow manages to slide free, rolling, pinning Raph to the floor.

“I’m the only one!” he hollers. “I’m the only one who really cares about you. I’m the only one who loves you!”

Shock registers on Raph’s face. This is clearly the last thing he ever expected to come from his friend’s mouth. He had no idea. Paxton believes differently, but Raph…there’s no way he ever guessed at what was going on in his head. He falls slack for a second, his expression all horror and surprise. “You’re…what are you saying?” he whispers.

“Don’t fucking pretend,” Paxton sobs. “All of these years, you’ve let me fawn over you. You’ve allowed me to make such a fucking fool of myself, and you’ve done nothing to stop me. You’ve enjoyed it. You’ve reveled in the attention. These women…these fucking sluts…they were nothing but a distraction and you know it. You’re just afraid. You’re afraid to admit the truth to yourself. You know it, Raphael. You know you love me, the same way I love you.”

Raph wraps his hands around Paxton’s wrists, restraining him, violently shaking his head. “You’re wrong. You’re so wrong,” he says. “You were my friend. Nothing more.” Their position may be one of violence, a war for dominance, but Raphael’s words are calm. Paxton must register the certainty in his voice, because a flicker of doubt flashes across his face. He falters, leaning back.

“It’s…not true. You don’t need to lie to yourself anymore. This is the truth. We don’t need to hide it anymore. We just need to be honest with one another. We can have a life together, Raph. An amazing life. We can go anywhere, do anything, be whoever we want to be.”

“You’re not listening. You’re fucking delusional . I don’t have feelings for you. I’m in love with Beth. I knew it from the moment I laid eyes on her. I told you I was in love with her weeks ago.”

Paxton’s body sags. He goes utterly limp. “Stop. Stop saying that.”

“You killed Chloe. You allowed Thalia to think she was responsible, when you did this. You broke her fucking heart, and she’s dead. In some weird, warped world, in a thousand years, I might have been able to forgive you for that. But this? Trying to kill Beth? I’ll fucking despise you for the rest of time. I’ll never be able to forgive that. You’re a dead man, Paxton. A fucking dead man.” Raph grabs for the letter opener in Paxton’s hand. He almost manages to snatch it free from him. There’s no doubt in my mind what will happen if he succeeds in taking it; he’ll plunge it into Paxton’s chest. He’ll fucking kill him, and there’ll be no way of stopping him. Another wave of panic seizes me. I’ve just found this amazing man. He’s just become a part of my life. I can’t lose him. Not now. Not when I’ve finally allowed someone in, to break down all of my walls, to love me and care for me…to show me what it truly means to be happy. I react without thinking. I can’t allow this to happen. I just can’t.

I’m too slow, though.

It’s as if Paxton knows what’s coming, and he can’t bear it. His hand moves quickly, before either of us can get to him. The blade of the letter opener rises again. It jerks swiftly backwards, and then it’s inching little by little…into his own neck.

I freeze.

I can’t fucking move.

A stream of blood jets from Paxton’s throat, vivid, bright, and crimson. The spray rains down on Raphael, arcing, hitting the side of the sofa with extreme force. Paxton’s eyes go wide. His lips tremble as the shock of what he’s done sets in.

“I won’t…be with…out…you…” His speech is gargled, choked, each one coming out slower, rasping, wet with the blood accumulating in the back of his throat. “I…won’t…”

Raphael blinks rapidly as he’s soaked with blood. The front of his shirt is the color of rubies, his face spattered and running rivers of red. “Go then,” he whispers. “Go. Because I want no part of you. I won’t mourn you. I’m going to forget your face.” He leans up, shifting his hips, and Paxton topples sideways onto the floor. He gags and chokes, his eyes filled with fear and pain. Raphael doesn’t care, though. He’s all consumed by hatred. It’s written all over him, and it’s the very last thing Paxton sees. “I’m going to forget you,” Raph snarls. “I’m going to forget you ever fucking existed.”