T he day my father died , I was in Los Angeles visiting a friend. Specifically, I was in Long Beach at an aquarium. I was hurrying through the exhibits because I’d skipped breakfast and I was starving, trying to reach the cafeteria as quickly as possible, when my cell phone started ringing in my bag. I was going to ignore the call, but Sarah, a friend from high school who’d moved out to California to do the whole wannabe actress thing, told me I should get it. When I saw it was David, I nearly threw the phone back into my bag all over again, but Sarah had insisted. I picked up, and I received the news from my brother that would change my life forever. I remember how blue the water inside the tanks was. How lazily the fish swam from one side of the glass to the other. The quick flashes of silver from the more energetic, tiny fish that swarmed in great balls closer to the surface of the tanks. The aquarium smelled of cleaning products and pretzels. That dry, chemical, paper smell from printed leaflets, and the overpowering saccharine smell of ice cream. I remember staring at Sarah, the faint lines at the corners of her eyes fading as she slowly stopped smiling, realizing that something was wrong. I recall every last detail with a kind of precision that only comes during a momentous event. I’ve had so few moments like that in my life, but as I head home back to my apartment, the subway rocking me from side to side, I know this will be one of them.

The sharp, floral smell of perfume the woman next to me is wearing. The sound of the tinny music escaping a guy’s headphones on the other side of the carriage. The heavy, weightiness that has settled into my bones, deep down, and the ache that seems to be throbbing everywhere along with it.

Today, I slept with a man I’ve fantasized about for years, and it was mag-fucking-nificent. He’s so very different to the party boy Lothario I daydreamed about years ago. He’s mysterious, and he’s private. So serious and demanding. I close my eyes, losing myself in the memories of his hands on my body, and I can’t cope anymore. I feel like I’m on fire, so ridiculously turned on that I almost have to get off the line three stops early so I can walk the rest of the way home to clear my head.

I shut my eyes, let my head lean back against the wall of the carriage, and I do my best to zone out instead. These memories are better saved for when I’m alone, when at least ten people aren’t looking at me, wondering why I’m so red in the face and I can’t stop fidgeting.

My phone starts blowing up the moment I get service. Text after text from Thalia come flooding in, mixed in with a couple from David, but I don’t read them. I’m too utterly blissed out and in my own little world right now, and David’s weird band messages coupled with Thalia’s one million questions about Raph are too much for me to worry about right now. I just don’t want to ruin my good mood, and it’s guaranteed to happen the moment I start reading. I arrive home, I make myself a coffee, and I sit myself down on the couch with my text books, ready for a night of studying.

An hour zips by and then another. Just before eleven, a loud hammering rings out inside my apartment, and my brother’s voice makes its way through the door, scaring the shit out of me.

“Beth. Beth, open the damn door. We need to talk.”

I almost trip over my own feet in my haste to get to the door. I fling it open, glaring at David, hissing at him. “Shut up! What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you trying to kick my door down in the middle of the night? Damn it, David, just shut up already. You’re gonna piss off the neighbors.”

My brother braces himself against the doorjamb, leaning his body into the apartment. “I don’t give a shit about pissing off your neighbors, Beth. Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

“Have you been drinking?” I fire back. His eyes are bleary and bloodshot, and there are dark circles beneath them. He gives me a tired sideways look, pushing past me into the apartment.

“No. I’m hung over. There’s a difference.”

“Wow. Mom would be so stoked to see you right now,” I quip, swinging the door closed. “Her only son, reeking of stale whiskey and hollering at people in hallways.”

David slaps both hands against his chest in mock horror. He grins, laughing under his breath. “Me? You think she’s ever going to give me shit again after what she’s probably seeing of you on the news right now?”

“The news? What are you talking about?”

David slumps down into the armchair, picking up what remains of a half eaten sandwich I made earlier, stuffing it into his mouth. “Oh, this is priceless,” he says around his mouthful. “You’re so fucking oblivious. Turn on the TV.”

A jolt of panic fires through me. He sounds so confident. So smug. He knows something. Something about me, and he’s enjoying this way too much. I flick on the TV, bracing myself.

“Pick a news channel. Any news channel,” David says breezily.

I scroll until I find one. The female anchor on the screen is reporting on a shooting that’s taken place in Brooklyn. David scowls, obviously upset that the woman reading from the teleprompter isn’t talking, for some reason, about me. He doesn’t need to sulk for long, though. The next image that scrolls up on the top right hand side of the screen is of me. Naked. My breasts blurred out. Hands planted against a pane of glass, a look of pure ecstasy on my face as Raphael North kisses and bites at my neck from behind. My body jolts and my mouth opens, my eyes shuttering closed, and it’s obvious from the movement that Raphael has just thrust himself inside me. I remember the moment vividly. It felt like my brain was melting out of my ears. I’ve never seen my face during sex, though. I never knew I’d look like…that .

I sink down, aiming for the edge of the couch and missing altogether, my ass hitting the rug instead. “Oh…no. What the fuck? No . No, no, no.”

“Oh, yes ,” David counters. He points at the TV, chewing. “If you keep watching for another minute or so, they actually show that part. You were nodding a lot. I’m no good at lip reading, but they had an expert on one of the other channels who was. They said yes was the only word that came from your mouth for about twelve minutes. They said the stuff that came after that couldn’t be repeated on national television.”

“What the…fuck? How ? How did this happen?” The video clip is still playing in the top right corner, even though it’s obvious Raphael and I are having sex. Intermittently, our bodies will be blurred out as we shift around, to avoid showing anything too graphic, but the movement alone, the expressions on our faces, the sweat on our skin…it all tells a very damning tale.

The news anchor is talking, one eyebrow arched coquettishly, a smirk at the corners of her mouth, but I don’t hear a word she says. My ears are filled with a high-pitched buzzing sound that seems to go on and on forever, rising in frequency, until it sounds like goddamn screaming. I can’t understand…

We were in his fucking penthouse! That’s, what, the seventy-third floor? The Osiris Building looms over every other structure for a mile in every direction. How could anyone have captured a photo of us, let alone fucking video ?

David says something. Laughs. He flicks the channel over to another news show, this time some shitty, cheesy entertainment type show that sensationalizes absolutely everything, and boy are they going to town. Four people sit at desks, two on either side of a large screen. They keep pausing the video at intervals and zooming in on either Raphael or me. Thankfully they seem mostly interested in Raphael, though they point out my birthmark on my collarbone, and they say something unfriendly about my ass when Raphael shoves me up against the glass so my butt cheeks are crushed up against the window.

“Ohhhh. Sorry, little sister. That’s gotta sting.” David gets up from the couch, rubbing at his temple. “Hey, do you have any Tylenol? This headache is getting out of control.”

I don’t breathe a word. I don’t breathe a goddamn thing.

My career is over. It’s over before it’s begun. A sex tape scandal before I’ve even taken the bar, for crying out loud. A small, hopeful voice whispers in my ear: Maybe they don’t know who you are. Maybe no one will recognize you. I’m not even done forming the thought when my driver’s license flashes up on the screen, my address blurred out. My name and date of birth are there for all to see though, plain as day. My fucking driver’s license? How the hell did they get a picture of my license? Lord, I’ve been meaning to change that picture for years now. The photo looks like a mug shot; my eyes are wide, like I was caught off guard, and my head is cocked at a weird, barely noticeable angle that makes me look like I’m struggling to answer a question.

“Not doing you any favors, huh?” David quips. The guy sitting on the right of the television screen is making fun of my tousled hair. He uses a laser pointer to highlight my birthmark again, as another still shot from the damning video takes over the whole screen.

“…just weird . Really weird. I’ve never seen a more unattractive birthmark on a human being before. It looks like a huge ink spot.”

The woman at the other desk titters. She takes a drink from a coffee mug, crinkling her nose as she cranes her neck to look up at the giant screen behind her. “I always thought the next woman to capture Raphael North’s attention would be a little…blonder .”

The guy with the laser pointer laughs. “That why you’ve been bleaching your hair all these years, Melissa? You’re hoping to make an impression?”

Melissa pokes out her tongue at him. “Screw you, Kyle. I met North once at a charity event. He complimented me on my dress.”

“He didn’t rip if from your body, spin you around, bend you over and fuck you seven ways from Sunday against a ten foot high pane of glass, though, did he?” one of the other guys says.

“He fucked me with his eyes ,” Melissa retorts.

“And you’ve been fingering yourself every night to the memory ever since, I’m sure.”

David’s face crumples into confusion. “Man, what kind of news show is this?”

“All I’m saying,” Melissa adds. “Is that every single woman Raphael North has slept with in the past has been a blonde. He’s obviously trying something new on for size, but let me tell you…” She flips her hair over her shoulder dramatically. “A man’s future actions can only be predicted by those of his past. And a tall, willowy brunette law student is no supermodel. This Elizabeth girl doesn’t know the first thing about surviving in Raphael North’s world. She’s gonna realize very quickly that she’s out of her depth.”

“So, as ever Melissa has made her feelings known straight out of the gate,” Kyle observes. “You’re saying you think Elizabeth Dreymon is now a little fish in a very large pond? That it’s sink or swim for her from here on out?”

“Oh, no.” Melissa shakes her head as she takes a swig of coffee. “No, that’s not what I’m saying at all. There is no sink or swim for this poor girl. She. Is. Going. To. Drown . She’s going to publically drown in the most humiliating way possible. There’s no lifeguard on duty to pull her out of this particular shark tank.”

* * *

I turn my cell phone off and I put it in the cutlery drawer in the kitchen. I’m not sure why I choose the cutlery drawer, but it makes me feel a little less anxious when it’s shut away and I can’t see it. The damn thing started blowing up the second I turned off the television and told David he had to leave. He hadn’t wanted to go at all.

“You’re going to need help screening all the offers, little sister.”

“What offers?”

“For your story. That’s how a kiss-and-tell works, Beth. Damn, don’t you know anything about the media? This is precisely why you need me as your manager.”

“I know how a kiss-and-tell works, you moron. If you think I want to sell my story, have my face plastered all over the internet and the television even more than it is now, you might as well get the hell out of my apartment right now. ”

He’d sulked off, drinking a soda from my fridge, but not before a parting shot across the bow. “I don’t care what they say, Bee. I don’t think you need an ass lift. Maybe just do some squats or something.”

Now it’s four in the morning, and I can’t sleep. I’ve taken a Valium and even resorted to chugging Nyquil straight out of the bottle, but I still can’t pass out. My phone is screaming at me from the cutlery drawer. Screaming . It’s turned off, but I can still somehow hear the notifications and the ring tone blowing up, countless people messaging and leaving voicemails, all of them asking, did I see the news? Was that really me fucking Raphael North against the window of a Manhattan high rise? What’s he like? How did I meet him? Am I going to see him again? And, of course, the inevitable, incessant calls from the media. David was right; they’re going to be unbearable. If they managed to find a copy of my driver’s license somehow, then obtaining my cell number would be a piece of cake for them. They’re relentless when it comes to anything Raphael North related, and they haven’t had anything good on him in years. They’ve been left picking over the bones of brief shots taken of him on the roof of the Osiris Building or hearsay from office cleaners and old family friends who haven’t really seen him in over a decade. And now this? Him screwing a woman up against a window? They’re going to have a field day and no mistake.

At five-thirty, I tear the sheets back from my bed, unable to take it anymore. I’ve never been one to bury my head in the sand. It doesn’t get you anywhere, and oftentimes the longer you leave something to fester, the worse the situation becomes. Nothing I do can possibly make this situation worse, and I need to know. I need to know if Professor Dalziel has seen one of his students on the news and has already emailed her, telling her she must report to his office in the morning to discuss the matter. My hands are shaking violently as I rip the cutlery drawer straight out of the cabinet and dump it on the counter, fumbling as I pick up my phone and turn it on.

At first: nothing.

The blue screen lights up, a bright, cheery tone chiming out of the speakers, signaling the device is awake and functioning. I place it down on the counter, my hands braced against the wood, and I stare at it, waiting. Only three seconds pass before the onslaught begins. Thalia. My mother. David. A number I don’t recognize. Another unknown number. Thalia. Thalia. Thalia. Mom. A slew of missed calls from too many different people to even try and catch the numbers. And then: Raphael North.

I open up the text app, and I almost burst into tears as I scroll down the long list of new messages. There must be at least ten or fifteen between the newest of them and the message from Raphael. My ears fill with the sound of my blood rushing around my body as I hit the small blue circle next to his name.

R aphael : This is bad. Call me. Better yet, let me send Nate to get you.

T hat’s not the only message from him. The very first—he must have sent it before he saw the news—has my head spinning, reaching for a chair at my small table, needing to sit down.

R aphael : There’ll come a day when you see me the same way I see you, Beth. You’ll feel like your eyes are opening for the first time in many years. You’ll feel your heart stutter and slowly reawaken inside your chest. You’ll realize you’ve been asleep at the wheel for so long that you no longer know which direction you’re driving in. When you get to that point, you’ll realize that nothing and no one can come between us. No one can stop us from being magnificent if we refuse to let them. Trust me. Believe me. Give me a chance.

T hirty minutes later he’s obviously seen the video footage of us online or on the giant flat screen in the penthouse living room and he’s started to freak out.

R aphael : Beth, don’t panic but you need to call me ASAP.

R aphael : Don’t answer your phone to anyone you don’t know, Beth. We were recorded earlier. Some footage has been leaked to the news. I’m getting it shut down right now, but it’s pretty damaging.

R aphael : Answer your phone, Beth.

R aphael : Are you okay? I’m sending Nate over for you. Go outside. He’ll be waiting for you.

T he last message was sent at one in the morning, nearly five hours ago. I make my way into the living room, over to the window. Stepping out onto the fire escape, I lean over the railings, and there, ten floors below on the street, Nate’s gleaming black Tesla is parked directly out the front of the building. At least four parking tickets are pinned to the windshield, and a shadowy, dark figure is leaning against the side of the vehicle, smoking a cigarette by the looks of things. A bright red dot of light flares and ebbs in the pre-dawn, pale blue morning, and I suddenly could use a smoke myself.

Mechanically, I climb back into my apartment from the fire escape, and I grab a long coat from the back of the front door. I leave the apartment and I head down the stairs, shifting one foot at a time, one in front of the other, concentrating very hard on simply moving forward. In the lobby of the building, the night manager, Gareth, doesn’t meet my eye as I shuffle out of the front door and head out onto the street. Nate flicks his cigarette away and pushes off the Tesla, standing straight the moment that he sees me. He looks fresh and well rested, his eyes bright. He must have been out here for hours already but he doesn’t look even remotely tired.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says cheerily.

I grimace in return.

“Ahhh. Yeah, I’d say you’re entitled to feel a little less than sparky,” he continues. “I’ve already had to make a few threats in order to keep the paparazzi from your doorstep. I’m sorry, Beth. This fucking sucks.”

“Sucks?” I laugh, the sound hard and unhappy. “That’s the understatement of the century.”

Nate steps away from the Tesla, unfolding his arms. “He wants to see you. He needs to see you. I’ve never seen him like this before. He’s losing his fucking mind.”

“If he’s so distraught, if he needs to see me so badly, why hasn’t he come down here to find me himself?”

A strange, tight expression forms on Nate’s face. “He would if he could, believe me. He can’t, though. I’d love to explain, but it’s not my place. It’s…complicated .”

“What a surprise.” Everything seems to be complicated with Raphael North. His life is one big complicated mess, and now I’m tangled up in the epicenter of that mess, on display in the most embarrassing, humiliating way possible. “I’m not going to him, Nate. I can’t. The press is watching the Osiris. They must be if they were able to even record that video in the first place. I’ll only make it worse if I’m seen heading inside the building.”

“No one makes it into that underground parking lot without Raphael’s say so. And these windows are tinted. No one will know it’s you inside.”

I look at the Tesla, frowning. He’s right, of course. The windows are all blacked out, so dark it’s impossible to see inside. But still… They’ll know. They’ll manage to snap a shot of me somehow. I can’t bear the idea of my face being plastered all over the morning newspapers as it is. Along with the rest of my body. The idea of new photos of me, shamed, trying to make it into the Osiris Building without being caught, only serves to make me feel even sicker. This is a nightmare. A serious fucking nightmare.

“I’m sorry, Nate. I hope he won’t be mad at you. I can’t come.”

Nate slowly shakes his head, but he doesn’t look angry. Perhaps a little frustrated. “It’s okay.” He smiles. “I enjoy the fact that you don’t jump at his every command. It’s refreshing to say the least. He’s not going to let this drop, though. You know that, right? He’s a very possessed kinda guy. Once he makes up his mind about something…”

I already know this about him. I saw the conviction in his eyes when he told me back in the penthouse that I would fall in love with him. There was no doubt in his mind that he was telling the truth. I read it on every part of him. “Tell him you didn’t see me if you need to,” I say to Nate. He hits the unlock button on the Tesla, plucking the parking tickets from underneath the windshield wiper, slipping them into his back pocket.

“I’ll see you soon, Beth. If you need anything, just call me. Anything at all. It can be our little secret.” As Nate drives away, though, the car sliding soundlessly away from the curb, I get the feeling there are no secrets between Raphael and Nate. Not one. Which means Nate knows him a whole lot better than I do, even if the man was inside me less than twelve hours ago.

* * *

M y journey to school is not fun. I’d go so far as to say it’s absolutely miserable. There are news crews parked out front when I came out at eight A.M. Three of them. A gaggle of female news reporters glare angrily at one another, flipping their hair and applying lip gloss while overweight camera guys stuff their faces with bagels. I felt stupid putting on a ball cap and sunglasses when I left the apartment, but when I duck out of the building and hurry off down the street I’m glad I thought to wear them. I’m almost free and clear, fifty paces down the street, when I look back over my shoulder and one of the camera guys sees me, though. He drops his half eaten breakfast and points at me, slapping the guy standing next to him on the shoulder.

“That’s her! That’s Elizabeth!”

Like a bunch of startled meerkats, the news teams all turn in unison to look at me, their eyes filled with hunger. Fucking animals. I’m not ashamed to admit it: I run.

There’s no way the reporters in their five inch heels and their morbidly obese camera guys can keep up with me, but it still feels very undignified barreling down the street, my book bag hitting me square in the back every time I take a step. I try not to crash into anyone but it’s virtually impossible. On the subway, women glance at me out of the corners of their eyes and I know they recognize me. My cheeks are flushed red the entire ride. No one says anything to me until I’m waiting by the doors, itching to exit the carriage, and a bottle-blonde in a power suit approaches me with a saccharine sweet smile on her face.

“You’re her, aren’t you? The girl. Raphael’s girl.”

I don’t know how to respond to that. I shrink away from her, hiking my bag strap higher onto my shoulder.

“You’re a disgrace, you know that? It’s seriously pathetic, what you’re doing.”

“I’m sorry, I think you have me confused with someone else.”

“I’m not stupid,” the blonde continues. “I don’t know how you did it. You must have worked really hard to get a meeting with him in the first place. God knows what you did to get your hooks into him after that, but Raphael North is a smart guy. He’ll see right through your games. He’ll realize you’re just after him for his money now. He’ll kick you to the curb so fast, you’ll be seeing stars.”

Fire floods my veins. Why are people so set on accusing me of going after the Raphael’s bank account? Because I’m working class? Because I’m a student? I’ve been cowering since the video of Raph and me hit the news, but it suddenly hits me that I have no reason to feel that way. I’ve done nothing wrong. I turn on the woman, meeting her disdainful gaze, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, ma’am . Raphael approached me . He orchestrated our meeting. He’s the one who’s done all the pursuing. And it’s none of your damn business, but I haven’t accepted a single dollar from him. I don’t expect anything from him, nor will I accept anything from him. I’ve managed to pay my own damn way for the past twenty-eight years and I intend on doing so for the rest of my life, too. So back the fuck off.”

I wait for the woman in the suit to look appropriately chastised, but she simply sneers at me. Taking the newspaper out from underneath her arm, she slaps it against my chest. “Bullshit,” she snaps. “Your family’s in ruins. Don’t try and tell me you’re not chasing after North because he can bail you out of the shit.”

Without thinking, I take the newspaper she hit me with. The carriage doors open and the woman struts past me without looking back, her thick hair swaying from side to side as she disappears amongst the crowd of people all streaming out into the subway station.

I unfold the paper, my eyes stinging as I look down at the all-too familiar picture on the very front page of the New York Times: my family home. The two-story building with the peeling paintwork, surrounded by a sea of sunflowers, looks more than a little humble, but it’s where I grew up. The long, winding driveway up to the house is where my father taught me how to ride a bicycle. I cracked my front tooth when I was six, falling off the rope swing hanging from the large live oak towering over the property to the right of the picture. You can’t see my old bedroom window from the front of the house, but I know that around the side of the colonial style home, there’s a tiny ledge that I used to clamber out onto at night after Mom and Dad had gone to sleep, so I could meet my friend Sarah and her boyfriend in the back field barn. The same barn where my mother was violently raped when I was six years old.

Above the image of the house, the blocky, aggressive strapline reads: DREYMON SUNFLOWER FARM $250,000 IN DEBT. Then, in smaller letters: WILL RAPHAEL NORTH BE FOOTING THE BILL?

I almost sink to my knees where I stand. The newspaper shakes in my hands as I try and read the article below, but my eyes are blurry, filled with tears. What the hell is this about? There’s no way. No way the farm is in trouble. I make a point of checking in with Mom to see how the business is doing every week, and she’s had nothing but positive reports for me. If there were something wrong, if she were struggling financially, she would have told me.

She’s been calling non-stop since last night but I haven’t listened to her messages or called her back yet. I’ve been too afraid of what she might say to me. I haven’t known what to say to her. It’ll crush me to hear disappointment or disapproval in her tone. Worse, if she’s angry that I slept with a man I barely know, in a painfully visible way, she’s going to start lecturing me about being sexually irresponsible and inviting an attack upon myself. I need to speak to her though. I can’t avoid her forever. I take out my phone and dial her number. The carriage doors to the subway begin to close, and I almost let them. I almost hang back, allowing the train to carry me off somewhere else rather than get off and face the world. That would be foolish, though. I can’t be late for class. It’s already bad enough that I’m going to have to face the wrath of Professor Dalziel without being tardy on top of that.

I keep my head down as I climb the stairs out of the station. My mom answers the phone on the seventh ring.

“For god’s sake, Beth, I’ve been worried sick about you. Why haven’t you been answering your phone?” Anger tinges her voice, but I can hear the pain there, too. She’s hurt, and I’m the one who’s caused that hurt. My stomach rolls, nausea hitting me hard.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry. I just…I haven’t been able to…I didn’t know what to say.”

“How about, ‘I’m okay, Mom. I’m fine. I’m alive. I’m not in any trouble or danger?’”

“I am fine. I’m sorry I worried you. I just saw the paper, though. Mom, they’re saying we’re in debt on the farm? Not just in debt. They’re saying we’re bankrupt. What the hell are they talking about?”

“Oh, nonsense, Beth. What are you doing paying attention to gossip columns, anyway? You know these people love to create a scandal. I don’t want to talk about the farm. I want to talk about—”

I cut her off before she can say his name. Before she can start warning of the dangers of sleeping with a man. Any man. I need to stay focused here. “This isn’t some gossip column, Mom.” I look down at the newspaper I’ve folded up and am carrying to school with me. “This is the New York Times , for crying out loud. They don’t just make things up. They have fact checkers. And this is on the front page!”

She’s quiet for a second. Then a second longer.

“Mom! Tell me what’s going on!”

“Okay, okay.” She sighs tiredly. “When your father died, the business was in great shape. He spent years working very hard to build it up, to make sure it was stable. I used to do the books for the business as you know, but I had no experience with any other aspect of the company, honey. I didn’t know how the contracts worked, or how to market and get out there and gain more clients. We lost one of our most valuable contracts a couple of years ago when the import prices from the Netherlands dropped, and that was it. I couldn’t find another company to pick up the shortfall, and the business has been suffering ever since. I remortgaged the land eighteen months ago, so I could pay off some of the debt we owed, but then it became harder and harder to make the repayments on the property and the land…and that’s where we are now.”

I don’t know what to say. My throat feels dry, like it’s made of sandpaper. “Years, Mom. You’ve been struggling with this for years and you didn’t say anything. Why?”

“What would you have done if I had?” she asks.

“I would have come home! I would have helped with the business!”

“Exactly. You would have dropped out of school, and how many years of hard work would have been wasted then? I wasn’t going to let you sacrifice all your hard work for this old place, Beth. No way, no how.”

“How can you say that? You and Dad built the farm up from nothing. It was his life work.”

“I know, sweetie. I know. It really was. But at the end of the day, that’s what you need to remember. It was his life’s work. His passion. Not yours. Your father’s gone now, and he wouldn’t want to see you give up on your hopes and dreams to protect something that doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Mom...” Tears slide down my face; I can’t seem to hold them back.

“Answer me this. Do you want to run the farm for the rest of your life, Beth?”

I sniff, dashing at my cheeks with the back of my hand. “I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it before.” I have, though. I’ve thought about it at great length. I couldn’t wait to get away from Kansas. Couldn’t wait to qualify, work hard, make partner somewhere and work on thrilling cases that made me feel like my blood was on fire.

“You don’t need to feel bad about wanting your own life, honey,” Mom says quietly. “It’s taken me a long time to realize that, too. I always loved doing this because it made your father so happy, but now…it’s almost a relief that I won’t be doing it anymore. I have a life I need to live, too, baby girl. I’m excited to go and see what’s out there for me now.”

“So what does that mean? For the business? For the house?”

“It’s all got to go. Everything. You don’t need to worry about me, though, sweetheart. I’m not sad about this at all. It’s a fresh start for me. And now that is all out of the way, tell me what the hell is going on with you, Beth. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I turned on the television last night. You’re dating Raphael North?” Perhaps she’s feeling too kind to mention that she saw him fucking the living daylights out of me in real time, along with the rest of the entire nation. I grind my teeth together, sighing heavily.

“I don’t even know where to begin. I haven’t got a clue where to start.”

She makes the same soft humming sound she used to make when she would console me as a child. “How about you start at the beginning.”

* * *

S he doesn’t judge me . Doesn’t shout at me. She listens patiently, and every second I find myself talking to her, telling her everything that’s happened, I’m just waiting for her to get angry. To my surprise, she doesn’t. She fucking apologizes . She tells me how sorry she is that what happened to her all those years ago affected me for so long. She cries . She tells me to call Raphael, or at least answer his texts. I haven’t taken a look at my phone’s messaging app since last night—I just can’t face it—so I have no idea if he’s even called or messaged again, but Mom encourages me to reach out to him either way, to tidy up the situation once and for all. I tell her I will, and I hang up just as I hurry through the lecture hall door. It’s funny—I immediately feel better having spoken to my mother. I shouldn’t have put it off for so long. The world still seems to be crashing down around my ears, but just knowing she’s on my side, she isn’t angry, and she has my back makes everything feel a little less scary.

I brace myself as I sit at the back of the hall, waiting for Thalia to fall on me like a force of nature, firing questions at me from all angles. I get my books, my notepad, and my laptop out of my bag, my shoulders tensed, my whole body braced for impact. It never arrives, though. Eventually the lights dim, people stop chattering, and the screen at the front of the hall comes to life.

Professor Dalziel begins the lecture, and I hold my breath. Something’s wrong. Thalia must be mad at me. She hasn’t come to find me. I scan the lecture hall, studying the backs of people’s heads, trying to locate her in the auditorium, but…she’s nowhere to be found. She’s late. Of course she’s late. She’s always late.

But the lecture continues, minutes ticking by, and Thalia never shows.

Around me, people are barely paying attention to the information on the screen. At some point, someone, somewhere, pointed out where I was sitting, and all faces seem to be turned to me, watching me, studying me, people whispering to one another and laughing under their breath about me. They’ve all seen me naked. They all saw my ass smashed up against the window of Raph’s anteroom. They’ve all seen the same shows making fun of my birthmark, or my hair, or any other part of my body they saw fit.

I am now and forever will be a source of entertainment—public property to be picked over and analyzed without mercy or compassion.

The lecture ends. The other students slowly file out, blatantly staring at me as they leave, and I do my best to hold my head up high. I don’t move until every last one of them is gone. Once they’re gone, I make my way down the steps toward the podium where Professor Dalziel is packing away his own laptop and papers. When I clear my throat, he looks up and squints at me through his glasses. He’s not a particularly old man but constantly seems to be struggling with those glasses of his.

“Elizabeth Dreymon,” he states by way of greeting.

God, this is going to be awkward. “Yes. Good morning, Professor Dalziel. I came to talk to you because—”

“I know why you came to talk to me. You thought it would be better to get it out of the way now instead of waiting for me to summon you to my office. I admire that.” He nods briefly, assessing me from head to foot. There’s nothing hungry in his gaze, though. He doesn’t look at me with the same impropriety everyone else has been affecting this morning. He takes a deep breath, and then blows it out down his nose. “You have nothing to worry about from me,” he says matter-of-factly. “I don’t care what you get up to in your free time.”

“Oh .” We were given a huge talk when we were admitted onto the law program here at Columbia. We were told not to sully the fine name of the establishment. We were warned that improper behavior would lead to us being summarily dismissed from the program, no do-overs, no second chances. “I thought—”

“Don’t misunderstand me,” Dalziel says, closing the clasps on his beaten leather documents bag. “If you were anyone else, you’d already be on a plane back to whatever pointless, one horse town you came from.”

“So…I’m not being expelled because I’m a good student?”

Professor Dalziel laughs. “This whole program is full of good students. You work hard. You get good grades. So does everyone else. You are getting a free pass right now because of my daughter.” He reaches into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet. He opens it up and slides a photo from the clear plastic sleeve. Holding it out, he shows it to me. The little girl in the image is maybe seven or eight, dark-haired like her father, a tiny pair of pink glasses perched on the end of her upturned nose. Her front teeth are missing, and she seems mighty proud of the fact. “Her name is Freya. She’s allergic to peanuts, lactose, dogs, cats, certain grasses, and just about everything else it seems. I’ve had to administer epinephrine to her four times in the past five years. My wife’s had to do it six times. She spends more time at home with her. We have epi-pens in every drawer, cupboard, jacket pocket, and bag inside our home. They’re even stuffed down the sides of the sofa cushions. As far as I’m concerned, Raphael North can fuck every single one of you guys and I’d still be his biggest fan. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and pick Freya up for our daddy-daughter day.” He puts his wallet away, and when he removes his hand from his pocket again, he’s holding something else in it. As he passes me by, he places a long, white piece of plastic into my hand: an epi-pen. In large blue letters along the side of the plastic, North Industries is printed in dark blue lettering. “Next time you see him,” Professor Dalziel calls over his shoulder as he climbs the stairs. “Tell him I say thank you.”