The Mistress
I was still there, wrapped in a heavy wool blanket that smelled of Zander’s skin and the lingering heat of the night before, when the door was kicked open with a violence that made the easels rattle.
It wasn’t Zander who stood there. It was Daniel, his face a pale mask of calculated fury, holding his phone out like a weapon aimed directly at my heart. On the screen was a grainy, high-resolution photo from the night before—Zander holding me against the drafting table, our silhouettes unmistakable in the moonlight.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t have the studio wired, Victoria?” Daniel’s voice was devoid of emotion, which made it even more terrifying than a scream. “You wanted to be ‘healed’