Chapter One

Addie

“Madeline—”

Pressing a finger to his lips, I shushed him with my sexiest smile. “It’s Addie.”

His handsome smile lights up his face but somehow doesn’t quite reach his eyes. And the first tickle that something isn’t quite right starts in my belly. As his velvet brown eyes stroke my body, I suddenly have the urge to cover up.

The click of his camera had been so sexy only moments ago, but now it’s just…

Wrong.

He must have seen the change in my face, because he’s quick to shush me as I had him. “You’re so gorgeous, baby. I love you.” He leans in and presses a kiss to my lips, and I sink back on our bed. “I’m going to marry you one day.”

“It never ends well when photographers marry their models,” I whisper against his lips, that feeling of unease still flitting through my core. “I’ll get old and ugly, and you’ll have a wandering lens.”

He kisses me again, then shifts gears in the blink of an eye. “There you go talking crazy. That’s why I’ll never marry you.” He pushes off the bed in a rough motion and walks his camera over toward his computer and sets it down. I stare at it, the realization of what I’ve done—and the possible implications—flying through my brain.

I draw the sheet around my naked body, my cheeks stinging a humiliated pink. I know what I’ve got with Arlo is toxic. But I’ve loved him for so long now, I don’t know any other way.

Or that’s what I tell myself so I don’t stop to think how stupid I really am. I run my fingers through my naturally sunny-blonde locks, my eyes on him as he spins to face me with more words like daggers aimed for my heart.

“You seriously think I don’t love you enough to be faithful?” His eyes are angry, flat, and cold. I’d once said they look like hot chocolate and warm my soul the same. They don’t now.

My lips part a little, but no words come out.

He mocks me, his mouth making a duh face designed to shame me for being stupid. He’s said before that I don’t have enough body for tits and brains. So I got big titties and a small brain. But it was always followed with an I’m just kidding and a leg pat that felt patronizing.

Swallowing back anger, I sit up.

“Oh, are you mad, little Addie, Maddie, Madeline?” He says my name in singsong, like he’s funny. I’m not sure if he’s insinuating I change my name a lot—I don’t—or if he’s pretending he can’t remember my name.

“You know what?” I say, and he lifts his eyebrows high in a mocking expression and moves his mouth like a child on the playground. It’s just too much. I’m fucking done.

Sliding to the edge of the bed, I grab my clothes and begin to dress. I hear his camera clicking and tell him that’s enough. But he continues as I finish pulling my short shorts on and buttoning them.

“Knock it off,” I yell at him, but he keeps snapping away, and my heart sinks. What can I do to stop him? He’s got a good hundred pounds and several inches on me.

“Knock it off,” he whines in what I guess is his best impression of me.

I feel tears sting in my eyes as I pull on my bra and struggle to hook it. The damn thing refuses to go, and I try again, again, again, with him laughing in stereo like I really am going crazy. Finally, it catches and I pull on my shirt and slip into my favorite little silver sandals.

Once they’re buckled around my ankles, I get up and stalk toward Arlo, who doesn’t even have the decency to shy away like I’m a threat. Well, fuck him.

I haul off and slap him with everything I’ve got. His whole body twists to the side, and he hesitates, his hand coming up to touch his face. I see blood on his fingertips and feel satisfaction.

Oh so slowly, he straightens up and looks down at me. I’d swear I can see steam coming out of his nose. But it’s the blood coloring the corner of his lips that sends a jolt of fear through me.

“Bitch!” he roars in my face.

But I step around him and rush for the door, snagging my purse on the way. In the hall, I slow from a run to a fast walk, hurrying still as he yells down the hallway at me.

“I’ll fucking get even!” he shouts, and my blood runs cold in my veins. I can’t stop thinking about those damn pictures. I’ve never let him take naked pictures of me before.

He’d been so sweet when we met.

I’d been a new model; he’d been the first job my manager managed to find me. He’d been kind and calm, so willing to walk me through what he needed and wanted that it made my heart melt.

He’d thanked me when we were done. Shook my hand. Pressed a chaste kiss to my cheek. He’d been professional, yet something about him just wormed under my skin. So when he called me a week after the shoot to ask me out, I’d jumped at the chance. Who wouldn’t?

But in stages—steps, really, perhaps leaps and bounds—he’d chipped away at me. Had me move in with him. Had me fire my manager. Told me he didn’t like how close I was with my mom. Told me to stop trusting photographers he didn’t clear. Because, he’d tell me, I had no idea how many predators there are out there wanting to prey on me. He told horror stories of how many girls he’d heard had been raped, killed even, and he’d sweetly tell me he’d die if anything happened to me.

Bit by bit, he took things from me. My freedom. My joy. My soul.

And I went along with it like an idiot. Because I hoped he’d come back to me. That he’d return to that sweet, dark-eyed man I’d fallen for that first day.

But he didn’t.

He only got worse.

But I’m done letting him fuck up my life.