I wake to the smell of bleach and the rhythmic scritch-scratch of a ballpoint pen on paper. My eyes snap open, sucking in details of my surroundings as fast as possible. A small room. Cement with no windows and a fluorescent light fixture. There’s a drain in the middle of the floor, the area around it wet and dark. An empty bucket and dingy mop sit near a reinforced metal door.

My mind is slippery, disjointed, likely due to the sedative I was given. I’m still wearing my T-shirt and pajama pants, both filthy from the scuffle in the alley, damp with perspiration and clinging to my skin. I’m thirsty. My body quivers and aches. My bicep radiates tenderness from the injection site.

I’m not alone.

Moving gracelessly into a sitting position, I press my spine to the cool wall hard enough for my bones to protest. Harder still, until I’m certain that however much this feels like a nightmare, it isn’t one.

Set against the adjacent wall is a small desk and chair, their construction cheap, dark blue paint chipping. A man sits in the chair, his head bent as he writes. Nothing about him belongs here—not his proud, broad shoulders, not his thousand-dollar suit or Italian-made shoes. He knows I’m awake, of course, but has yet to acknowledge me. Games of power are his favorites.

But I’ve learned a thing or two about power since I last saw him. And I’ve learned about patience, too. Surrendering to discomfort. Awaiting change without expectation of it. He won’t get what he wants from me.

So I sit, suspended amidst a dozen threads of physical and emotional pain, embraced by them and untouched. I don’t think of Dominic. Of anyone or anything except not giving this man the reaction he’s looking for. And I don’t.

Eventually, the writing stops. The pen drops to the table. Wood creaks as the man shifts, turns the chair to face me, and settles again.

“London.”

“Rudy.”

His features pinch, eyes surveying me with manufactured concern. “I’m sorry about your treatment. Rest assured, that man has been dealt with. He’ll never hurt you again.”

In another existence, I might laugh. “What are you going to do with me?”

He smiles crookedly, eyes reproachful. “Don’t you want to know why you’re here?”

“I don’t give a shit.”

A pained wince. “Language, dear.”

“Fuck you.”

His mask shivers and slides away, and I see the man beneath the facade. The cold, calculating monster who possesses no conscience, no accountability for his own evil. Who ruins lives for no other reason than because he can. Handsome as only the devil can be, with a silvered tongue and a rotten soul.

Reaching behind him, Rudy lifts a manila envelope from the desk. With a flick of his wrist, the folder and its contents spill onto the floor between us. Most of the 8x10 photographs land face up. Enough for me to glean their subject.

Me.

The photograph near my left foot is grainy, a little blurred, but the central subject is unmistakable. A Saint Andrews Cross, glowing under the spotlight in Crossroad’s Epicenter. It’s from the night Dominic caned me. The night Charlie helped me get him back.

Dominic…

I bite my tongue until I taste blood. Until the urge to scream passes. Slowly, I take in the other photographs. Dominic and me on the beach. Dominic leading me from the alley next to the nightclub on Nate’s birthday. A few shots of me bartending. Then my gaze snags on one in particular—one that makes my blood run cold.

It’s the back hallway of Crossroads—empty but for Dominic and me standing close together near his office door. I remember the exact moment. A month ago, right before a shift. I’d found the gift he left for me in my locker and immediately sought him out.

Now, staring at the photograph, I wish I’d put the necklace on. Trusted him sooner. Loved him longer. Been stronger. Braver. Less damaged. More capable of seeing and accepting the clear signs of his growing affection. The melting warmth of his eyes. The teasing curl of his mouth. The soft, tender expression he only wore for me.

But the worst, most bitter truth revealed by the photograph is who took it. Only one person could have, since only one person walked into the hallway, coughed so we knew they were there, then apologized for interrupting and said I was needed behind the bar.

My friend.

My sassy, ball-busting, generous, funny friend, who bulldozed her way into my life and heart with unfailing encouragement and support.

Steph.

“Did you think I wouldn’t keep tabs on you?” asks Rudy mildly.

Through a haze of betrayal, I search for and find truth. “What are you blackmailing her with?” I don’t disguise my anger well enough, and his lips curve in satisfaction.

“That’s none of your concern.” He crosses his legs, the picture of refinement in his bespoke suit. “What matters, London, is that you understand why I couldn’t allow you to continue as you were. I should have come for you sooner, and I’m truly sorry for what you’ve had to endure. The depraved lifestyle you felt you deserved.”

This time, I do laugh. “You’re insane. Totally, completely nuts.”

He stands and adjusts the fall of his jacket with a graceful tug. “I can see it’s going to take some time for you to remember who you are.” Striding to the door, he knocks twice on the metal surface, then glances back at me. He’s no longer bothering to hide his disgust. “You’ll have twenty-four hours to consider your choices. I’ll expect a full recovery and an apology for all the worry you’ve caused me. Then we’ll discuss the future.”

My skin prickles hotly. “You’re a madman,” I whisper.

The door opens and I catch a glimpse of a hard-faced man. Rudy steps through but pauses before closing the door. I’m not surprised—he loves having the last word.

“Remember, dear London, there are no facts, only interpretations.”

I chuckle darkly. “Blah blah, Rudy. You wanted me to embrace Nihilism? Well, asshole, I did. To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in suffering. I’ve found my meaning. Have you?”

The door slams as the last word leaves my mouth.

I sag against the wall. “Take that, motherfucker.”