Chapter 2

Marcus's fingers dug into my arm all the way home, his designer watch catching the streetlights as we walked from his BMW to our apartment.

Such a beautiful thing, that watch. I'd given it to him on our first anniversary, back when I still had access to my inheritance, back when his smiles reached his eyes.

"A biker." His voice was conversational. That was always worse than yelling. "In my town, at my girl's workplace."

"He was just a customer." The words tumbled out too fast. "I spilled coffee, and he—"

The door clicked shut behind us with terrible finality.

"Strip."

My hands shook as I removed my diner uniform. The fabric caught on my name tag—'Tessa M.'—and I remembered when I'd first pinned it on, proud to have found a job that might let me squirrel away enough for art supplies.

Three years later, and I couldn't remember the last time I'd held a paintbrush.

Standing in our living room in just my underwear, I wrapped my arms around myself. The apartment was expensive, like everything Marcus owned.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, but all I could see was our reflection—him still fully dressed in his suit, me nearly naked and trembling.

"Turn around." He loosened his tie. "Let's see what you've been hiding."

The bruises from last week were still visible—yellowing marks across my ribs where he'd kicked me for burning dinner. Newer ones dotted my hips from last night. Marcus traced them with almost gentle fingers.

"You make me do this," he whispered. "You know that, right? If you'd just behave..."

"I'm sorry." The words were automatic now, like breathing. "Please, Marcus. I'll be better."

He grabbed my hair, forcing me to look at our reflection. "Will you? Because from where I'm standing, you've been getting awful friendly with the trash that rolls through that diner. First that college boy last month, now some thug on a motorcycle?"

"No, I swear—"

The first slap sent me stumbling. The second dropped me to my knees.

"You're mine." His voice cracked like a whip. "Everything you are belongs to me. Your body—" A kick to my ribs. "Your money—" Another. "Your life."

I curled into a ball, tasting blood where my lip had split. Through tear-blurred eyes, I watched him remove his belt.

"Please..." But begging never helped.

The leather bit into my back once, twice, again. I lost count somewhere after twelve, lost myself in the familiar fog where pain became distant and time lost meaning.

When he finally stopped, I was lying in a puddle of my own tears and blood from where the belt buckle had caught my shoulder.

Marcus knelt beside me, stroking my hair like I was a beloved pet. "Shh, baby. It's okay. You know I hate doing this."

I nodded because that's what he wanted. Because anything else would make it worse.

"Clean yourself up." He stood, straightening his cuffs. "I have a late meeting. When I get back, I expect dinner ready and you wearing that blue lingerie I bought you." His smile turned cruel. "And Tessa? If I ever see you talking to that biker again, it won't be you who pays for it. I wonder how many bones I'd have to break before your little sister can't hold a paintbrush anymore?"

The threat sliced through my fog. Amy. My beautiful baby sister, away at art school living the dream I'd given up. The one pure thing I had left.

Marcus's footsteps faded. The door closed. I didn't move.

Rain pattered against those expensive windows, and somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled. I thought of Ryder Bishop's eyes—how they'd seen right through me. How for one moment, I'd felt something other than fear.

But Marcus was right. Everything I was belonged to him now.

I dragged myself to the bathroom, wincing as the shower spray hit my fresh wounds. The water ran pink, then clear. I watched my blood circle the drain and remembered another time, another bathroom, three years ago.

I'd been twenty-two, fresh out of college, when I met Marcus Reynolds at a gallery showing my work. He'd been charming, successful, twelve years my senior.

He'd promised to help launch my art career. Instead, he'd systematically stripped away everything I was—my friends, my family connections, my trust fund, my dreams.

Now, at twenty-five, I was a ghost in my own life.

The mirror showed the damage clearly. Tomorrow, I'd have to wear long sleeves despite the summer heat. The split lip I could blame on clumsiness. The bruise around my eye would need careful makeup.

My phone buzzed from where I'd left it on the counter. A text from Amy:

Got into the summer art program in Paris! Call me! Miss you so much, big sis! ❤️

Tears mixed with shower water. I'd miss her call, like I'd missed all the others. It was safer that way. If she heard my voice, she'd know something was wrong. If she knew something was wrong, she'd try to help. And if she tried to help...

I shuddered, remembering Marcus's threat.

The blue lingerie felt like chains against my skin as I prepared dinner with mechanical precision. Chicken piccata—his favorite. Maybe if I made it perfect, he'd be gentler tonight.

But as I chopped lemons, my hands wouldn't stop shaking. All I could think about was Ryder Bishop's quiet "You okay, darlin'?" No one had asked me that in so long.

Thunder crashed closer now. In the window's reflection, I saw myself—bruised, broken, wearing lingerie that cost more than a month's salary at the diner.

The knife stilled in my hand.

Once, I'd been an artist. Once, I'd painted storms like this one, all wild passion and barely contained power. Once, I'd been alive.

The knife clattered into the sink as Marcus's key turned in the lock. I straightened my spine, pasted on a smile, and turned to face my reality.

Some nights change everything. But this wasn't that night.

Not yet.