I Married a Billionaire: Lost and Found (Contemporary Romance)

CHAPTER ONE

I woke up bathed in sunlight, splayed across a four-poster bed, on the third day of a vacation that cost
as much as a brand new sports car.

Yeah, I was never going to get used to this.
I yawned, padding into the bathroom that looked like it belonged in a design magazine. I was told

that the tile had been locally sourced and laid by celebrated artisans. It felt cold and jagged under my
feet, a strange contrast with the overall luxury of the place.

After a quick shower, I walked back out into the bedroom, rubbing a towel through my hair.

Daniel had gone out somewhere to "arrange the day." I knew better than to ask what that meant. He
delighted in surprising me, and I was…getting used to it.

That's what I kept telling myself, anyway.
I hadn't slept this well in months and months. There was something to be said for being away from

the  realities  of  everyday  life,  even  if  my  "everyday  life"  was  about  as  arduous  as  rolling  off  a  log.
The  truth  of  the  matter  was,  being  married  to  a  business  mogul  actually  did  have  its  own  unique
stressors. I certainly preferred it to working nine-to-fives and wondering where my next student loan
payment  was  going  to  come  from,  but  at  times  I  longed  for  a  little  variety.  The  charity  dinners,  the
ever-present  media  buzz,  the  frantic  late-night  phone  calls  about  some  manufacturing  issue  that  was
going to delay the launch of the latest product by two months - oh no, surely the world is ending! -
sometimes  I  just  wanted  to  grab  everyone  by  the  lapels  and  shout you  know  none  of  this  actually
matters, right? Calm down!

For the first year of my marriage, I was simply playing a part. Daniel had hired me to be his wife

so that he could stay in the country, and at first, that was all it was. But these things have a way of
taking on a life of their own, and that certainly happened in our case.

By now, I'd stepped so comfortably into my role that it was hard to tell where Maddy ended and

Mrs. Thorne began. Daniel and I were a real couple now, on a second honeymoon and everything, in
a room with one entire wall that simply opened out over the sea. The outer wall of the pool just
dropped over into nothingness. I wondered about the liability of it all, but apparently I was the only
one who was worried.

I had to admit, it was nice. The concept had made me a little queasy at first, but it was hard not to

be swept away by the incredible beauty of the place when I stood on the balcony and let the warm,
gentle wind sweep through my hair. They could film a movie here, if only it didn't violate their many
rules about quietness and serenity. We weren't even allowed to have the ringers on our phones turned
on during our whole stay.

I thought it would bother Daniel more than it did, but he seemed to have a unique ability to switch

off his work brain. Then again, this sort of environment could only be good for him in the long run - I
was sure that, at some point while he was staring out over the ocean, he'd come up with the next big
idea for a product that would make all the technology bloggers wet themselves with excitement.

A lot had changed in the past several months. I wasn't sure exactly what started it, but the media

had either begun taking a much keener interest in Daniel and his company, or he was simply indulging
it more. Either way, suddenly he was becoming a familiar face at the big tech conferences, and I
couldn't buy milk and eggs at the corner store without seeing his name mentioned on the front of some
magazine. It was a bit surreal, but I was mostly left out of it - which was fine by me. As time went on
I sort of half-expected to get an email from some lifestyle blog wanting to do a feature on a
billionaire's wife, but it hadn't happened. Yet.

After I'd pulled on a breezy sundress and run a comb through my hair, I heard my phone vibrating

gently on the table. It was the latest and greatest prototype from Daniel's company, which he'd gently
cajoled me into accepting after my old flip phone flipped so far open that it snapped in two. I had to
admit it was pretty cool. It was just so much more than I really needed.

Then again, what part of my life with Daniel wasn't excessive?
It was a text from Emily, wanting to know if Daniel liked the new clothes she'd picked out for me.

I remembered that I'd promised to text her as soon as we got in, but I'd been a little…distracted the
night before. Emily was the boutique owner who'd helped me pick out the dress that I wore on my
first "date" with Daniel. She'd outfitted me for the wedding as well, and I'd grown to trust her taste
much more than my own. She was the first person I went to if I needed to look halfway decent, and
she always did a fantastic job.

Yeah, I think it's safe to say he likes them, I texted back with a smile.
For this trip, she'd given me light fabrics in bright colors, soft and comfortable dresses that let me

feel the sun and breeze on my skin. And, of course, a selection of lingerie. It was my second
honeymoon after all.

A wicked smile crossed my face. On second thought, maybe it wasn't quite time to get dressed

after all.

I pulled my dress off over my head and set it aside, rifling through my suitcase for another one of

the delectable bra-and-panty sets that Emily had found for me. There was a lacy black one, but that
almost seemed too formal for an early morning romp. I rifled through a few more items, until I came
across a silky set in a rich fuchsia color. It even came with stockings and garters; perfect. I clasped
the bra around my chest, trying not to fiddle with it too much even though the demi-cups barely
contained my breasts. The panties fit a little more comfortably, although they still felt like they were
hardly covering any skin. I knew that was the point, but it was still strange to get used to. Before
Daniel, I'd never dressed up for a man like this. It always seemed conceited, or somehow not worth
the effort - I guess I was afraid of being laughed at, or rejected, or some other equally unrealistic fear.

I spent a few moments pondering the stockings and garter clips, then eventually decided against

them. Just then, I heard Daniel’s key card click in the lock. I hurriedly finished and ran over to the
pool's edge, sitting down and dipping my legs into the water, making as if I'd just been lounging here,
waiting for him, in the world's most impractical hanging-around outfit.

I heard him pause just before locking the door behind him - taking in the sight of me, no doubt. My

heart thudded in my chest. Why on earth did this still make me nervous?

I heard his footsteps come very close, and then stop. I looked to the side, and saw his bare feet

planted on the floor just a few inches from where I sat. I let my eyes drift up to him, an innocent smile
on my face.

"Thinking of going for a swim?" His eyes crinkled at the corners as he sat down next to me.
I shrugged one shoulder. "Care to join me?"
"I would," he said, leaning back and slightly to the side, so that he was very close to me. "But I

think there are some activities that are better done on dry land, no matter how appealing the fantasy

might be."

I had to laugh. He was right. I'd had pool sex once in my life, and that was one time too many.
He reached over and put his index finger under my chin, turning my face just enough to kiss him.

His face had that unmistakable warmth that came from soaking up sunlight, and I brought up my hand
to touch the side of it, running against the grain to feel that slight stubble that was always there, no
matter how recently he'd shaved. He used a real badger brush and one of those old-style safety razors
with the removable blades, claiming it was the best shave anyone could ever get. I wondered who'd
taught him how to do it that way. His father? But I never asked.

His hand rested on my waist, sliding around to the small of my back and staying there for a while.

He liked to touch me there, I suppose as a subtle message to me and anyone else who might notice -
she's mine. And I had to admit, I didn't hate it.

I arched into his touch, subtly, parting my lips against his so that he could explore my mouth with

this tongue. He never seemed to get tired of the landscape, as if there was always something new
there to find. He pulled away after a moment, smiling down at the absurd little bow nestled between
the cups of my bra.

"Nice touch, isn't it?" I grinned as he tugged at it gently between his thumb and forefinger. "I don't

think it actually unties, though."

"What a shame," he said, his eyes gone deliciously dark. "I really wanted to take every little piece

of this off you, one by one."

I swallowed. "It won't take long," I blurted. "There's really not much to it."
Ugh. Was that really my best line?
He didn't seem bothered by my moment of intense awkwardness, or maybe he was just used to

them by now. He leaned forward, kissing me again and pushing me backwards, down, until I was
lying beneath him on the cool tile that surrounded the water. I let my hand dip into the pool as he
pressed his body into mine - at least one part of me could stay grounded in reality while I let myself
be consumed with him.

With a sudden movement, he reached up and grabbed the straps of my bra, yanking them down and

abruptly freeing my breasts. I gasped a little, smiling when his eyes raked over me like he was seeing
me for the first time. I had to give him that - in his arms, I never felt taken for granted.

On our first honeymoon, when we finally gave in to the chemistry that had been smoldering

between us since we first started pretending to be in love, he'd told me that he'd been taught most of
his sexual prowess by someone whom I could only assume was some sort of tantric guru. It showed.
He approached sex like it was a performance, but not in a bad way - he played me like a virtuoso, in
fact, tuning me gently when he sensed I was getting too far away from the experience. I wouldn't say
that I used to dissociate during sex, exactly, but I had never really felt present either. Daniel had
changed all that. He always noticed every minute change in my reactions, and would pull me back to
him when I tried to pull away.

His favorite thing was to remind me to breathe.
I still forgot, sometimes. I would grow tense with the desire, or the anxiety of being so open with

someone, or both - and I would hold on to each breath like it might be the last one I'd ever get.

His breath was hot on my chest as he pressed a firm kiss on my breastbone, just between the two

soft swells. I squirmed. He was always paying attention to parts of my body that most men ignored,
making frantic beelines for the hot spots and ignoring everything else. Even after the last year and a
half, I was still comparing him to the "other men" who were an increasingly hazy memory in the back
of mind. I wasn't sure why, exactly. It was like my brain was constantly trying to remind me to be

grateful for what I had. Nobody else would treat you like this, you know. Nobody else will ever
make you feel the way he does.

I knew that. I knew that. I didn't know why there was a small voice in my head that always wanted

to remind me, as if I wasn't grateful enough. As if I didn't appreciate him.

Of course I did. Of course I appreciated him. I was still here, wasn't I?
Suddenly, Daniel jumped to his feet, extending his hand and pulling me with him. I heard myself

let out a very undignified squeal as he grabbed me around the waist, hauled me off my feet, and
dumped me into the pool before I knew what was happening.

I surfaced, spluttering, to see him grinning on dry land. I hauled back and sent a mighty splash of

water in his direction, shrieking when he reacted by jumping in and grabbing me tightly, both of us
laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world.

"Shhh," he said, at last. "I think you're violating the quiet rules."
"I think I already violated the quiet rules last night," I said, pushing his dripping hair back from his

forehead. "Thanks to you."

"Well, the staff has been courteous enough not to mention it," he said.
"I don’t suppose that has anything to do with the giant piles of money they've come into lately."
"Guilty as charged," said Daniel, his arms still wrapped around me tightly. "I'm generous to a

fault, darling. Do you think you can find it in your heart to forgive me, or should I do penance?"

"Yes," I said. "Well - no. Both?"
He laughed, then lifted me up onto the side of the pool and sat me there, his eyes sparkling. "You

know, Maddy." His fingers hooked around the waistband of my panties, and I lifted my hips
obediently so that he could pull them off and toss them aside. "Sometimes I think about what would
have happened if I'd never met you."

It was an odd thing to say - to contemplate - while I was sitting there, bottomless, the coolness of

the tile seeping into my naked flesh. What if we'd never met?

"You'd be living in Canada, I guess," I said. "Or married to someone else."
He shook his head. "I wouldn't have trusted anyone but you."
For some reason, that was what made me blush.
"Okay," I said. "But I have no idea why."
"Really?" he said. His eyes had grown darker. I shook my head as he lowered his, looking up at

me as he kissed my inner thigh. It was the eye contact that killed me, every time. I shuddered, my legs
instinctively parting further for him.

"No," I exhaled, wanting to look away, but utterly unable to. "I don't."
"Why don't I believe you?" His lips curved up into a smile that made something deep inside me

ache. "You really never noticed?"

I swallowed hard, shaking my head.
"I noticed you the minute you walked into the office," he murmured. "You had your hair in a little

ponytail, and you must have been out in the sun because the freckles on your nose were very dark. I've
always liked freckles." He stopped, smiled. "You had a spring in your step, and I thought to myself,
she must be new here."

I laughed.
"And then," he said, nodding, "then I saw that - I saw you smile. I heard you laugh, for the first

time. I saw your dimples." He touched my cheek to illustrate his point. I felt my face grow red again.
Growing up, I'd hated my dimples. I always thought it meant that my cheeks were too fat.

"And I thought to myself, if only I could be with a girl like that." He was looking at me very

earnestly now, refusing to break the eye contact.

"So you devised a cunning scheme to trick me into marrying you," I said, smiling. "Very clever,

sir."

"You were trustworthy," he said, ignoring me. "I could see it in your face. I never would have

chosen anyone else. I don't know what I would have done if you'd said no."

"I can never say no to you."
It was almost startlingly true, although I wasn't sure I'd ever said it in so many words. Before I had

a chance to process it, he lowered his head and went to work.

No matter what was going through my mind, his tongue never failed to make me forget it all, if

only for a few minutes. I gripped the edge of the pool.

I was trembling within a few moments, arching my back, biting my lip hard to try and stop myself

from moaning. Quiet rules, quiet rules. He made it nearly impossible. We're never coming to this
stupid resort again. Only places with walls, so I can scream as loud as I want to.

My legs were kicking sluggishly in the water. I finally let out a little noise I couldn't suppress -

and suddenly, his hand came up and clamped itself over my mouth. I let out a muffled squeal in
protest, but I was in no position to argue, really.

When the coiling pleasure finally exploded in my stomach, I was actually grateful for the way his

hand dampened my scream. As usual, he'd been right.

He climbed out of the pool, dripping all over the tiles on the side, and stripped off his shirt. I lay

there expectantly, but after he undressed, he walked over to the closet and started sifting through it for
something new.

"Um…" I said, unsure if he was playing some kind of game, or if that was really all we were

going to do. "Did you, uh, want to…"

"Later," he said, smiling. "We have somewhere to be."
I shook my head, getting up and pulling off my wet bra to change into something a little more

practical.

***

"Somewhere" turned out to be a snorkeling expedition along the coral reef that was just down the
beach from our hotel. I had to laugh at the sight of him all decked out for it, squinting on the white
sand beach through a pair of huge plastic goggles, with the plastic tube shoved in his mouth at a jaunty
angle. I was sure I looked equally silly, but I wasn't a dignified billionaire tech mogul. But once we
were underwater, I forgot to even look at him anymore - the reef was so beautiful, with the colorful
fish swirling around it, that I could hardly tear my eyes away. We were told not to touch the coral
reef, as it was fragile despite its appearance and a single, light touch could cause permanent damage.
It was hard to resist the urge, but after a while, I found myself content to just look.

I wasn't sure how long I stayed there, with Daniel floating near me, periodically gesturing me over

to look at some new creature the likes of which we'd never seen before. I kept smiling around my
apparatus and giving him a thumbs-up, which he returned jovially.

The guides herded us out of the water so we wouldn't get sunburn - or maybe just to make room

for more tourists, I wasn't really certain. As we walked barefoot back towards the lobby of the hotel,
I wondered if I ought to say something. That was nice, thank you. Did honeymooning brides
characteristically thank their husbands for planning activities? Why did this whole thing still feel so
strange?

As I walked, I felt my foot scrape against something that definitely wasn’t sand. I stopped, turning

around to look at what it was. Daniel was still going; he hadn’t noticed that I’d stopped.

I knelt down on the hot sand, poking at the little white object I could see poking out of it. When I

pulled it free, I saw that it was a perfect nautilus shell. I blew on it, gently, sending the particles of
sand flying in all directions.

I held it gently in the palm of my hand. Somewhere ahead of me, Daniel was looking back, shading

his eyes with his hand.

"You coming?" he called out.
"Yeah, yeah," I replied, jogging over to him. "Look what I found." I extended it to him, still

cradled in my palm.

"It’s a shell," he said. "On a beach. Imagine that."
"Don’t be an asshole. I thought you’d like it."
"I do like it," he said, his forehead just slightly creased. "But it’s - it’s a shell."
"All right," I said. "Then I’ll keep it, if you don’t want it."
"Was it for me?" he said, in mild surprise. "Of course I want it. I didn’t - sorry, I didn’t realize.

But you might want to consider that I’m pretty sure taking shells off this beach is actually illegal."

I closed my hand around my tiny treasure. "Well, if I get tackled by security, you’ve got my back,

right?"

He was smiling. "Always."

CHAPTER TWO

"Horseback riding," Daniel announced, proudly. I raised my arm to shade my eyes from the brutal
midday sun. There were, in fact, horses standing a few feet away - a palomino, and a bay. They both
stared at me, placidly.

"Have you ever ridden?" he wanted to know.
"Yeah," I said. "Don’t we have to have a…guide or something?" There was absolutely no one else

around, and unless he’d impulse-bought the horses, that struck me as a little odd.

"Not if you put down a big enough deposit, it turns out," he said, with a boyish grin. "Should I give

you a leg up?"

"Boots," I said. "I’m not riding in flip-flops."
"Come on, where’s your sense of adventure?"
"Did they really not give you boots?" I looked at him skeptically.
"That didn’t strike me as very romantic or spontaneous."
Yeah, well, neither is a shattered fibula. "I really think we should go back there and get some

boots," I said, smiling. He was trying so hard, after all.

He rolled his eyes, but he did lead me to the rental hut just up the beach. The horses were lashed

to a post, so they certainly weren’t going anywhere - although something about their dispositions
made me think they’d stand there motionless until the tide came in, no matter what.

When we were properly outfitted, I walked up to the palomino and tucked my foot into the stirrup,

hoisting myself up onto his back. Daniel was already turning the bay around, holding his reins like an
expert. "So what’s your story?" I wanted to know. "You didn’t grow up rich, so I know you weren’t
going to riding camps as a kid."

"No, that came later on," he said. "There was this girl."
"Oh, of course," I said. "Of course there was."
He cantered up beside me. I tapped the sides of my horse with my heels, and he started to make his

way down the beach; Daniel and his bay followed.

"I’m not proud of it," he said. "Although knowing how to ride does come in handy, from time to

time."

"I’m not judging you," I said. "I spent two entire winters trying to learn how to snowboard for a

guy."

Daniel laughed. "I always thought that must be harder than it looks."
"Well, it is if you’re me," I admitted. "I felt like one of those toy soldiers, you know? Once you

fall down, how the hell are you supposed to get back up? You can’t move your legs."

"Well ideally, I suppose you have a strapping young man around to pull you back onto your feet."
"I guess that was the idea. But he just got really, really impatient with me after a while."
"This is much better," said Daniel. "Let the horse do all the work."
Before long, we reached a little copse of trees that marked the end of the private beach. I thought

for sure we would have to turn around, but Daniel just kept going, and I figured it couldn’t hurt to

follow him. I considered asking if we were allowed to take the horses off of resort property, but I
imagined he’d have some answer related to throwing piles of money at everyone, like usual.

"Ever thought about taking it up again?" he said, after a while. "I could get you lessons."
I could get you. I hated it when he phrased things like that. "God, no," I said. "What a nightmare."
We were starting to approach some more populated parts of the beach, and I became acutely

aware that people were staring at us. I pushed my sunglasses up on the bridge of my nose and urged
my horse on faster.

"What about you?" Daniel called after me, semi-successfully convincing his bay to pick up the

pace accordingly. "How did you take up riding?"

"I grew up in horse country," I said, watching a little kid stop building his sandcastle and gape at

us, open-mouthed, while we passed. "My best friend had stables." I wanted to keep staring out at the
ocean, but the glare of the sun was almost blinding, so I turned away to give my eyes some rest.

Looking back inland, I noticed a young man with a very large camera in his hands. As soon as he

spotted me looking at him, he started backing away, dropping the camera to dangle around his neck on
a thick strap.

"Hey," I said, reaching out and touching Daniel’s arm. "Look. This is new."
He looked at the photographer, and then back at me.
"What?" he asked. "People taking pictures?"
"No, genius. He was talking pictures of you." I gestured emphatically. "Us."
"Don’t be ridiculous." Daniel frowned. "Look, he’s gone."
"Oh my God. You’re like a child." I shook my head, digging my heels into the palomino’s sides.
"No, you’re paranoid, is what you are," said Daniel, good-naturedly, urging his bay to keep up.

"You think paparazzi are following us halfway around the world, now? I’m not exactly a celebrity."

***

We had lunch in the little bistro on the beach, picking over cured meats and cheeses and drinking
some brand of mineral water I’d never heard of. I couldn’t stop thinking about the photographer. I’d
been floating along, more or less peacefully, since we got here; now I felt abruptly yanked back to
reality. And it wasn’t a reality that I had any idea how to handle.

Right about the time Daniel was pondering the dessert menu, I started to feel very watched. I

ignored it for as long as I could, but finally I couldn’t shake the sensation of someone’s eyes burning
into my back.

I turned around to look.
It was the photographer.
He spun around as soon as he sensed me moving, but I recognized him immediately.
"What’s wrong?" Daniel wanted to know, frowning while he chewed on something.
"It’s the guy," I said, softly. "The photographer."
The photographer who was, in a moment, standing directly next to our table.
"I’m so sorry," he said. "I don’t mean to bother you. You’re on vacation. But I think your wife is

starting to think I’m some kind of crazy stalker."

"I don’t think that," I said, coolly, taking a sip of my water.
"Please," said Daniel, looking up at him with a slightly confused expression. "Don’t apologize.

Can I help you?"

"Well, maybe." The photographer smiled, extending his hand for Daniel to shake. "My name’s

Ryan Brewer, I’m a freelance journalist. I just happened to be out here on vacation, and who do you
think I saw?"

Daniel’s smile was frozen. "Me?"
"You," said the journalist, pulling out an empty chair without asking. He sat down, leaning toward

Daniel. "Can you believe my luck?"

"Hardly," said Daniel.
"I’d love to get a quick interview. No big deal. Nothing heavy, just a light piece, I’m thinking

maybe Vanity Fair?"

"A quick one," said Daniel. "I suppose."
"Okay. First of all - what makes Daniel Thorne tick?"
I drummed my fingers on the table.
"A desire to succeed, I suppose," said Daniel. "Same as anyone else."
"You think you’re the same as other people?"
Daniel picked up a grape and examined it. "More or less," he said.
"So what sets you apart?"
Daniel took a deep breath, and let it out. The journalist’s foot was jiggling under the table.
"I suppose I do things," he said. "Other people might just be content with - thinking, or imagining. I

act on it. That’s what sets me apart."

"That’s very interesting," said the journalist. "That’s very…you know, I talked to some people

about you recently. They said something similar - that your ability to take action is what makes you
different."

Daniel looked up, sharply. "And who would that be?" he said, a little louder than necessary.
"You might remember them. I believe you were involved in some…legal troubles with a few

them, actually."

My husband stood abruptly, rattling the table.
"Maddy," he said. "Let’s go."
I got up to follow him, and the journalist jumped to his feet as well. "Mr. Thorne," he said,

tripping over his chair to come after us. "Mr. Thorne, please, if you could just give me a minute more
of your time -"

One of the waitstaff appeared out of nowhere, grabbing the journalist by the arm and yanking him

back. Daniel was walking quickly back to the lobby of the hotel, and I hurried after him, my feet
sinking into the sand as I tried to pick up my pace. He put his hand on the small of my back and urged
me forward.

"What was that all about?" I muttered, under my breath, but he didn’t answer.
We’d made it halfway back to our room before I saw someone hurrying towards us - I recognized

him as the resort manager, who’d introduced himself to use when we checked in.

"Mr. and Mrs. Thorne," he said, slightly breathless. "Please accept my deepest apologies. I was

just informed by the restaurant staff -"

"It’s fine," said Daniel, shortly. "Not your fault."
"All the same," said the manager. "I promise you, he will be removed from the premises. We

absolutely do not allow our guests to be harassed."

"Thank you," said Daniel, hurrying me into the room and shutting the door behind us.

***

I didn’t ask any more questions until dinner - which was room service, naturally. Daniel had been
doing a lot of pacing and looking out of the open wall, but hadn’t ventured back outside yet.

"What was that guy talking about?"
He was looking at me, so I knew he heard the question, but he paused a long time before

answering. "There was a lawsuit," he said. "A long time ago." He took another bite and chewed
thoughtfully. "It was frivolous, but I settled. One of the conditions of which was that neither one of us
would discuss the details."

I leaned forward slightly. "Not even with your wife?"
He just shrugged.
After he’d opened another bottle of wine, he looked at me again, carefully, and seemed to notice

the way my eyebrows were still slightly knit together.

"Don’t worry about it," he said. "It’s nothing."
"I’m not worried," I said. "Just curious, that’s all."
"It’s very boring," said Daniel, smiling. "I promise."
Somehow, that didn’t make me feel any better.
After dinner, Daniel went to take a shower, and I immediately pulled out my phone to see if I

could search out some details of the mysterious lawsuit. Normally I tried to avoid searching for his
name, for my own sanity, but his reticence had me deathly curious.

I knew that there was a decent chance it wouldn’t have been well-covered, especially if it was

more than handful of years ago. But it turned out to be even worse than I’d suspected; there wasn’t a
single mention of Daniel Thorne being involved in any sort of lawsuit, ever.

This was going to drive me absolutely insane. There was plenty I still didn’t know about Daniel,

after all the time we’d spent together, but nothing had ever intrigued me this much. One thing was
clear: he didn’t want to tell me. I was pretty sure whatever settlement he’d agreed to didn’t actually
preclude him from sharing the details with his wife, for God’s sake.

What had the journalist said? Something about Daniel’s "ability to take action" being the thing that

set him apart from the crowd. It had put Daniel on his guard - clearly, that meant something.

I curled up on the sofa and tried, unsuccessfully, to quiet my mind. These last few months had

been…strange, to say the least. From time to time, I still felt like I was just pretending to be Daniel’s
wife. I still held the secret, deep inside, that our relationship hadn’t started out as something real. No
matter what had happened since - no matter what we were now - every time we were out together,
every time I told "our story," every time he put his arm around me, every time I looked at him, I would
remember.

But then there were those other times.
A few weeks ago, before we’d left for our second honeymoon, I remembered walking into the

kitchen and catching sight of him unexpectedly. He was folded up on the floor, halfway under the sink,
and really my first thought should have been oh God, I hope he’s not trying to fix something himself .
But instead, I just stood there, dead still, and my heart twisted with a feeling so intense I almost
couldn’t breathe for a moment.

These little interludes were becoming more and more frequent. I’d grown up as one of those girls

who rolled my eyes when people talked about love so strong it was a physical pain in your chest, and
now I’d turned into one of them.

But still, I had a hard time to wrapping my head around the concept of Daniel Thorne, the

businessman. I was starting to become more familiar with him as a public figure, but that was
different. Not too long ago I’d seen him give a keynote address in front of a crowd so large it almost
gave me stage fright on his behalf. But he didn’t show a sign of nervousness, and he commanded them
with an effortless charisma. He was still uncomfortable dealing with people one-on-one, but he’d
gotten much better at hiding it. I think I was often the only one who noticed how much he wanted to
shrink into the corner, once the speeches were over.

The part of his mind that actually came up with ideas, and figured out how to act on them, was still

a mystery to me. There were times when I wouldn’t see much of him for a few days - he’d spend
nearly all his time in the office, only coming home to sleep occasionally. When it was over, he’d have
pages and pages of ideas submitted to the people who actually implemented whatever he came up
with. But now, I found myself wondering what his process had been like before he had a whole team
of people to do the practical work for him. When he got his first ideas, did he build the prototypes
himself? Where had they come from? Were they simply strokes of inspiration, or had he toiled over
them for days, weeks, years?

A unpleasant notion was growing in my mind, and I tried to shake it off, but it had already taken

root. What if there was someone else? In the vague lore of Daniel’s rise to success, which I’d seen
written and re-written in many different articles, there was never any mention of someone else. To
hear him tell it, he’d been completely alone from the beginning.

But that didn’t seem very likely, did it?
No, no, no. I had to stop. There was absolutely no use in this line of thought. I was allowing

myself to speculate coldly, as if he were some distant figure I knew nothing about, instead of my
husband. The fact that I hadn’t come to terms with the paradox in my own mind didn’t give me the
right to make ugly assumptions about his past.

Daniel came out of the bathroom smiling and toweling his hair. And completely naked.
Every single thought vanished from my head.
"Don’t look so pensive," he said, turning and slinging the towel over a rack nearby. "The

interview’s not still bothering you, is it?"

"Not so much at the moment," I said, eyeing him.
He grinned. "It’s a good thing you don’t still work for me. I could have you fired for inappropriate

behavior based solely on the way you’re looking at me, Ms. Wainwright."

"Yeah, I think it might actually be more inappropriate to walk around naked in front of your

employees," I said, sitting up and stretching out across the sofa as he came closer. "But I won’t tell if
you don’t."

He knelt on the sofa, leaning down over me, one of his legs planted firmly between my thighs. "But

how do I know I can trust you?"

I smiled innocently. "I’m told I have a trustworthy face."
I wasn’t used to seeing him like this. Usually, at this point, he’d still be at least mostly dressed. I

found myself unable to tear my eyes away from the angles of his naked body as he loomed over me -
watching the way his muscles tensed and stretched, how they moved under his skin. He worked hard
to maintain his body, presumably more for his health than for my personal benefit, but I appreciated it
nonetheless.

"There might be something you could do," I said, softly, letting my fingers trace each taut little

swell of muscle on his stomach. "But I don’t know if you’ll like it very much."

He brushed his lips against mine, so softly it almost didn’t count as a kiss.
"Try me," he whispered.
My throat tightened. I needed him, suddenly, urgently, and I didn’t have the patience to carry on

with our little game. And judging by what I could feel resting hot and heavy against my stomach, I
wasn’t alone.

"Daniel," I whispered, intending to say more, but he read my face and hushed me with a kiss,

pulling my panties aside and slipping inside me quickly. I sighed at the familiarity and how perfect it
was. Every time. I locked my ankles around his waist and tilted my hips up to meet him, trying to

ignore the wonderful, painful twisting in my chest when I looked at his face.

The sun was sinking down low in the sky. By the time he shuddered and stilled on top of me, I

could hardly see his face.

***

Before I knew it, we were packing for the journey back home. The time had flown by, as vacations
always do, even with the few unusual hiccups along the way. As I rolled up my dresses and tucked
them into my bag, I couldn’t help but wonder if every vacation was going to be like this now. Were
we going to be warding off wannabe-muckrakers at every turn?

And what on earth had that journalist been talking about?
As I passed by the little table on Daniel’s side of the bed, I noticed the little nautilus shell was

still there. As far as I could tell, it hadn’t moved from when I’d set it down the other day. I picked it
up and looked at it again. It was even more pristine than I’d noticed out on the beach, every little
compartment and membrane intact. Even if Daniel wasn’t impressed, it was pretty amazing to me that
nature could create something this complex and beautiful.

I heard the boards creak under his feet as he came into the room.
"Still infatuated with that shell, aren’t you?" he said. But he was smiling.
"I just think it’s pretty amazing, is all." I turned it over in my hand. "Did you ever learn about the

Fibonacci sequence in school?"

"Can’t say that I did." He was gathering up his socks.
"It’s a series of numbers," I said, still staring down at the shell. "Starting with zero and one, and

then every number after that is the sum of the previous two. So it goes zero, one, one, two, three, five,
eight, thirteen…like that. And it turns out, if you draw a bunch of squares with sides of those lengths
all nested together in the right order, and draw a spiral around them…" I demonstrated the curl pattern
of the shell with my index finger. "It’s the exact same pattern as this shell."

"Remarkable," he said. I honestly couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not.
"I think it’s cool," I said, turning the shell over in my hand. "Sometimes everything seems so

chaotic all the time, it’s nice to remember that it’s not, always."

He sat down on the bed, finally looking at me with something vaguely like interest. "Why do you

suppose that is?"

"Why the shell?" He nodded at this, and I shrugged. "Who can say for sure? I mean, it’s not just

shells. It’s everywhere. The seeds in a sunflower, the spirals of a pinecone - like things just sort of…
want to be a certain way, you know? They’re following some kind of ancient pattern they don’t even
understand."

"Thats’ a bit X-Files, isn’t it?" Daniel smiled. "Actually, come to think of it - wasn’t there a

pinecone or something in the opening credits?"

"Seeds," I corrected, closing my hand around the shell again. "It was seeds sprouting." I went to

my bag and started wrapping the shell up in a spare bra.

"I thought that was for me," Daniel said.
"It is." I zipped the bag shut. "I’m just keeping it safe for you."
He didn’t say anything else about it.

CHAPTER THREE

We arrived back in New York at six o' clock, right in the heart of the rush hour. After an arduous trip
home, when we finally stumbled through the front door, all I wanted to do was lie down. But there
was one thing I had to see first.

I stopped at the end table in the hall. The doorman had been bringing in our mail. I wondered if it

was a service he often provided or a special favor just for Daniel - but I was afraid to ask. I sifted
through the pile of envelopes eagerly, and then once more, with slightly less enthusiasm. Finding
nothing of interest, I dropped it all back on the hall table with a dramatic thump.

"Nothing from the galleries?" Daniel asked, gently kicking his suitcase towards the foot of the

stairs while he stripped off his shirt. I had to smile, in spite of myself. He was such a consummate
multi-tasker he sometimes seemed incapable of doing only one thing at a time.

"No," I said. "Not yet."
"Well, I'm sure they must get a lot of submissions," he said, walking down the hallway to the

bathroom with the majority of his clothes balled up under one arm. I sort of hated the false
cheerfulness in his voice, but what did I want him to say, really? Well, dear, you're probably buried
deep in their slush pile, never to be seen again.

I wandered into the kitchen and turned the hot water on, scrubbing my arms up to the elbows like I

was going into surgery. Daniel always showered after flying, and while I understood the impulse, my
skin already felt like a desert. I stripped out of my wrinkled traveling clothes, pulled on some sweats
and a tee-shirt from my former life, and collapsed on the sofa.

I dug my phone out of my pocket and began scrolling through it aimlessly. When Daniel came back

out, still toweling his hair, I waved the maddening device at him.

"What now?" he said, heading for the fridge.
"You've got to have your tech people do something about this," I said. "Everyone I've ever

emailed in my entire life is in my contacts list. It's the most annoying goddamn thing."

"Did you turn off the auto-contact setting?" he called, over the sound of the sink running.
"I shouldn't have to," I yelled back. "Nobody wants this feature. Why is it default? Why do I need

a contact entry for some shady online job posting I replied to six years ago? In my phone? It's a
throwaway email address. It makes no sense."

"You need to turn off the auto-contact setting," he replied, patiently. "Some people like to keep

track of everyone they email."

"Well, I can do that, by looking in my sent mail. Besides, that doesn't help me get rid of all the

junk contacts that are already in there." I sat up, suddenly feeling very invested in this fight. Usually,
technology problems made me feel like the most impotent moron on the entire planet, but it had just
now occurred to me that I finally had the audience to change something. "I looked online. Lots of other
people are complaining about it."

"People will complain about anything," he said. "The ones who like it aren't going to take the time

to post about it online; they're the silent majority."

"You've got an answer for everything, don't you." I didn't phrase it like a question, because it

wasn't.

He smiled, plopping down on the sofa next to me with a drink in his hand. "That's my job," he

said.

I eyed him sidelong. "No, I didn't want anything, that's fine, thanks."
"Maybe you should get some rest," he suggested, gently. How could he be in such a good mood

after traveling for six hours? I thought of all the tech conferences he had to go to, all the flights to the
opposite side of the world - and it started to make a little more sense.

"I can't sleep," I said, leaning my head back on the cushion. I was tired, sure, but I was keyed-up

from all the hustle and bustle. Being around large groups of people exhausted me like nothing else,
especially when they were all exactly as stressed as I was. I had no idea how Daniel managed to
maintain that preternatural level of calm all the time, but I both loved and hated him for it.

"I'm sorry you haven't heard back from any of the galleries yet," he said, cutting to the heart of the

matter as usual. "I'm sure they'll get to you. If you want, I can make some phone calls…"

"No," I said, firmly. We'd had this discussion before. I didn't want my art on display somewhere

because I was Daniel Thorne's wife. People were going to think that anyway - I didn't want there to
be a single grain of truth to it. I needed to be able to tell myself that it was all based on my own merit
as an artist.

"All right," he said. "That's very noble of you, but you know most people who get placed in

galleries these days have connections. You wouldn't be doing anything that a thousand people before
you haven't done."

"Doesn't matter," I said, through a yawn. "It's for me. I don't want to be one of those artists."
He shook his head, letting himself slump further into the sofa. "Well, I'm sure one of them will

come to their senses eventually," he said. "It's only a matter of time."

"Sure," I said. I hated it when he took that "public relations" tone with me, telling me what I

wanted to hear. But it wasn't worth fighting over.

The wait was killing me. I hadn't been able to draw anything new since I'd done my submissions; I

was waiting on pins and needles, even though I knew, realistically, that I was buried under piles of
unsolicited portfolios. The whole thing was an exercise in futility anyway. What did a gallery
placement mean, anyway? One person's opinion. Maybe I'd sell my work, but so what? It wasn't like
we needed the money. Selling one of my drawings was a dream of mine when I was a kid, but now
that I no longer lived paycheck to paycheck and prayed my lights wouldn't get shut off, it just didn't
have quite the same appeal.

Just my luck - when I finally grew enough courage to actually pursue a career as an artist, it didn't

matter anymore.

***

"Can I get you something to drink?" Daniel drifted over to the sofa, absentmindedly pushing a few
coffee table books a few inches to the left as he sat down. "Espresso? Water? Scotch and soda?" He
switched on a smile, and the interviewer smiled back, then ducked her head down a little and pushed
her hair behind her ear.

I turned back to my plate of leftover lo mein, letting my fork slip from my fingers and clatter

against the plate a little more loudly than was absolutely necessary.

"No, thank you," said the interviewer, taking a seat at the sofa across from him and smoothing her

skirt very carefully. She had a sort of soft, ingénue way about her that made me feel just slightly
nauseous.

"I was just kidding about the scotch," Daniel said, still smiling like he was in an ad for a dentist's

office. "Are you even old enough to drink?"

She was giggling. "Of course! But it's a little too early for that, I think." I was surprised I could

hear her over the sound of my own teeth grinding together.

This was only the third or fourth time that Daniel had allowed himself to be profiled in his own

home, but it should have been old hat by now. I still felt invaded each time - especially when they
sent these young girls who looked like they should be modeling for Abercrombie & Fitch instead of
interviewing a tech mogul.

Okay, that was unfair. And I wasn't a jealous person - really. It was just that the pattern had

become so obvious that it was absolutely tiresome. Every single one of them had the same
mannerisms, the same soft laugh, the same charmingly naïve questions. And then, when I'd finally go
and read the damn thing, I'd notice how they liberally reworded or sometimes completely changed the
questions in order to shed his answers in a completely different light. It was a sickening process,
really. I could understand why Daniel had avoided the whole thing for so long. Even now, he refused
to look at the finished products and he'd shush me loudly if I ever tried to bring up the topic. He was
certainly smarter than I was, just avoiding it entirely - but I couldn't understand where he got the will
power.

This particular interview didn't go on too long, despite the girl stammering and hesitating over

every question. When it was finally, blessedly over, and he saw her to the door, I let out an audible
sigh just after the lock clicked back into place.

"I know," he said, shuffling in my general direction, sounding as weary as I felt. "I know - but

that's it, for a while at least. I'm not saying yes to another one for at least a few months."

"That's what you said last month," I grumbled, rubbing my temples. "But you just can't resist the

opportunity to talk about yourself."

"It's a whole new demographic," he said, completely ignoring my jab. "It's one thing to be profiled

in another financial journal for middle-aged WASPs, but this was an opportunity to put myself in front
of the people who will hold all the buying power for the next fifty-to-sixty odd years. They don't just
want a device, they want a lifestyle - and they want a figurehead behind it, someone they can believe
in and emulate."

I squinted at him. "You know you're not being interviewed right now, don't you?"
"Oh, God. Where am I?" he said, dryly. "I think I might actually have that scotch and soda - care to

join me?"

"It's noon," I said. "You're going insane."
"The word is 'eccentric,'" he said, with the first genuine smile I'd seen from him all morning.
"Yeah, okay," I replied, picking up my plate and bringing it over to the sink. He caught me halfway

through my journey with his arm around my waist, hugging me close to him and slowly breathing in
the smell of my hair. I smiled, and relaxed against him, still holding the plate. "But if you start
stacking tissue boxes I'm having you committed."

We didn't have any plans for the rest of the afternoon, so I wandered into my studio after a while

and sat there with a pencil in my hand, waiting. For what, I didn't know. I knew enough from my years
as a professional designer that I couldn't sit around and wait for inspiration to hit me on the side of the
head, like a brick. I had to work for it. But every time I tried to make a single stroke, I would stop,
thinking about how a gallery owner might judge it - when they looked at it, what would they see?
Would they ever, in a million years, consider putting it on display? As I tried to form shapes in my
mind, I could hear my inner critic poking holes in every idea that I had. Knowing that my work was

out there, waiting to be weighed and measured and probably found wanting - it was just too
distracting.

After filling several pages with meaningless doodles, only to be crumpled up and thrown in the

garbage, I tossed everything aside with a massive sigh and went back out to the living room. Daniel
had the TV on, which was odd enough in and of itself. I actually still wasn't sure why he owned one;
I'd seen him watching it maybe three times during the entire tenure of our marriage, and he never
actually seemed to be watching it. So that was the other odd thing - on this particular occasion, his
eyes were glued to the screen with rapt attention.

He didn't even seem to notice when I sat down next to him. I honed in on the screen. It was footage

of something running down an assembly line in a factory. I leaned forward, trying to figure out exactly
what it was that could have fascinated him so.

The narrator was droning on, something about circuits, and then in the next shot, I realized that it

was Daniel's latest phone design.

"Wow," I said. "A how-it's-made PBS feature at two in the afternoon. You can't pay for this kind

of marketing."

He was frowning a little. "They didn't even try to get in touch with me," he said. "I would have

filmed something for it."

"Please tell me this isn't actually bothering you."
He was drumming his fingers on his leg, as if he were playing an invisible piano. "I don't know if

you realize how strange it is to watch this," he said. "Half of what they're saying isn't even right."

"I guess I don't." I didn't bother reminding him that the people who were judging my creative work

weren't talking about it on TV; I just had to guess at what they were thinking. After a while longer,
sitting there in silence, I realized he wasn't going to tear his eyes away until the show was over, and I
went to putter around in the kitchen, looking for something to cobble together into a dinner. I couldn't
remember the last time I'd cooked a proper meal at home, and it seemed like something that might take
my mind off of everything.

We didn't have much in the way of ingredients, so I told Daniel I was running to the store - at

which he absently nodded - and made my way out into the sunshine.

There was still a slight chill in the air, as if spring hadn't quite made up its mind to get started. But

it was beautiful, and after a long, grey winter, there was nothing quite like a spring breeze, even if it
was a tad too brisk.

I closed my eyes for a moment at a crosswalk, soaking in the sun's warmth. I wasn't sure how so

much of the year had already slipped by me. It was hard to believe it was already April, with the
little flowers already blooming through the cracks in the sidewalk. When I reached my destination, I
almost hated to step inside. But the bell rang cheerfully as I pushed the door open, and Louie, the
aging hippie behind the counter, greeted me with a smile.

"I saved you a copy," he said, holding up last week's Forbes, whose cover teased an article called

THE SECRET TO DANIEL THORNE'S SUCCESS . "No charge."

"Thanks," I said. "But no thanks. For the sake of my sanity, I really need to stop looking at that

stuff."

"Sure, if you wanna be reasonable about it," Louie grumbled. "What do you want now?"
"I feel like cooking something for dinner that's going to take a few hours," I said. "Comfort food.

Something that'll make the whole place smell good."

"Pot roast? I got some grass-fed beef that just came in from upstate. Fresh as it gets."
Instantly, I was transported back to Sunday afternoons of my childhood, remembering the herby,

savory smells that would waft out of the oven when my mother opened it to check on our special
dinner. It was pretty much the only meal she ever put any effort into - lovingly patting the chuck roast
down with fresh herbs, laying it on a bed of onions and carrots and potatoes from the farmer's market,
all swimming in rich red wine.

Yes. Perfect.
I picked out the biggest chuck roast I could find, beautifully marbled with fat. Cooking it wouldn't

be a problem. I knew that Daniel had a ceramic Dutch oven pot that weighed about fifty pounds,
because I'd dusted around it a few times when I was bored. He'd had a cleaning service before me,
but I insisted he fire them so I had something to do when I didn't have drawing or yoga or one of the
other dozen things I'd signed up for to occupy my time. After I'd picked out the herbs and vegetables
and paid Louie and petted his tiny Yorkie that sat vigilantly on the counter, watching every transaction
with eagle eyes, I ran to the liquor store across the street for a bottle of dry red from the Finger Lakes
- one big enough for cooking and for drinking.

There was someone already at the register when I went up, so I started toying with my phone as I

waited, tuning out the conversation since it didn't concern me. But after I'd skimmed a few emails I
started to sense it had been an awfully long time, so I perked my ears back up and watched the scene
unfolding in front of me.

"I'm sorry," the young cashier was saying. His lip ring was jiggling nervously, like he was poking

at the other side with his tongue. "But I just can't. Corporate policy."

"Corporate?" The customer threw his hands up in the air. "This place is the size of a closet. What

corporate?"

"We got bought out," the kid said, his voice developing a slight tremor. "Couple months ago.

They've started getting really strict, I'm sorry. I just can't."

"Look." The customer took a long, deep breath. "It's nothing against you. I swear. But come on.

You're not going to lose your job over this. I promise. I won't tell anyone. Are they watching you on
camera? I'll open my wallet and pretend to show you something. They'll never be able to tell the
difference. I'm old enough to be your father. Grandfather, probably."

"That's not the issue. I'm not allowed to sell to anyone who doesn't have ID. Doesn't matter if

you're ninety. You could be a cop. We could lose our license."

"I'm not a cop," the customer said, raising his voice a little. "I have a dime bag in my pocket right

now!"

The kid raised his eyebrows. "Really?"
"Yes. Really. You want it?"
The kid swallowed hard. "The cameras," he said.
"Right," said the customer. "Jesus Christ."
I cleared my throat. I really did just have a frog in it, but both them immediately turned to look at

me.

"I'm sorry," said the customer. "Why don't you go ahead of me? I don't want to hold you up

anymore. I left my license in my suitcase. Just got back from France, for work, and I wanted a fucking
bottle of Hennessy…" he sighed. "I'm sorry. It's just a hell of a thing. Go on, please. I insist."

"Thanks," I said, awkwardly sidling up to the counter. I pretty much felt bad for everyone

involved, but I knew I couldn't offer to buy it for him, or the cashier would have to refuse the sale. I'd
done a brief stint as a grocery cashier in high school, and although we weren't allowed to sell
anything harder than beer, we definitely had our fair share of conflicts with customers who thought
their hair color should be enough proof of age to buy whatever they wanted.

"Just got back from France, huh?" I said over my shoulder, for no reason I could imagine.
"Yeah," he said. "Feels like it's been forever. It's weird, no matter how much I travel I never

really get used to it."

"I'm the same way," I admitted, as I handed the cashier my credit card. "Too bad you don't have

your passport."

The customer's eyes widened.
"My fucking passport!" he exclaimed, abruptly un-tucking his shirt and reaching inside it. "Shit! I

totally forgot. I've been wearing it in this stupid secret pocket thing I bought out of Skymall a couple
years back. Forgot to take it off when I got home. God bless you. Seriously. You can take a passport,
right?" The last bit was addressed to the cashier.

"Sure," he said. "It's a legal ID."
"Thank you, thank you," the customer beamed at me. "Seriously, hon. You just made my night. I

was just on a plane for nine hours with two changeovers and my brain's turned into tapioca pudding.
You're a lifesaver."

"No problem." I tucked the bottle of wine under my arm. "I hope you have a better night from here

on out."

"Thanks, sweetie. You too."

CHAPTER FOUR

Somewhere very far away, a noise was starting to intrude on my consciousness. I ignored it for as
long as I could, but eventually, it roused me enough to realize what it was. Daniel’s ringtone.

I opened my eyes slowly, feeling the mattress shift as Daniel sat upright. This wasn't the first time

something like this had happened, so I let myself stay half-asleep, vaguely listening with half an ear.

"Slow down," I heard him demand. "What did you say?"
I rolled over, suddenly awake. His voice sounded tense. I pulled myself into a seated position,

staring at the back of his head and trying to make out the words on the other end of the phone. Daniel
stood, abruptly, pacing over to the window and raking his hand through his hair. "I don't understand.
How?"

The other person was doing most of the talking, which made it nearly impossible for me to even

guess at the substance of the conversation. All I knew was that I'd never seen Daniel react this way. I
stayed quiet, sitting in the center of the bed in the dark room, very aware of the sound of my own
breathing.

"Well, it must be some kind of glitch, then. If you…" He was silent for a while longer. "You

already talked to them? Why the fuck didn't you tell me that in the first place?" His voice was
elevated now, and I could see his body grow taut like a bowstring. "I have to hear about this now?
From you? Don't they send some sort of notice?" He let out a heavy sigh. "Yes, well, 'I guess not' is
right, isn't it? They wouldn't tell you what it was about? 'Suspicious activity?' I mean, what the fuck
does that mean?"

My throat started to tighten. Whatever this was, it wasn’t the usual misplaced panic from one of

his business associates. This was the real deal. My mind was racing - what could it possibly be? Had
he lost a major partnership of some kind? I knew they'd been negotiating some kind of sponsorship
deal with one of the big software companies - maybe it had unexpectedly fallen through.

Daniel had his back to me now, staring out the window at the ever-flickering city lights. I turned

on my bedside lamp, and he didn't even seem to notice. When he finally turned back around and
started pacing to the other side of the room, I saw that his face was ashen.

I'd never seen him like this - not even when my ex-friend (and his ex-girlfriend) Flo threatened to

turn us over to the INS for our sham marriage.

"What's wrong?" I hissed, but he didn't seem to hear me. He was still lost in his own world,

listening to whoever was on the other end of the phone and completely oblivious to me. I sat in
miserable silence for what felt like an eternity, before he finally hung up the phone with some vague
promise (or threat) of talking again soon.

"What's wrong?" I repeated. He looked so distant that I almost thought he hadn't heard me again,

but he finally looked up at me, almost as if he were startled to see me there.

"I don't…I don't know, exactly," he said, walking slowly back over to the bed and sitting down

heavily. "That was my broker. He was trying to execute some late-night trades that I'd asked him to
take care of, and he discovered that my accounts had been frozen."

I frowned. "Why?"
"Apparently, there was some…concern." He cleared his throat. "A judge issued a freeze order due

to what appeared to be insider trading. The thing is, I didn't…I never…" He took a deep breath. "It's
all a mistake. It has to be. I never acted on any inside information. I know better."

"Sure," I said, numbly. I vaguely understood the concept from the news, but I never thought I'd be

in the middle of an insider trading scandal. "But I mean…why would they think you did?"

"I don't know," he said. "That's just the thing. I have no idea what information they acted on,

because  they  didn't  tell  me.  They  didn't  warn  me,  they  just  froze  everything  and  planned  to  tell  me
about  it  later,  I  suppose.  My  broker  only  found  out  because  he  called  in  a  few  favors  with  some
people he knows in the justice system. Apparently, I've been the talk of the town." He stopped and let
out  a  little  bewildered  laugh.  "They've  been  monitoring  my  activity  for  some  time.  Which  isn't
unusual, but what I don't understand is what they saw that triggered them to do something so drastic. It
has to be a mistake. I'm sure it'll all be cleared up in the morning, but…"

"But?" I prodded. I had no idea what else to say.
"I don't know," he said. "God. I'm going to go make some coffee. Maybe that's a bad idea. Is it too

early for a brandy? Too late? Christ, Maddy, what am I going to do?"

"I don't know," I said, honestly. "But I'm sure it'll be fine. Right? It has to be fine. If you didn't do

anything wrong…"

"I didn't," he said, forcefully, standing up again and pacing around the room.
"I know you didn't." I raised my hands in a supplicating gesture. Truth was, I didn't have the first

clue if he was lying to me or not. Of course he'd say he was innocent. Even to me. He wouldn't be
stupid enough to admit it to anyone if he'd done something like that. This was, after all, a man capable
of committing marriage fraud.

I took in a deep breath. I knew that he occasionally invested in the companies of people he knew,

which had always seemed like an odd move to me - I didn't think I'd be able to resist the temptation to
act on insider information if I were in his shoes, and I told him so. Apparently, he felt differently
about it. And he also apparently knew he was being watched, or suspected it, so why would he do
something so stupid?

Okay, hello, marriage fraud.
But that was different. With online stock trading, there was a virtual paper trail three miles long. If

he did indeed do something questionable, he'd have a hell of a time ever proving his innocence.

He wouldn't be that stupid. Would he?
Marriage.
Fraud.
I shook my head to clear my thoughts. Daniel seemed to have gone back to barely being aware that

I was alive, and I really wanted nothing more than to take a long walk outside in the cool night air
until my head felt clearer, but that was really a terrible idea, even in this part of the city. The only
other option was to start quizzing him about the what the hell exactly was happening, and he'd already
made it quite clear that he had no idea, so that wasn't going to be very productive.

Suddenly, a thought occurred to me.
"Were the investment accounts the only thing they froze?"
He stared me, dully.
"What do you mean?" he said, at last, slowly.
"I mean, do you think there's a chance they froze any of your other assets? You should probably

find out."

He blinked, pulling his phone out of his pocket. I saw him tap the screen a few times, then throw it

on the bed and exclaim "fucking shit!"

I picked up the phone and looked at it. He was on the purchase page of his own app store.
We're sorry, but there seems to be a problem with your payment method. Would you like to

enter another card?

The expression on his face was positively wild. "Why the fuck would they do this? What am I

supposed to do now?" he shouted, at no one.

I could think of several reasons why they might want to freeze all of his assets, actually - even if

he wasn't considered a flight risk, if he was engaging in insider trading, any judge might reasonably
assume that some of the tainted funds existed in one of his non-investment accounts too. It made sense
- but he almost certainly didn't want to hear that right now.

I wanted to pinch myself and wake up from this perfectly ordinary nightmare, but I knew without

trying that it wasn't going to happen. Unfortunately, this made entirely too much sense to be imaginary.

"Do you have some cash somewhere?" I asked, in a small voice. "I mean…you know, in case they

can't unfreeze everything right away."

He blinked again, slowly. "Yes," he said. "There's some in the safe. But not enough to live on for

very long. And the company…we’ll have to suspend operations, we can’t even make payroll."

"The accounts are in your name?" I frowned at him, realizing how little I knew about the day-to-

day functions of the place I used to work.

"No, but I have direct access. They froze all of those, too."
"Well, as far as personal expenses go, I'm sure that Lindsey can help out, right?" I was trying to

stay calm and reasonable, but it was getting more difficult by the moment.

"Lindsey," he repeated, sitting down heavily on the bed again. "God. I'll have to call her as soon

as it's late enough."

"I'm sure she wouldn't mind hearing from you now," I said, gently. The sky was just beginning to

be tinged with light around the edges. "She's your sister."

He shook his head slowly. "No," he said. "I'll let her get her sleep. There's nothing she can do

now."

I couldn't argue with him there, so I sat back on the pillows and stared at the wall.
"Is this a bad dream?" he said, finally, after a long silence.
"Sorry," I replied, managing a wan smile as I patted him on the leg. "But I'm pretty sure it's not."
Suddenly, I felt very thirsty. I got up and walked down to the kitchen, fetching a water bottle from

the fridge and drinking half of it in one gulp. Unsurprisingly, it didn't really make me feel any better.

There certainly wasn't going to be any more sleep tonight. This morning. Whatever. I felt like I

should eat something to settle my stomach, but I also felt like even a handful of saltines would
probably come right back up, in my current state. I wandered fitfully around the apartment for a while,
my arms hugged around my chest, shivering a little but unsure if I was cold or just on the verge of a
nervous breakdown.

I couldn't stop running it over and over in my head. Why? How? Is this real? Did he do it? Why?

There was no explanation that made sense to me. I didn't know much about professional investing, but
I had a feeling that the broker would be working with some kind of secure system that wasn't easily
compromised. If someone wanted to frame Daniel for insider trading, could they realistically do it?

How many times had I heard the "I was hacked!" excuse, especially from public figures? Was he

really trying to pull that one on me? His own wife?

My stomach lurched.

I looked up and realized that Daniel was in the kitchen, contemplating a bottle of whiskey. I

hurried out to snatch it from his hands.

"No," I said, putting it back into the cabinet. "I promise that's not going to make anything better."
"You don't think so?" There was just a touch of wry humor in his eyes - just enough to remind me

that he was still the same as he always had been. I wrapped my arms around him, pulling him close
and just listening to the sound of his heartbeat. It took a long time, but he finally embraced me back,
squeezing my ribcage so hard it almost hurt.

I don't know how long we stood there, but by the time we broke apart, the sunrise was cutting

sharply through the window above the sink. I squinted against it, turning away and walking back up to
the bedroom with no clear idea of why I was going there. Maybe, if I just climbed back in bed and
curled up under the covers, it would be like none of this ever happened.

Not likely.

***

It felt like an eternity before the judge's offices opened and Daniel was able to start putting in phone
calls. Of course it was a labyrinthine process with voicemails and extensions and leaving messages
with five different people, but eventually he did get a call back, which he took alone in the bedroom,
with the door shut. I wasn't sure if he was trying to protect me from it, or if he just couldn't handle the
added stress of being around another person. Either way, I wasn't really offended. I couldn't imagine
what he must be going through, although it was no walk in the park for me, either.

I managed to eat some leftover pot roast by the time lunch rolled around, but Daniel was still

subsisting off of juice and water until dinnertime, when he ate a few handfuls of almonds from the
cupboard and then went back to call his broker again.

When he finally talked to me, I learned that his broker had located the trade in his transaction

history, but could not account for it. The firm's security specialists were already working on it, but
they apparently didn't have high hopes of finding any answers soon. Whoever had originated the trade
had successfully covered his tracks - well enough that they had to launch something that they called a
"forensics" investigation. I had absolutely no idea what that meant in this context, but I suspected it
didn’t actually involve the scalpels and bone saws that I was picturing.

He'd also put in several calls with the owner of the company whose stock he'd allegedly sold. The

whole thing had to do with a merger or an acquisition or something that he explained in such a
scattered way I gave up trying to understand - but he insisted that he knew nothing about it, that in fact
he could present cell phone records to the judge showing he'd had no contact with the man in weeks.

The company owner in question was in the middle of his once-yearly vacation in which he went

completely offline. His very capable assistant who managed his affairs in absentia could shed
absolutely no light on the situation, but she promised to send word to her boss's emergency contact
number and he'd get back to Daniel as soon as he possibly could.

By the end of our conversation, my head was spinning and I felt like I understood even less than I

had before. Hell - I was married to the man, but even I couldn't see how he was going to convince a
judge of his innocence. How could he prove that he and his friend had no contact? They might have
talked on pay phones, or burners, or…

I shook my head, as if I could physically knock the thoughts out that way. It was ridiculous that I

was even considering the possibility of Daniel's guilt. But I was just trying to be realistic. How
would the courts see it? They certainly wouldn't be sympathetic towards a man like him. Then again,
with his money, he could hire one of those lawyers that everyone hates.

Then again, he didn’t actually have any of his money just at the moment.

Daniel finally called Lindsey in the late afternoon, and after she'd finished berating him for not

calling her immediately, she got a ticket on the next plane out. I felt a tremendous sense of relief
knowing she'd be here. I didn't get to spend as much time with my sister in law as I would have liked
to, but everything I knew of her indicated that she wasn't easily shaken. She was the perfect person to
have around in a crisis. And maybe, just maybe, she'd have more of an idea of how to comfort Daniel
than I did.

I went with him to the airport to pick her up. I was surprised that she didn't just hire a town car or

something, but maybe Daniel was just anxious to see her. If he was, he certainly wasn't telling me
about it. In fact, I wasn't one hundred percent sure that he realized I was in the car until he turned and
spoke to me.

"I know the head of the security here. I think they'll let us through so we can meet her at the gate."
"Uh…" I glanced at him, sidelong. "You sure about that? I really feel like we don't need trouble

with the TSA on top of everything."

He didn't say anything, but thankfully, Lindsey was waiting for us by the passenger pickup area so

the issue never arose.

She went to Daniel wordlessly, her face drawn and tight, and pulled him into a long hug. Neither

one of them moved for almost a full minute. When Daniel finally pulled away, I searched his face for
something. Anything. But his expression was still stony.

I picked up Lindsey's bag and started hauling it towards the trunk, which finally got Daniel's

attention.

"Wait," he said, reaching out. "I'll get it."
"Already did," I muttered, slamming the trunk shut. He guided Lindsey towards the passenger seat

without saying a word, and I folded myself into the backseat and kept quiet for the ride home.

"I can't believe it," Lindsey kept saying, over and over again. "Those bastards." She asked the

same questions over and over, the questions to which there were no answers, but Daniel answered
them patiently, which so much as a "like I just told you…" I told myself it was completely normal,
completely understandable, for him to feel more comfortable around his sister than he did around me.
They'd grown up together, and we…

We were still basically strangers.
No, that was ridiculous. We'd been living together for more than two years, and even if he hadn't

truly been in a relationship for all that time, we'd gotten to know each other. Hadn't we?

I stared at the ceiling, wondering if he thought the same thing. Did he look at me sometimes and

wonder who I really was?

No, he must have better things to do.
When we got home, Lindsey installed herself in the kitchen and immediately began cooking

spaghetti and meatballs. I understood the impulse, and after a while, I went into the kitchen to help
her. It was warm and permeated with the smell of garlic, and for a moment I almost forgot that
everything was falling apart around us.

"He's not going to eat, you know," I said, finally, as I finished chopping an onion.
Lindsey twisted a handful of leaves off one of the basil plants in the window planter. "I bet you he

will," she said.

I should have known she'd take it as a challenge.
And she was right, after all. By the time the smell had permeated the whole apartment, Daniel

came wandering down the stairs, looking like death warmed over. His hair was sticking up in all
directions and he had the darkest circles under his eyes I'd ever seen. He hovered behind us for a

while, like a ghost, until he finally spoke up.

"When will dinner be ready?"
"Anytime, kiddo," said Lindsey, pulling a bowl out of the cabinet. She started dishing out a

generous helping, and I almost told her to stop - Daniel always measured his pasta before he ate it -
but then I realized this was hardly a day to be sticking to a diet. He sat down and devoured the whole
thing, so quickly that I almost didn't believe what I was seeing. Daniel Thorne, eating pasta and
meatballs made with eighty percent ground beef? And not a food scale in sight?

I had a much smaller serving, which I poked at tentatively. My stomach felt like a clenched fist.

Daniel wasn't speaking to me, still - barely looking at me, and I felt guilty that I was even noticing at a
time like this. He had enough to worry about without constantly stroking my ego, didn't he? But all I
wanted was some tiny acknowledgement. I just wanted him to act like he remembered I was there.

CHAPTER FIVE

After dinner, I ended up in my studio. I just wanted to be alone for a while, and my absence didn’t
seem to bother Daniel.

I picked up a pencil and studied it. I'd never had much luck drawing while I was stressed, but I

had to do something to occupy my time. I stared at the paper on the easel for a while, finally lifting the
pencil and making two long, sweeping, slightly curved lines across it. This was exactly how I always
started every drawing when I was a kid. Two hills, and off to one side - a tree.

I had to smile, in spite of myself.
I started drawing a weeping willow, its trunk gnarled and twisted with knots. There was one

down by the creek where I grew up, and if I concentrated hard enough I could remember the exact
feeling of the leaves brushing against my skin when I sat underneath it.

There was a light tap at the door.
My heart actually leapt into my throat, which was, quite frankly, embarrassing.
"Yeah?" I called out, my hand frozen in midair.
"Maddy, can I come in?"
It was Lindsey.
I let out a long breath. "Yeah, of course."
She came in and shut the door quietly behind her, walking in and sitting gingerly in the armchair by

the window.

"So," she said. "How you holding up?"
I shrugged, staring at my drawing. It was actually pretty good. The landscape needed a lot more

detail, but…

"It's good that you're drawing," she said, making a vague gesture towards the easel. I nodded, still

only looking at her from the corner of my eye.

"I know it seems bad now," she continued, crossing and uncrossing her legs. "But everything will

get straightened out. The trick is to not let yourself get overwhelmed. Take it one day at a time. Don't
think too far into the future - let someone else handle that for you. Danny's been talking to his
attorney."

I made a face.
"Don't worry," Lindsey said. "I've met this one - I recommended her, actually. The thing about

Daniel is that he…" she considered her words for a moment. "…he doesn't exactly have, uh, the gift
of discernment. Especially when it comes to people's characters. I know it probably doesn't seem like
it, most of the time, but he trusts too easily."

"I guess I could see that," I replied, adding a few more branches to my tree. He had, after all,

trusted me with a marriage of convenience when he hardly knew me at all.

For a while, Lindsey was quiet. When I finally met her eyes, I could tell she wanted very badly to

say something, but she couldn't quite bring herself to do it. It wasn't like her to hold back. Whatever it
was, she must have an awfully good reason for not wanting to say it.

And for once in my life, I was content to let sleeping dogs lie.

***

Daniel's lawyer was a brusque middle-aged woman with short brown hair and - I imagined - an
equally short temper. Her mouth was set in a permanent frown. I didn't think I could stand to work
with someone like that, but Daniel seemed to appreciate her businesslike attitude.

I'd met her briefly a handful of times, but this was the first time she'd been to the apartment. Daniel

had consulted with her already, a few days after the phone call, but it was going on a week now and
brokerage had made next to no progress on their "forensics." They’d apparently decided to proceed
with the case as if that evidence might never surface. On the plus side, several of Daniel’s original
key investors agreed to pour some more money into the company, enough to keep manufacturing going
and prevent it from going into the red while this whole mess got sorted out.

The lawyer, Ms. Greenlee, stayed for quite a while, going over paperwork with Daniel and

reviewing his options for going forward. She was recommending that he petition the judge to have his
assets un-frozen, as a first order of business. Despite the fact that it had been enacted very swiftly, she
informed us that it might take several weeks for a reversal to process, so it was best to start it sooner
rather than later.

"We need to establish that you're not a flight risk," she said, sipping at a glass of water, eyeing

Daniel from over her half-moon reading glasses. "That means you need to look calm at the hearing.
You need to be assured of your own innocence and you need to meet his eyes and answer all his
questions honestly. Are you prepared to do that?"

"Yes," he said, actually looking slightly cowed. Come to think of it, I could actually appreciate

this lawyer quite a bit.

"It's very, very important that you keep your story straight," she said. "I know - you didn't do it -

but that doesn't mean the facts won't change in your memory from time to time, and that will look like
dishonesty to him. Establish the facts and stick to them, don't let yourself waver."

Daniel was nodding, scribbling in his little notepad.
The lawyer shuffled her papers a bit. "With someone of your means, there's always that concern.

That you'll just head off somewhere and disappear. Now, luckily, you've got one thing going for you -
despite your dual citizenship, Canada would still extradite you at the drop of a hat, so you've got no
shelter there, and they know that."

Daniel nodded again. "Is there anything else I can do to make myself seem more stable?"
"Well, the rest is pretty common sense - don't book any plane tickets or boat charters or anything

like that."

"That might be difficult anyway, without any credit cards."
She didn't miss a beat. "Remember that you're in the public eye now. Even if you go to a store and

pay cash, you might be spotted. Don't buy any luggage, don't apply to renew your passport - nothing."

"Would I use my own passport if I were trying to flee the country?" he looked up at her, still

scribbling in his notepad.

"I wouldn't know," she said, dryly.
She left him with mounds of paperwork, and he sequestered himself in the bedroom again, making

phone  call  after  phone  call.  I  could  hear  him  talking  -  dimly,  through  the  door  -  but  I  couldn't
distinguish any words. Lindsey had to  teleconference  into  a  meeting  for  most  of  the  day,  so  I  found
myself alone for the better part of it. I spent a while in my studio, staring at my new sketch, and trying
to  figure  out  how  to  make  something  of  it.  It  was  a  nice  enough  landscape,  but  it  was  missing
something.

After fiddling with it for a while and remaining unsatisfied, I finally wandered out to the kitchen,

yawning. When I saw the clock on the microwave, I had to look twice. Was it really past midnight
already? No wonder I was tired.

Daniel had to be off the phone by now. I trudged up the stairs, ready to collapse into bed and

forget about everything for a few hours, but as I drew near the still-closed door, I heard his voice.

Who on earth could he be talking to at this hour? I frowned, pressing my ear against the door, but it

was still too fuzzy to understand. Sighing, I wandered back down the stairs and considered my
options. I could go back and knock, but I decided to wait it out a little longer, flopping down on the
sofa and staring at the ceiling.

***

I woke up with a horrible crick in my neck and the smell of coffee permeating the apartment. I sat up,
rubbing my head, and saw Daniel sitting at the kitchen island over a steaming mug and Lindsey
washing dishes in the sink.

I got up and shuffled towards the bathroom, overcome with the grimy feeling of having slept in my

clothes. Daniel looked at me with dull eyes.

"You didn't come to bed last night," he said.
"You were on the phone," I replied, a little louder than I needed to.
I felt slightly more human after a shower, and when I returned to the kitchen, only Lindsey was

still there.

"Did you want me to make you some breakfast?" she asked, gently.
I shrugged, which she evidently took as a yes. She reached into the fridge for a carton of eggs.
"Why didn't someone wake me up?" I asked, pulling out a chair.
"You looked so peaceful," Lindsey said. "Nobody's been sleeping well lately, so I figured I'd

better let you get your rest while you could." She brought over a mug of coffee and set it down.
"Daniel's meeting with his broker to get the latest from the security team. He didn't tell me any details,
but so far I guess they're not having much luck piecing it together."

"Well, that's encouraging."
Lindsey was beating some eggs in a bowl. "Well, you know, it could be worse. Right now, I think

they suspect an inside job - someone physically using Daniel’s broker’s computer to make the trades,
rather than a remote hacking job. The security camera footage was lost, or tampered with, or
something. But if it is someone in-house, they shouldn’t be too hard to find."

"I doubt that's going to do much in the way of convincing the judge," I said. "Do you think I'll have

to go to the hearing to get his assets back?"

Lindsey shrugged. "It might look good if you're there. Why don't you ask him?"
"Most of the time, I'm not even sure he knows I'm here," I said, staring down into my mug.
Lindsey put a plate of eggs and toast in front of me. "He's tired, honey. He's tired and he's under a

lot of stress. I know he's not always the easiest to deal with, but he hasn't forgotten about you. I
promise."

"Sure," I said, picking up my fork. "Of course."
Lindsey stood there for a while, quietly, before finally walking away and silently disappearing

into her bedroom.

I didn't know what I was supposed to do. After the raw display of panic I'd seen when he first got

the call, this detached, zombie-like version of Daniel was, as Lindsey so delicately put it, not the
easiest to deal with. I didn't know what the hell was going through his head. And while I understood
that he was absorbed with his problems, he seemed to be forgetting that all of this affected me, too. It

was our life. My life.

He got home sometime after lunch, dropping his briefcase by the door and slumping down in one

of the kitchen chairs. Lindsey turned around from watering the basil and cleared her throat, quietly.

"So," she said. "How did it go?"
Daniel shook his head. "All that, just to say they don't know anything yet. But they're 'making

progress.'"

"I don't see why this should be so hard," I muttered, but no one seemed to notice.
"I've just heard back from the judge's office," Daniel went on, staring down at his hands. "I've got

a hearing set for next week. He managed to fit me in." He managed a hollow smile. "So, with any
luck, I'll have my money back in the next six months."

"Just let me know if there's anything you need," said Lindsey.
"I know. I will." Daniel's phone buzzed, and he picked it up, looking at it bleakly. "Fuck."
"What?" I asked. Lindsey was quietly disappearing in the background, retreating into her room and

shutting the door.

"The…journalists, all of them," he muttered. "They won't stop calling."
"You gave them your personal number?" I stared at him.
"I had to!" he said, suddenly very loud, but still not looking at me. "In case they needed to do

reschedule last minute, or…"

"Jesus." I turned to the sink, pushing dishes around more loudly than I needed to. "I don’t know

what you were thinking."

Daniel stood up. "You know, I really do appreciate your input, but maybe you could consider

shutting your fucking mouth every once in a while."

A glass slipped out of my hands and smashed in the bottom of the sink. I whirled on him.
"Oh, I'm sorry, have I been talking too much? I didn't realize anyone else could hear me."
"You don't know what the fuck's going on," he said, dangerously quiet.
"You're right, I don't. It's almost like no one's telling me."
"I can't report back to you every hour, on the hour. I have more important things to do."
"Oh, like fielding phone calls from those sweet little journalists they always send? The ones

practically falling over their own delicate feet when they walk in the door? 'Oh, I've never
interviewed a billionaire before, Mr. Thorne, please be gentle,'" I breathed, in what I thought was a
pretty damn good imitation of at least one of them.

"So that's what this is about," he snapped. "You know, Maddy, you and your petty jealousy are

really the least of my concerns right now."

"Well, that's incredibly obvious," I fumed. "Do you think I can spend the night in my bedroom, or

will you be having more phone sex with your broker at midnight?"

His mouth twisted. "Don't worry, I won't be staying here tonight."
"Good." I stormed up the staircase, anger and guilt like a pit in my stomach. I was out of line - I

knew I was. This was simply no time to bring up my stupid hang-ups over his interviewers, and the
last thing he needed right now was to worry about my feelings. But after being ignored for so long, it
had all come spilling out of me. I couldn't help it.

I sat on the edge of the bed, tears welling in my eyes. All I'd wanted was for him to look at me, to

turn to me for support, to…do anything at all, really. Just to show some sign that he remembered I
existed. That he hadn't just grown used to me after all our time pretending - that he really did love me.

I tried to remember the last time I'd heard him say it. It was many months ago, I thought, while we

were in bed, basking in the afterglow. When we were just pretending, we were more conscious of

appearances, and we used to end every phone conversation with "I love you." But now that we really
were together, we'd fallen into a pattern that seemed to be more natural for both of us. We weren't
romantics, certainly. But it would be nice to be reminded every once in a while.

I heard the door creak open. Was he coming to pack? I turned around, looking at him curiously.
His face had a dark shadow over it, but not the one I would have expected. It was one I

recognized, and it made goose bumps rise on my skin.

"Turn over," he said, his voice low and quiet.
I blinked the tears away, turning to look at him.
"What?" I asked, my voice still thick from crying.
"You heard me," he said, flatly. He was taking off his belt.
I sat there, frozen, for a moment. I knew what he was intending to do - or thought I knew, at any

rate - and I didn't know if I was ready. But what I'd said on the side of the pool in St. Lucia, which
now felt like it was a thousand years ago, was still true.

I just couldn't say no to him.
I turned around, slowly lying down on the bed, facedown, the way I knew he wanted me. As

strange as it might seem to someone on the outside, doing this sort of thing - letting him take control -
was actually incredibly calming, incredibly grounding, for both of us. On the surface it might seem
frightening or unbalancing, but whenever he got that look in his eyes, I could actually feel my
heartbeat regulate, my breaths coming slower and deeper. It was like a drug. I wouldn't be surprised
if my pupils dilated, too.

Well, for more than one reason, admittedly.
I lay there silently, like I was waiting for a massage, except I was very much not. I felt calmer than

I had in days, my jangling nerves quieted down to a slight quiver. And not an entirely unpleasant one,
at that.

Was I ready for this?
He'd stop, if I told him to stop. If.
I felt something resting on the small of my back, and I knew without looking that it was the belt. I

held my breath.

When it lifted and came back down again, slightly lower, I winced more at the sound of it cracking

through the air than I did at the sensation. My jeans were thick enough to absorb the brunt of it, and he
must have known that.

It had been too long since he'd done anything like this. I'd almost forgotten the intense feeling of

well-being, enough to make me lightheaded - more than anything I'd ever experienced at yoga or
during my meditation classes, or anything else. I melted into the bed. The sharp thwacks kept on
coming, but their intensity no longer felt like pain.

Finally, I heard him toss the belt aside, and then he grabbed my wrists and flipped me over,

climbing up on the bed and kneeling between my legs.

"You need to learn to think about someone other than yourself," he said, very quietly.
My jaw clenched. "All I do is think about you. I don't have much of a choice."
He shook his head, like he didn't understand what I was saying, or didn't want to accept it. "That's

not what I mean." He was still holding my wrists down. I squirmed underneath him, no longer sure if
this was just a game. Then again, I supposed I'd never been completely sure. "Not because I'm the
reason you have this life. That's not how I want you to think about me."

I frowned a little. "That's not what I meant, either," I said. "I…"
I wanted to say it - I did - it was so easy, just three simple words. But after he'd gone so long

without the words passing his lips, I didn't want to be the one to break the silence. He looked at me
curiously for a moment. It was obvious I'd cut myself off mid-thought. But when he realized I wasn't
going to finish it, he leaned down further, his weight coming down on my wrists. I winced a little, but
it was nothing I couldn't handle.

"What were you about to say?" he demanded, softly. His hard exterior was beginning to crack - I

could see his eyes that he was anxious to know, but he knew he couldn't actually force it out of me.

I blinked slowly, and swallowed. "I was going to say, I'm sorry."
For a moment, I swore I actually saw the disappointment pass over his face. "I'm not asking for an

apology," he said. "Just try to be a little less self-centered."

"Fuck you!" I shouted, before I had a chance to think about what I was saying. I squirmed harder,

trying to break free from his grip. He just kept staring at me, silently, not really moving. It was
infuriating how little effort he needed to expend to hold my arms in place. It didn't seem to be taxing
him at all, no matter how hard I strained. My heart was pounding in my ears, all the pent-up anger and
frustration roiling in my blood. I kicked my legs, but there was no part of him that I could reach that
way. And he just kept staring down at me.

"Do you want me to let you up?" he said, finally.
I swallowed so hard I could feel the tendons in my neck straining. I knew he wanted me to say yes.

He just wanted to prove that I had to ask. That I couldn't break free from him - mentally or physically.

I just stared back at him, silently, fuming.
"It's so very telling," I said, finally, after I'd given up the fight and relaxed beneath him - sort of.

My nostrils still flared with every breath. "That the only way you get people to stay with you is by
playing mind games."

"All right, then," he said, standing abruptly, letting me go, his hands raised in the air like I'd just

ordered him to drop his weapon. "Fine. Go."

I sat up, my hands clenched into fists. "You know I can't."
"I'm sure you can," he said. "I have faith in you." His deep, green eyes were filled with mockery -

and anger - and something else entirely, that I couldn't quite read.

"All I wanted was for you to act like I existed," I said, feeling the tears well behind my eyes. "Just

for a minute or two. When everything's going well, when you're happy, then I'm here - and you act
like…" I took a deep breath. "…but then things go wrong, and suddenly it's like I don't matter
anymore. I could help you. I want to help you. I want to be there for you."

"You want to be there for me, or for yourself?" He stepped closer to me again, so quickly that I

flinched a little. I wasn't sure why.

"I don't know what you're talking about! " I shouted, no longer concerned if Lindsey overheard.

"You think everything I do is selfish. Is it really easier to believe that, than to believe that I actually
care about you?"

He was shaking his head, like he already wasn't listening again. "Did you ever consider for one

moment what it might be like, to be me right now?"

I lifted my head up, fixing him with a tearful stare. "Did you ever consider for one moment what it

might be like to be me?"

CHAPTER SIX

I couldn't tell if Daniel was angry, or sad, or both, or neither. He was just staring at me. Was I really
the first person to ever ask him if he'd considered having a little empathy? He looked…stunned,
almost as if I were.

Finally, he shook himself out of it, swiftly closing the gap between us and grabbing my hands out

of my lap. "Everything has to come back around to you, doesn't it?"

"I think you might be projecting," I said, as he abruptly released my hands, grabbing me around the

waist and tossing me on the bed.

I lay there, passively - it was the most defiant thing to do, it seemed like, at the time. I think he

wanted me to fight him. Or maybe not. I watched him go to the closet - not his clothes closet, but The
Closet, the one where he kept an ever-growing array of diabolical little things that only came out
when he was in one of "those moods." I had no idea where he got them all. There always seemed to
be something new, but I never noticed any packages arriving, either through the mail or under his arm.
And I couldn't really picture him walking into one of those types of stores - especially not now. I
could just imagine the Post headline - DANIEL THORNE, SEXUAL DEVIANT?

I giggled.
He turned, abruptly. "What's so funny?" he demanded, walking back over to me quickly and

tossing something on top of me. Sitting up a little to look at it, I saw that it was a length of rope dyed
in a deep, luxuriant purple.

"I was just trying to imagine where you buy all this stuff," I said, trying to look innocent. He

climbed up on the bed again, this time trapping my legs between his. He picked up the rope and
pulled a length of it taut, letting it slide between his hands. I shivered a little.

"I know someone who makes this," he said. "By hand. Every batch. It's hemp."
I had to giggle again.
He gave me a look. "It's the best material for the purpose," he said. "And I think you'll agree, it

takes colors beautifully."

"Form and function," I said, flopping back down on the bed. "The best of everything. I should've

known that's the only thing you'd settle for."

He was winding one end of the rope around my wrist, carefully. He tied an elegant knot, then

began looping it around the bedpost.

"You know, if I were as selfish as you think I am, I'd never let you do this," I said, softly.
He didn't look at me, drawing the rope across the length of the headboard and looping it around

the opposite post. "Oh, right - I forgot. You don't get anything out of this, do you?"

"Only the exquisite pleasure of making you happy," I replied, with a grin. "But, hey. I'm a giver."

He'd finished fastening my other wrist. I tested the knots halfheartedly, tugging on them without any
real intention of trying to get free. They were solid. Of course.

"Did Little Miss Tantra teach you about this, too?" I asked, referring to the woman he'd once told

me he hired to teach him the finer arts of pleasure. I was pretty sure he deeply regretting telling me

about it, based on the faces he'd pull every time I brought it up.

"You're obsessed with that woman," he said, stepping back and taking a look at his handiwork.

"Why don't you forget about her for a while, and start focusing on your own development?"

I arched my back, very consciously, watching how his eyes bored into my chest while I did. "Are

you saying I need to be better developed?" I purred.

He was on top of me in a second, his whole body looming over me, his eyes like flint - but if I

was being perfectly honest with myself, this was how I liked him best.

Without another word, he leaned down and kissed me fiercely. His hand slid under the back of my

head, grabbing a handful of my hair by the roots and holding on. Not pulling; just possessing. His
tongue was firm and demanding inside my mouth. I loved every moment of it. When he got like this, I
couldn't help but believe it was because he was so overwhelmed, so consumed by his need for me,
that he forgot how to be gentle. It was intoxicating.

He reached down and grabbed either side of my blouse, ripping it open in one swift motion. I

squealed in halfhearted protest. It was old - and besides, I was already dizzy with desire. He got up
on his knees and pushed my skirt up over my hips. When he yanked my panties off and tossed them
aside, I swore I heard him growl.

He unzipped, and then he was lifting me with both hands, positioning me right where he wanted. I

bit my lip. Anticipation was buzzing through my veins.

Then, in one swift movement, he was inside me. I cried out, my hands tugging uselessly at the

rope, not because I wanted to get free so much as that I simply couldn't keep myself still. I thrashed
and moaned, and I wasn't really sure whether I was the one doing most of the moving, or if he was
moving me. All I knew was that the bed was shaking, the headboard knocking against the wall with at
least every other thrust, and I really, really hoped that our neighbors weren't home.

Not that they'd ever complained before.
Pleasure and tension were coiled inside me, tightly, like a spring that was ready to let go at any

moment. I couldn't stop myself from whimpering every time I exhaled. His eyes looked like they had
gone completely dark, but I wasn't sure if I was just imagining it.

The spring was tighter and tighter, quivering, and then it suddenly released. I screamed out his

name, feeling my body convulse somewhere distantly in the back of my mind.

For a moment, I was lost. I came back slowly, blinking. My neck and head ached. Daniel was

untying the knots, rubbing my wrists where the rope had left depressions in my skin. I curled up on my
side and focused on my breathing, just the way he'd taught me.

In and out, in and out. Over and over again.

***

I woke up the next morning with a pit in my stomach. After how peaceful I'd felt last night, I supposed
it was only a matter of time before it all caught up with me. No matter how seamlessly we managed to
connect when we slipped into the roles of dominant and submissive, none of our problems were
really solved.

Daniel was still asleep when I got up. I tiptoed down the stairs to avoid waking him, starting the

coffee and poking at the basil's soil to make sure it didn't need more water. As I walked over to the
living room to turn on the TV, I noticed something stuck under the door. I went and pulled it out,
curious.

It was a copy of one of the popular technology journals, and on the front, of course, was Daniel.
It wasn't a picture of him that I had ever seen before. He was standing behind a podium, giving

some kind of presentation, and they'd managed to catch him at a moment when he looked remarkably

like a dictator. The headline said:

DANIEL IN THE LION'S DEN
And underneath was the tagline:
Billionaire in danger of losing it all?
Despite my better judgment, I flipped to the article and began reading.
Like many before him, billionaire tech mogul Daniel Thorne is being weighed, measured, and

may be found wanting. Accusations of insider trading have brought the formerly private mogul
into the limelight, and it's not very flattering…

So, more of the usual. Rolling my eyes, I skipped a few pages.
…the source, who insisted on remaining anonymous, says that she dated Thorne for several

years before he became such a runaway success. But even then, she claims he was arrogant and
self-righteous - and that he often hinted at beliefs that rules didn't apply to him the same way the
did to other people.

Hurriedly, I crumpled up the magazine and shoved it into the little garbage compactor under the

sink, burying it under some coffee grounds. I had no idea when it started coming, but he certainly
didn't need to see that and find out that his utterly insane ex-girlfriend Flo, who'd once tried to ruin
our lives, was out there talking about him.

I'd caught a few of the headlines that had been coming out since this whole mess exploded. I tried

to avoid them as much as I could, for my sanity's sake, but I'd caught Daniel looking at a few of them
online - stuff like THORNE IN DISGRACE from the tabloid rags, while the serious business outlets
ran multi-page stories dissecting every aspect of his life history that they knew. But this was
something different. This was so…personal. I had a horrible, crawling sensation on the back of my
neck.

I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard the door buzz.
I advanced towards it cautiously, finally reaching the peephole and peering out. There was a

young woman standing in the hallway. I hardly recognized her at first, until I realized that it was the
same girl from his last interview - but with her hair pulled back severely, and wearing a sharp suit
and standing with her shoulders drawn back. I was determined to turn and walk away, but a part of
me was morbidly curious to find out how much she knew - and how. And besides, she was reaching
for the buzzer again, and I didn't want to find out what was going to happen if she woke Daniel.

I yanked the door open. The girl was taken slightly aback.
"Oh, hello," she said, looking me up and down. I was wearing some baggy yoga clothes I'd pulled

on after rolling out of bed, no makeup, and hadn't bothered to brush my hair. I couldn't wait to see
how they'd describe me in the inevitable sidebar blurb.

I just had to make sure the visit didn't warrant an entire article.
"What brings you here on this beautiful morning?" I asked, with the most wan smile I could muster.

She kept standing there, a few feet away, looking at me like she thought I must smell bad.

"I…is Mr. Thorne home? I was just hoping to get few comments from him on the recent events."
"And he'd love nothing more than to relive the nightmare for your readers' entertainment, I'm sure,"

I said, smoothly. "But Daniel's sleeping at the moment, so you'll have to come back some other time.
Or, better yet, don't."

Her eyes were sharp and unforgiving. Part of me was thrilled that I was right about her previous

behavior all being an act designed to put Daniel off his guard, but I had to admit - if only to myself -
that there was something a tad bit intimidating about her. Maybe it was just the complete
transformation from innocent young reporter to the hard-nosed journalist I now saw in front of me.

"Well, that’s just fine." Her lips were slightly pursed. "I'm going to write the story either way. I

just thought it would be better to get it from the horse's mouth, but I can fill in the blanks on my own."

"That sounds an awful lot like a threat," I said. She was peering over my shoulder, like she thought

she was going to see him lurking behind me.

"Oh, it's not a threat at all," she said, finally retreating. "It's just a statement of fact. Thank you very

much for your cooperation, Mrs. Thorne."

I slammed the door in her face.

***

A few days passed, and I'd almost forgotten about the encounter. So far, she was the only one who
actually had the proverbial balls to come to the apartment. Daniel's phone had stopped ringing off the
hook since he put his tech guys on the task of blocking the numbers of every single journalist he had in
his contacts, which made things almost preternaturally calm. If I let my mind wander, I could almost
forget for a moment that we were a household in crisis.

But just for a moment.
As I walked into the living room one day, Daniel actually looked up at me. That was either a good

sign, or a bad sign. Probably bad.

"You didn't tell me someone came here."
The statement was vague enough that I could have played dumb, but there wasn't any point.
"I didn't think it was worthwhile," I said. "You were asleep and I wasn't going to wake you up. I

didn't tell her anything."

He silently spun his computer around so I could see the screen.
It was a gossip blog, an offshoot of one of the big papers. It was headed off with a giant picture of

me, obviously snapped from the other side of the street while I was headed home from yoga. I looked
like a complete mess, of course.

Underneath was the text - not long enough to qualify as an article, really, as I'd suspected. But they

still managed to spin it into something. I couldn't bring myself to read the whole thing from top to
bottom, but the words that jumped out at me were bad enough:

…disheveled and disgruntled, refusing to wake Mr. Thorne for a comment on the current

events. She slammed the door in our reporter's face…

"Oh my God, are they serious?" I shook my head at the screen, turning away when I couldn't stand

to read anymore.

"I wondered the same thing," said Daniel, flatly. "Did you really slam the door in her face?"
"She wouldn't leave," I said, frowning. "Are you really going to blame this on me?"
"You have to treat these people with kid gloves," said Daniel, in a tone that suggested I was just a

bit stupid for not already knowing this. "They can destroy you. It doesn't matter if they're rude to you,
you can't be rude to them."

"Sure I can! People do it all the time," I insisted.
"Yes, but you're not Russell Crowe. And neither am I, for that matter." He slammed the laptop shut

and got to his feet. "In the future, just let me deal with the journalists, all right?"

"She came to the front fucking door!" I found myself shouting. "Of the place where I live! I'm

supposed to just what, ignore that? Or wake you up, when you're finally sleeping peacefully for the
first time in weeks and weeks? I just thought you should get a good night's sleep for once!"

"Once again, just let me handle it. Whatever 'it' is. Don't try to figure it out yourself, don't question

whether or not it demands my attention. Just assume that it does."

"Yeah, okay, sure. I'll make sure to do that." I turned and stormed out of the room, retreating to my

studio and slamming the door. I didn't know what the hell he expected me to do. I had no idea how to
handle any of this, and it was all being dumped in my lap at once, and quite frankly, I still thought I'd
handled the situation with that journalist pretty well.

I wasn't about to start playing nice with these people - for what? So they could just turn around

and write more lies to suit whatever they wanted their headline to be? I couldn’t believe that Daniel
still thought there was a way to reason with them - after everything they’d said about him, how could
he?

I found myself alone again that night, cracking open a bottle of wine and sitting a silent kitchen

with my thoughts. Not the most ideal situation, but Lindsey had found a way to work in an important
business meeting into her trip, and Daniel was meeting with his broker again to go over what the
technical team had found.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the magazine article. The more I drank, the more I stewed. Right

about the time I realized I ought to stop, I decided to open another bottle instead and rummaged a pen
and paper out of one of the drawers.

Handle them with kid gloves. Fuck that. I was going to offer them a piece of my mind instead.

Specifically, Tim Calamazzo, the writer credited for "Daniel in the Lion’s Den."

My lip curled into an involuntary snarl just thinking about it.

Dear Mr. Calamazzo,

It’s quite likely that you don’t know me. Or perhaps you do. Either way, I doubt you gave me

any sort of consideration when you wrote your "article" entitled "Daniel in the Lion’s Den,"
featured in the most recent edition of the magazine. I have to give credit where credit is due - your
article was compelling enough to suck me in, initially, which is more than it ought to have done.
You can give yourself a pat on the back for that one.

The headline caught my eye first. I’m sure you were quite pleased with yourself when you came

up with it, although it does imply a certain level of sympathy that neither you, nor most of your
colleagues in the press, seem to feel for the article’s subject. After all, in the Biblical story, we’re
not meant to identify with the lions. Perhaps you intended it to be ironic?

After a promising beginning, I was deeply disappointed to open the article and find that it was

another cheap shot at a man who has reached heights of success that you yourself, Mr. Calamezzo,
will almost certainly never see.

I hesitated here, but only for a moment. I was on a roll. I scribbled feverishly, my pen moving

across the page at an almost frightening speed. The words were coming into my head faster than I
could get them down.

At this point it might be worth mentioning that Daniel Thorne in my husband. I am almost

certain that this fact will cause you to completely ignore my letter, as I’m clearly too close to the
subject to have any kind of objectivity on the matter. Which is all that matters to people like you,
isn’t it? Making sure that you don’t accidentally treat your subjects as human beings. God forbid.
But even if objectivity is your only goal, even you should be able to realize that the current tone
being taken in the media - by yourself as well, Mr. Calamezzo - is borne of jealousy, greed, and
petty anger that you’ve decided to direct at an innocent man.

Daniel Thorne will almost certainly be acquitted of these ridiculous charges (though if he isn’t,

I imagine he’ll have people like you to thank for it). But regardless of the outcome of his trial, he
will always be remembered as the man who cheated, who took unfair advantage of a system that is
set up to favor people like him. Everyone who reads an article like yours is going to assume his
guilt, because they know that if they were in his shoes, they would have done it. This is their sole
criterion for judging him. Their own greed, and their own guilt.

I hope you are happy with your hand in this. I hope you sleep well at night, Mr. Calamezzo. I

truly, truly do.

Yours Sincerely,
Mrs. Madeline Thorne

When I let the pen drop on the counter, I realized my hands were shaking. My hands, my arms, my

whole body - the hysteria that I’d been stifling and stuffing down bubbled to the surface, and suddenly
I was crying. The tears were big and hot as I sat there on the kitchen stool, rocking back and forth,
hugging myself tightly. Now that I’d opened the floodgates, there was no closing them again. I sobbed
and sobbed. Droplets fell, mercifully blurring the words I had just written. I already hated myself for
writing them.

I stood up suddenly, picking up the paper and crunching it into a tiny ball. I shoved it down into

the kitchen compactor as far as it would go, pushing it harder than I needed to, slamming it down with
my hand again and again and again. I felt a sharp pain and recoiled, seeing a few drops of blood land
on the trash before I realized I must have cut myself on something buried in there. I kicked the cabinet
shut and ran my hands under hot water, scrubbing with anti-bacterial dish soap and strangely relishing
the harsh sting in my open wound.

I shut off the tap and dried off, taking a look at the cut before I wrapped it in a paper towel. It was

rough and jagged. Ugly. And a result of my own stupidity and foolish, drunken anger.

I sank to the floor, holding the towel tightly against my hand, and cried until I had nothing left.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The next morning, when Daniel announced he was meeting with a journalist - on purpose - I thought
he’d really, truly lost his mind.

I stared at him for a moment, trying to read if he could possibly be joking. But no. He wasn’t. "A

journalist? Are you serious?"

"No, no. Well, yes." He fiddled with his watch. "She's not like the others."
"No, of course she's not."
He let out a long breath that wasn't exactly a sigh. "She's in contact with someone else at the same

firm where my broker works, and she thinks she has some inside information about the way the trade
might have actually happened. Something they're not telling me, in the interest of protecting their
reputation."

"And what's her interest in this whole thing?"
"She wants to get the exclusive story, of course." Daniel was unfastening and re-fastening his…

cufflinks? Seriously, cufflinks? To meet with a journalist?

"Aren't you a little overdressed for a secret rendezvous?"
Daniel blinked at me. "She's coming here," he said. "Did I not mention that?"
Christ.
"No, you didn't," I said, standing up. "Should I get dressed?"
"We can't meet in public," he said, seeming not to hear me. "She wouldn't discuss it in any detail

over the phone, but I have a feeling she has something solid to implicate some of the people there. We
don't want any of it to get out until we know for sure what's really going on."

"Well, sure." I rummaged through my closet. Even if she didn't care, I didn't want to look like a

schlub next to Daniel. I had enough of that feeling already.

I ended up pulling on a black pencil skirt and a turquoise blouse. I tied my hair back and popped

in some diamond stud earrings - I didn't want to look like I was trying too hard, but I also didn't want
to look like the help. My encounter with the girl last week had taught me that it was best to at least
pretend that I had a touch of class about me, otherwise I'd live to regret it.

The door buzzer went off sooner than I was expecting. Daniel rushed to answer it, and I hung back

a little, standing near the kitchen and trying to look dignified.

He opened the door, and I heard them exchange greetings. I stepped forward, slowly.
What I saw made me wish I'd stayed locked in the bedroom.
She was tall and elegant, her sleek black pumps putting her almost at an even height with Daniel.

Her outfit wasn't terribly dissimilar to mine, but while she looked like a model who'd stepped out of a
catalog shoot, I looked like I was playing dress-up in someone else's clothes. Her hair bounced on her
shoulders, catching the light just so. And still, even with all the trappings of femininity surrounding
her, it was very clear that she was not someone to be trifled with.

I took a deep breath, holding my chin high.
"And you must be Mrs. Thorne." She was advancing on me. I extended my hand, and she took it in

a firm, confident grip. "I'm Genevieve Winters. I promise you, I'm going to do everything in my power
to get your husband acquitted of this ridiculous charge."

"Isn't that his lawyer's job?" I blurted. Behind me, I saw Daniel pinch the bridge of his nose.
"Well, yes and no." She wasn't taken aback, not in the slightest. Of course she wasn't. "But I have

access to certain channels - people who might be more reluctant to talk to a lawyer. But they know
and trust me. They know I protect my sources. I'll be working with Mr. Thorne very closely to make
sure we do everything we can to find the truth."

"Great," I said, with a frozen smile. She finally released my hand.
"All right, Daniel," she said, turning back towards him. "Let's talk about what we've got so far."
I wasn't sure if I was meant to leave or not. I stood awkwardly at the corner of the living room,

until Genevieve shot me a warm smile.

"Join us if you'd like," she said. "Unless Mr. Thorne has any objections."
Daniel blinked. "No, of course not."
I sat down on the edge of the sofa, still feeling strangely unwelcome. Genevieve was unfastening a

black leather binder, pulling out papers and stacking them into neat little piles on our coffee table.

"Now," she said. "Before we begin, I want to make it clear that I'm not accusing anyone of

anything. I just want to tell you what I know, so that you can move forward with the information as
you choose. As I was telling Mrs. Thorne, I have connections that could help you in building your
defense."

Daniel nodded. "I understand," he said.
"So," she said, taking a deep breath. "It's neither here nor there, but I happen to have a prior

business relationship with someone who works at the same firm as your broker. After your accusation
hit the news, it just happened to come up in conversation. My source thought there was something
suspicious about the whole thing." She paused, and looked up at both of us briefly. "You understand,
I'm sure, that I can't reveal his identity."

"Of course," said Daniel. "Go on."
"Well," she said. "It took a while to get the information out of him, but he finally admitted that he'd

'seen something.'" She leaned forward a little. "Your broker has been meeting with someone in
secret."

Daniel's eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch.
"Now," she said, raising her hands, "I have no way of knowing anything, mind you. This is all

secondhand, and it's all very vague. But, I know my source pretty well. I can't figure out what motive
he'd have for lying about something like this. He says one day, he just happened to be in the parking
garage across the street in the late morning. Most of the employees don't ever have to park there, but I
guess there was a big board meeting that day, and he was running late, so that's where he ended up.
Total coincidence. Anyway, while he's there, he says he sees your broker meeting with someone. He
doesn't want to get any closer to get a good look, but your broker comes away from it with a big, fat
envelope. Suddenly, my friend remembers seeing your broker with a brand new watch, bragging
about his new car - and he thinks to himself - well, somebody's accepting some money on the side for
something. But until your story hits the news, he doesn't really think anything of it."

"That's a bit…" Daniel hesitated. "Tenuous, don't you think?"
"Hey," said Genevieve. "It's something, which is better than what you had."
"Oh - of course." Daniel shook his head. "I appreciate this very much. Don't get me wrong. I'm

just…I'm trying to put the pieces together, that's all."

"Well," said Genevieve. "All this time, he's presumably been telling you some kind of story. I

don't know if it's the same one that the press has been hearing - some kind of glitch? He had nothing to
do with the trade? That sounds a little convenient to me. What kind of computer glitch initiates entire
trades on its own and leaves no trace, other than looking exactly like your broker did it himself?"

"Well, I don't know," said Daniel. "And I suppose that's where I'm at the disadvantage."
"It would be valuable, I think," said Genevieve, "to get an audience with some of their on-site tech

support, alone. Although even if you did, they might not be too hasty to implicate someone else at the
firm. Even if all signs point in that direction. Still, there might be some valuable information to glean
that way."

"Can your source provide any further information? Or can you?"
"Well," said Genevieve. "It's possible for me to investigate this further. But I'm going to need

something from you in return."

"How much?" Daniel wanted to know.
"Oh, no," she said, smiling. "No, no, no. A feature. I want to do an article on you and your home

life. Nothing inflammatory, I promise. You'll have final approval on everything. I want to portray you
as a normal guy just going through the ringer on something, not necessarily as innocent or guilty,
just…someone readers can relate to. Everyone's hungry for any information about you that they can
get, and you know they're going to get it somewhere if they don't get it from me. So you might as well
put something out there that casts you in a sympathetic light."

Daniel was thinking. "Final approval?"
"Absolutely," said Genevieve. "You have my word."
"In that case," said Daniel. "Find out everything you can about what my broker's doing, and I'll

give you your story."

Genevieve smiled. "As it so happens, I have some questions prepared for an interview. Can we

get started now?"

"All right."
I felt like an intruder. I went to get a glass of water, which neither of them seemed to notice, and

afterwards I couldn't bring myself to sit back down. I settled for retreating to my studio with the door
open, so I could hear their conversation. And, of course, the occasional peals of laughter that rang out,
bouncing against the vaulted ceilings. Daniel only chuckled quietly, but more easily and more often
than I'd been able to make him do in a long, long time.

I sat in front of my half-finished drawing, regarding it with something akin to anger. Why couldn't I

figure out what was wrong with it? It just wasn't right. It wasn't done, even though it might seem so, to
an untrained eye. There was something missing, and I didn't know what it was. I closed my eyes,
trying not to hear the conversation in the living room, but unable to completely shut it out.

I took a deep breath and tried to take myself back to the memories of the willow tree that had

inspired my drawing in the first place. What was I missing? What had I forgotten? I remembered the
feeling of the leaves against my skin, quivering in the breeze. I remembered feeling sheltered under
the drooping branches, closed off from the world in a little fortress that was just for me. I used to go
there with a book, or a sketch pad, sitting cross-legged on the dirt between two of the biggest roots
and stay there for hours, until someone came out to call me in for dinner. A few, very specially
selected friends knew about it too - but few of them seemed to have the same connection with the
place that I did. When I was there, I preferred to be alone.

Of course.
My eyes popped open. I picked up my pencil and began to sketch furiously. It was so obvious, I

couldn't believe it had taken me this long.

It was me. I was missing from the drawing.
I'd never been one for drawing self-portraits, but this wasn't quite like that - the girl I was drawing

could have been anyone, really. She was turned away, her face hidden from view, her knees hugged
up to her chest as she looked out over the horizon. I couldn't remember the last time I had drawn this
fast. Every single line and curve and shadow fell in exactly the place I wanted it to, and when I was
finished, I let out a huge sigh as if I'd been holding my breath for weeks and weeks. And in a way, I
had been.

I stood up and stepped back, closing my eyes for a moment, and then re-opening them. It was an

old trick I'd been doing for years - something to reset my brain and give me a fresh look at something
I'd been staring at for far too long.

It was beautiful.
I'd never admit that I thought so, but it was. Everything about it - the composition, the light and

shadow, everything - there was absolutely nothing about it that I would change.

Of course, this was after I'd already sent everything away to the galleries. Of course. It was just

my luck that they'd never see my best work.

I'd been in such a rut, art-wise, for so long. I could admit that now. Nothing I'd drawn in the last

two years was as good as this. Why? Was there something about feeling isolated and alone that really
brought out the best in me? That was pretty damn depressing.

I was startled to hear someone tapping on my door frame. I turned around to see Daniel and

Genevieve standing there, Daniel looking a bit sheepish.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Thorne," said the journalist, coming into the room, her eyes glued on my drawing.

"I didn't want to disturb you, but…that's absolutely beautiful, were you working on that just now?"

"Yeah," I said. "What, do you want to write about it?"
"Actually," she said, "I was thinking of whipping up a little human interest story about both of you.

This would be perfect. Would you mind if I photographed you with the drawing?"

I frowned a little, my hands instinctively going up to smooth my hair. "I don't know, maybe I'd

better go…touch up," I said.

"Don't be ridiculous, you look stunning." Genevieve gestured towards my drawing stool. "Why

don't you sit down there, pick up your pencil. Just - yes, like that, sit at a slight angle. Let me get my
camera." She ran out of the room.

"You do your own photography?" Daniel called after her.
"Absolutely, whenever they'll let me." She hurried back, fiddling with a lens that was practically

the size of my forearm. "It was my passion, actually, but the photography program at my school was
incredibly competitive. I just studied it on the side while I went after a career in journalism, but let
me tell you, sometimes I wonder if I ended up in the wrong field."

"Oh, I doubt that." Daniel was smiling. I let out a massive sigh.
"All right, now just…yes, yes, that's perfect." Genevieve lifted her camera and I heard the shutter

snap a few times. "The lighting in here is absolutely wonderful. This is going to look amazing."

"Did you want a few of me?" Daniel asked.
Genevieve seemed to consider this for the first time. "Hmm…well, I guess it wouldn't be bad to

get an exclusive of you. I was just thinking I'd use one of the archive photos, but…sure, I can do
something. Maybe something sort of homey and relaxed-looking, something to make you look like an
ordinary person?"

Daniel looked down at his shoes. "Should I change?"
"Maybe take your jacket off," Genevieve suggested. "Roll up your sleeves, sit at the kitchen island

with a mug? No - you know what would be even better? Maybe if we moved that basil planter over to
the island and you were watering it. Nice and domestic."

"You really think that's going to change my image?" Daniel asked, but he was following her

directions already, tossing his jacket onto the back of a chair. I followed them both out to the kitchen.

"It can't hurt," said Genevieve. "Anyway, you were the one who wanted your picture taken."
She snapped a few of the pose she'd suggested. When she was done, she gestured me over and

showed me the view screen on the camera.

"There," she said. "Is that the Daniel Thorne you know and love?"
I could feel his eyes on me as I looked at the incredibly domestic, incredibly fake image - Daniel

posing with an empty watering can, over a plant he barely even knew existed. His lips were slightly
parted, as if he were in the middle of a conversation with someone just out of frame. I studied his face
like  I  was  seeing  it  for  the  first  time  -  his  cheekbones,  high  and  sharp,  and  those  deep  green  eyes
framed  by  long  (but  not too  long)  lashes.  Paired  with  heavy  eyebrows  and  a  strong  jaw,  they
somehow made him look both strikingly gorgeous and unmistakably masculine.

People were going to look at him, and then they were going to look at me, sitting next to my stupid

little drawing, and think: her?

I shook myself out of it.
"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, that's perfect."

***

The article ran just a few days later, but I found I couldn’t look at it. One afternoon, I came home from
grocery shopping after having almost successfully forgotten about the whole thing, only to be
reminded of it in the oddest way possible.

Just as I was hanging up my purse, I heard a buzzing noise coming from deep inside my pocket. It

was my phone going off. The number was local, but I didn't recognize it. I almost ignored the call. But
for some reason I couldn't explain, I picked it up, took a deep breath, and answered.

"Hello?"
There was a beat.
"Hello - Madeline Thorne?" The voice on the other end sounded…almost familiar, but I couldn't

quite place it.

"Yes?"
"This is Curtis Gossard, I own the Starra Gallery downtown?"
I had to stifle a hysterical laugh bubbling up inside me. Of all the times for this to happen.
"Sure," I said. "Of course."
"I just happened to open the business section yesterday, and I could hardly believe what I saw.

Your drawing, of course - and you. I'm guessing you don't remember, what with everything you've
been going through, but we ran into each other in a liquor store not too long ago. I'd just gotten back
from France and I didn't have my ID."

"Oh my God," I said. "Of course. I…I had no idea who you were."
"Neither did I." He was smiling - I could hear it in his voice. "I mean - who you were, obviously I

know who I am. Most of the time, anyway. But - can I call you Madeline?"

"Most people just call me Maddy."
"Maddy, I have to tell you, I couldn't believe how beautiful it was. I remembered seeing your

name on a portfolio that came in a few months back, so I dug it out and took a good look at it. I don't
mean to say - we just get so much, you know, I can't possibly look at everything, and most of the time
when these businessmen's trophy wives get it into their head that they're going to be artists, they're

about as wrong as you can get. So I didn't give you a second thought, at first, without even opening the
folder. I don't mind telling you how wrong I was. Your work is beautiful. I have a showing next month
for local artists and I was holding a few spots for friends, but they got sucked into the corporate
world and they don't have time for me anymore. Would you be able to step in? I understand if you're
too busy, but…I just wanted to give it a shot, because I'd love to show your drawings."

"No, of course. I'll…I'll find the time." There was no way I was saying no to this, even if it was

guaranteed to be overshadowed. It was my dream. Even if it wasn't happening the way I wanted, I had
to take the opportunity.

"Great, fantastic. I'll mail you something with all the details. I want to show that piece of the girl

with the willow tree, obviously. And I've already picked out some other pieces from your portfolio.
It's really impressive work. I'm sorry, I don't mean to repeat myself."

"It's fine," I said, a genuine smile crossing my face for the first time in a while. "Trust me, I don't

mind. You can flatter me any day."

"Well, I'm not even trying to flatter you. I'm not just saying this because you could buy and sell me.

I really, really do like your work."

"Thank you," I said. "I never wanted to think that anyone would show me just because of my

husband, or his money. I know that's silly."

"It's not silly at all. I don't blame you." He hesitated. "Do you think there's any way…could you

bring the willow drawing here? I really want to envision where I'm going to place it, and it's hard if I
don't have something to play around with. There's no rush, but sometime in the next few weeks?"

"Oh - sure. Can I just stop by?"
"Pretty much any time at the gallery, I'm always here. I'd love to meet you. Again. You know,

properly."

"Likewise." I paused. "Thanks, Curtis. I really appreciate the opportunity."
"My pleasure," he said. "I just wish it could have come at a better time."
"Yeah," I said. "Me too."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Daniel was meeting with Genevieve again the next morning, so I ended up folding my drawing into a
big portfolio and taking it down to the gallery as soon as I'd had my coffee. I hoped Curtis hadn't been
kidding about being there all the time. I knew from my days as an art student that "all the time" often
meant something different to artists than it did to the rest of the world, and it usually started sometime
after noon.

A bell above the door tinkled lightly as I pushed it open. I was immediately surrounded by the

smell of cedar and the strange atmosphere that all galleries had - I'd always assumed it was a result of
the temperature controls that often ruled these places, but I'd never actually asked.

I headed towards the back. It looked like the door to someone's office was hanging open, and a

light was on inside. I stepped forward and rapped lightly on the wall next to the door frame.

Curtis looked up. I did recognize him now that I saw him - salt and pepper hair, with stubble on

his chin that was almost completely gray. He was tall and slender and he dressed like an art gallery
owner - charcoal slacks and a dark turtleneck, which somehow worked on him.

"Maddy!" he said, jumping to his feet and running over to me with his hand extended. "I'm so

happy you're here. I didn't expect to see you for a while."

"Well, there's a lot of…lulls," I said, shaking his hand. "Right now there's not much going on. It’s

nice to have a distraction, actually."

We talked shop for a while, and he started asking me about my art. I couldn’t remember the last

time someone had been interested in this aspect of my life. I started telling him how I’d first been
inspired to start drawing, and why I’d ended up studying graphic design instead, despite what I
actually wanted to do.

"Anyway, I’m so glad you could take the time to come down," he said, after a lull in the

conversation.

"No problem. Like I said, there’s not a lot happening. And even if there was, I don’t think there’s

much I could do to help out."

"Sure, sure," he said. "But I have no doubt that he appreciates you being around to support him, at

any rate."

"Yeah," I said. "I guess. Not that you'd know it." I didn't know why I was being so candid with

Curtis, when he was essentially a stranger, but it was a relief to be able to talk about it to someone.

Curtis frowned a little bit. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up something painful. Here, sit down."

He pulled out a chair.

"You didn't. I did." I sat down, slowly. "It's just been hard on both of us, I guess. This whole thing.

But him especially, I mean, it's his reputation. It's his life."

"But it's your life too," said Curtis, gently. And to my utter humiliation, I felt tears threatening to

gather in the corners of my eyes. It was just such a relief to hear someone say it, besides me. Before I
could stop them, they trickled out and started rolling down my cheeks. "Oh, no, honey - I really am
sorry," he said, jumping up and grabbing an industrial-sized roll of paper towels from behind him. "I

don't think I have any tissues, sorry, but here - I really didn't mean to upset you."

"It's not your fault," I managed, tearing a piece off the roll and dabbing at my eyes. "It's just been

so stressful and I don't get much of an opportunity to talk about it, you know, you're always afraid
someone's going to tell the…" I looked up at him, suddenly, realizing that I had absolutely no reason
to trust that he wouldn't turn around and tell this exact story to a blog or newspaper for a quick buck.
DANIEL THORNE'S MARRIAGE IN TROUBLE? TEARFUL WIFE TELLS SOURCE SHE FEELS
IGNORED. "I'm sorry - I really shouldn't -" I stood up suddenly, the chair scraping the floor behind
me. "Let's just talk about the installment, okay?" My forced cheerfulness was clearly throwing him off
a little bit, but he smiled back and went along with it.

"Okay, well, I'd love to take a look at the drawing in person if you don't mind." He gestured

towards the portfolio, which was still clutched to my chest.

"Oh, of course." I handed it over, taking a few deep breaths. Get it together, Maddy.
"I love this," he said, softly, staring down at the drawing. "It almost…it reminds me of being a kid,

you know? That feeling of being alone, but not lonely. Having all that time to waste. The days just
seemed to go on forever. Somehow it never seems to be like that anymore." He smiled at me. "I want
to put this one front and center. Come over here, I'll show you what I have planned."

I followed him out to the one of the freestanding walls in the gallery, right in the middle. It seemed

like the focal point of the whole place, which made me feel slightly queasy. He held up the pieces
he'd selected, showing me several different arrangements he was thinking of.

"Of course, these won't be here," he said, waving his hand over the current installments. "So we'll

have plenty of room to play with. What do you think for a backdrop? If I painted the wall a different
color, it would really stand out."

"I think it stands out plenty as it is," I said, looking around the room. "Are you sure they wouldn't

look better somewhere a little less…conspicuous?"

"Absolutely not," he said, firmly. "I want these to be the first things people see when they walk in.

Do you think you'll be able to make the show? It's, uh, the twenty-sixth - starts at five pm. I'm not sure
how late it'll run, but if there's any possible way you can make it, I'd really appreciate having you
here."

I swallowed. I hadn't even really thought of that. I when I used to dream of having my art shown in

galleries, of course I always pictured myself standing beside it and talking about my inspiration to all
the interested parties. But now - if I showed, I'd be inundated by reporters and hassled by everyone
who recognized my name...

"I can keep it quiet, if it helps," he said. "Not publish your name in any of the announcements. You

can be a surprise guest." He smiled. "I'll give you some time to think about it. I'll understand if you
can't, but I really hope that you can."

"Thanks, Curtis." I shook his hand warmly. "I really…I really appreciate everything."
"Of course," he said. "I couldn't be happier to have you." He hesitated. "Oh, and - one other thing -

I know you're probably not used to people acting like human beings around you anymore, but I
promise everything we talked about here today will stay between us. Okay? So no worries on that
front."

I let out a breath that I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "Thank you," I said. "That's very nice of

you to say."

"And I mean it." He was still holding my hand in his, and after a moment, he finally seemed to

realize what he was doing. He shook his head and let me go, abruptly. "Hang in there, Maddy. I hope
I'll see you soon."

"Yeah, me too."
I walked away, with my drawing tucked under my arm. I was going to have some prints made and

have it framed in something simple before I handed it over to him for the actual show. If he wanted to
change it that was his prerogative, but I just wanted to feel like it was protected. There weren't many
things in my life that I felt I was in complete control of, but my art was one of them, and I wanted it to
stay that way.

***

I knew Daniel would still be out when I got home, and the silence of the apartment as I shut the door
attested to that. I thumbed through the mail on the hallway table, then suddenly heard faint noise
issuing from somewhere nearby.

My phone was ringing. I fumbled it out of my purse, staring dully at the number for few moments

before I recognized it.

Oh, great. This was just what I needed.
"Hi, dad." I tucked the phone between my shoulder and my ear as I slipped out of my jacket. "How

are you?"

"I was going to ask how you are," he said. "We've been watching the news. Your mother thought I

should call."

I let out a long breath.
"Okay," I said.
"Are you feeling all right?" My dad cleared his throat. "You looked awfully disheveled in that

picture."

"I was coming home from yoga, dad. I always look like that when I get out."
"Yoga?" My dad repeated, like he'd never heard the word before. "Well, all I know is, you didn't

really look like you had yourself together. If you're going to have your picture in the paper, you really
should clean yourself up a little bit."

"First of all, it wasn't in the paper, it was on a blog. And second of all, I shouldn't even have to

point this out, but I had no idea they were taking my picture. You're familiar with the concept of
paparazzi, yes?" I grabbed a cup out of the cabinet and slammed it down on the granite countertop so
hard that it cracked a little.

"Sweetie, I'm just worried about you," he said. "You don't have to get defensive."
"Well, thanks. I appreciate it." I squeezed my eyes shut, tightly. "How's mom?"
"Worried about you."
I took a long, deep breath.
"Well, tell her not to worry. Daniel's got one of the best lawyers out there, we're going to be fine.

It's just going to drag out for a while because these things do."

"Oh, well." My dad sighed. "I guess if he's going to find a way to weasel out of it, that's all right."
"He's not….weaseling out of anything," I said. "He didn't do it."
"Honey," he said, in the most condescending tone I could imagine. "You don't know the first thing

about what rich people do."

"I actually think I might, dad. I've been married to one for two years."
"Insider trading is how people with a lot of money turn it into more money. Everybody does it, if

they have the opportunity. Your Daniel was unlucky enough to get caught, but I promise you, that's the
only thing that makes him different from most of the others."

"You have no idea what you're talking about," I snapped, grabbing my phone and switching it to

my other ear. I felt like my head was going to explode. "You know, for once, it would be nice to just

get some support from you. You know, just, hey, honey, we're rooting for you . A little less judgment
disguised as advice and concern. That would be really fantastic. Just once."

"You know, I just called to be nice," my dad said, sternly. "I thought maybe there was something

we could do to help. You don't have to be so hostile."

"Well, next time you want to be nice and help out, you could do that by not calling, if you don't

have anything positive to say. Okay? Okay."

I hung up, throwing my phone down on the counter and sitting down heavily on one of the chairs.
"Your dad?" came Daniel's voice from behind me.
I turned around. "How long have you been standing there?"
He walked over and sat down beside me, letting his hand rest gently on my back, right between my

shoulders. I let out a massive sigh and sagged, leaning on the counter with my elbows and letting my
head hang between my arms.

"Yeah," I said, finally. "It was my dad."
I'd never talked much about my relationship with my parents. The truth of the matter was, there

really wasn't much to say. From the way we talked to each other, anyone on the outside would assume
that there had been a huge blowout at some point, from which none of us had ever fully recovered. But
that wasn't really true. We simply didn't get along. We never really had.

"I'm sorry," he said.
"You're sorry?" I scoffed. "This is still your cross to bear, not mine."
"Maddy," he said, taking a deep breath. "I know I've been…" he drifted off, then started again.

"What I'm trying to say is, if you need to talk about it, you can."

I shook my head, finally lifting it back up to look at him.
"He's just…he's just being the way he is," I said. "He thinks he knows everything, and he thinks it's

okay  to  be  hurtful  and  judgmental  as  long  as  his  intentions  are  good.  He  makes  up  his  mind  about
something  as  soon  as  he  sees  even  the  first  little  hint  of  it,  and  no  matter  what  you  say  about  it
afterwards, you can't change his mind. So I guess in a way he's like everybody else out there. He sees
'billionaire'  and  'illegal  insider  trading'  and  he  just  assumes  he  knows  the  whole  story.  I  tell  him
you're innocent and he thinks I'm naïve. To him, I'm still a stupid little girl who doesn't know how the
world works."

"You believe it, then?"
I frowned at him. "Believe what?"
"That I'm innocent?"
His face was soft and open in a way I hadn't seen…well, since our second honeymoon. I reached

out and grabbed his hand, holding it tightly.

"Of course," I said. "Did you really think I didn't?"
He shrugged, smiling a little. "I wouldn't necessarily expect you to," he said. "But thank you.

That's very nice of you to say."

"Well, I'm glad you appreciate it, at least." I sighed again, twisting my neck a little until I heard a

pop. I rubbed my shoulder, feeling the muscles stiff and tightly knotted underneath my fingers. "I
just…I really could have done without hearing from him today."

"He probably does want to help you," Daniel said, quietly. "I know that's not necessarily what you

want to hear, but…he loves you, I'm sure he does, even if he doesn't understand. He doesn't want to
show empathy because he's afraid you're going to get hurt if he doesn't point you on the right path. Or
what he thinks is the right path, at any rate."

"I know," I said. "Really, I do, it's just…you'd think, after all these years, he'd have some kind of

faith in my ability to manage my own life. Make my own decisions, from time to time. You know?"

"I'm sure it's very hard for him," said Daniel. He was looking out the window, at the birds sitting

on the windowsill. "He doesn't ever want to feel like he's failed you, but he doesn't understand what
you need from him."

"I try to tell him. He doesn't want to hear it."
"I know." Daniel took a deep breath, stretching his arms out in front of him. "My father was from

the same generation as yours. They have a different perspective on raising children, I think. They
wanted to mold us to their idea of what a person should be, rather than taking any kind of cues from
who we might seem to want to be. They want to control our lives because they feel we're not capable.
My dad…I mean, before he went on that fishing trip that he never came back from, my dad was
always giving me unsolicited advice.

“It didn't matter that I was obviously doing just fine on my own. It didn't matter how successful I

was being. It was always just pure dumb luck. There was always some better way I could be doing it,
if only I put a little more thought into it. If only I could be more like him. Never mind that he was an
intermittently employed heating and air conditioning specialist, and I'm….well, who I am. He always
thought it was all just ridiculous nonsense that didn't mean anything. He was convinced it would come
falling down around my ears at any moment, if I didn't follow his advice."

"Well," I said. "I guess I'm glad mine's not the only one. But I wish he'd been easier to get along

with."

Daniel shrugged. "It was what it was," he said. "I've done just fine without him. But if you expect

me to tell you that because my father's gone now you should make more of an effort to get along with
yours, don't worry. I know how impossible it is. Looking back, of course I wish things could have
been different, but I also realize there's absolutely nothing I could have done to change the way he
was. Nobody wants to listen to their own kid tell them how they should conduct themselves, no matter
who that kid might be in the grand scheme of things."

I smiled. "You were always still the baby in diapers who used to spit up all over him."
"Exactly."
"I guess it makes sense," I said, "but would it be so hard for him to just say something nice?"
"He doesn't want to be too soft on you," said Daniel. "As ridiculous as that sounds."
"It does," I said. "It does sound pretty ridiculous."
"Are you all right?" He reached over and pushed my hair back from my forehead, letting his

fingers drift through my hair. I smiled at him.

"I am now," I said. "Thanks."
"I'm sorry about the other day," he said. "I was mad at the blog, not at you."
"I know." I looked down at the counter. What was I supposed to say? It's okay? It wasn't okay.

Nothing was okay, but that wasn't necessarily his fault.

He started talking again after a few moments of silence. "It just…it's infuriating, how little control

you have over your image. I was just starting to learn - I was just starting to get a handle on it. I
thought I'd figured it out, you know - and then something like this happens and suddenly they're saying
things about me - about you - and it has absolutely nothing to do with you. This is exactly the kind of
thing I didn't want happening to someone like you."

"Someone like me?" I shifted in my seat. I was almost afraid to say too much, like I'd somehow

break whatever spell had suddenly inspired him to actually start talking to me.

"You know." He gestured vaguely. "Just…separate from all of this, somebody who never would

have found themselves stalked by paparazzi if it hadn't been for me."

I laughed. "You don't know that," I said, feigning offense. "I'll have you know I could have been a

famous socialite someday without your help, if I wanted to."

"Sure," said Daniel. "And who wouldn't want all that?"
"I won't be happy until I'm featured on the cover of a Celebrities Without Their Makeup exposé,

I'll have you know."

He chuckled, standing up and pulling me against him in a tight hug.
"I've missed talking to you," I said, muffled against his chest.
"I know," he said.
I wanted to say: if you know, why don't you just make more of an effort to talk to me?
But instead I just sat there in silence, with Daniel's arms around me, trying to pretend that it made

everything better. And after a while, it almost did - I almost felt like things were okay between us.
That we were a real couple. A normal couple. That we ever had been.

CHAPTER NINE

The morning of the hearing was a flurry of activity. Daniel changed his suit three times, each time
asking me which one looked the most "responsible." They all looked identical to me. Lindsey
suggested the middle one. I didn't really know what to expect, but I wasn't really nervous. I knew I
was only making an appearance to sit next to him and look young and innocent, so it wasn't exactly a
high-pressure situation. I wore a pastel skirt suit and my hair down, putting on just enough makeup to
make it seem like I wasn't trying.

"The water bill is due," said Daniel at one point, out of the blue.
I stopped in the middle of the living room. "All right?" I said.
"I can't pay it from my bank account. I have the cash, but…what do I do with it? Can I wire them

the money?"

"You just take it to the office. Have you seriously never paid a bill in person before?"
"No. Why would I?"
I sighed. "Give me the money, I'll do it tomorrow."
He looked at me for a moment. "All right," he said. "Later on, I'll give it to you."
"What do you mean, 'later on?' You're going to forget. There's too much going on. Just get it now.

Or tell me where it is, I'll get it." I'd never before concerned myself with the location of his
emergency cash reserves, but now that he was acting cagey about it, I was suddenly very curious.

"No, I'll get it," he said. "Just - not right now."
I rolled my eyes. "Really? Do you want me to stand in the corner with my eyes covered?"
"Maddy, it's nothing personal. I just…I've never told anyone where it is."
"Sure, and we've only been married for…how long now?"
He shot me a look. "Relax," he said. "I'll get you the money."
"Fine, you're the one who wanted the fucking bill paid."
We left for the hearing shortly afterwards, sitting in the backseat of the town car in a stormy

silence. Lindsey sat awkwardly between us, saying nothing, and John, the driver, stayed tight-lipped,
only nodding at us when we got in and out. He'd been looking awfully wan and baggy-eyed lately. I
wondered if Daniel had told him more about the situation than he'd told me. It didn't seem out of the
realm of possibility.

We convened in a small courtroom. The judge was a stern-looking middle-aged man, sitting down

behind his bench with a sigh that said he'd rather be anywhere than here. Lindsey reached out and
patted my hand, giving me an encouraging smile.

"We will now proceed with the initial hearing of Daniel Emmett Thorne's petition for his assets to

be  unfrozen,  pending  the  investigation  of  an  alleged  violation  of  sections  16(b)  and  10(b)  of  the
Securities  Exchange  Act  of  1934.  I  granted  the  Securities  and  Exchange  Commission's  request  to
freeze  Mr.  Thorne's  assets  due  to  concern  that  he  might  be  a  flight  risk."  The  judge  seemed  like  he
was stifling a yawn. "Ms. Greenlee, do you have anything you'd like to say to start us off?"

"Yes, your honor." Daniel's lawyer stood up, clearing her throat. "Thank you for agreeing to meet

with us today. I appreciate that you're very busy, so I'll keep this brief. My client needs to be able to
conduct  his  daily  business,  and  all  of  his  personal  affairs.  He  cannot  do  this  with  a  freeze  order  in
place.  I  understand  the  flight  risk  concern,  but  my  client  not  only  has  no  intention  of  leaving  the
country,  I  highly  doubt  he  would  be  able  to  without  being  recognized.  My  client  is  featured  on  the
covers of magazines on a regular basis, your honor. I'm sure that you've seen them yourself."

The judge made a slight noise of assent.
"Your honor," she went on. "I'm not trying to drum up sympathy for my client. But he is living off a

small amount of cash reserves, and the generosity of family and friends. No matter how rich he is, you
can't expect him to live on nothing while this issue drags on and on."

"I had planned to lift the freeze once he is arraigned in court," said the judge.
"But that could be months from now," Ms. Greenlee insisted.
"I'm aware," said the judge, drily. "I'm also aware, Mr. Thorne, that you have family and friends

helping you out. You're not in any immediate danger of being thrown out on the street, are you?"

Daniel stood up. "No, your honor," he said.
"Well, in that case, I don't see why I need to hurry things along." The judge shuffled some papers

on his bench. "Mr. Thorne, you're a resourceful man. I am absolutely certain that you will find a way
to survive for the next few weeks. As Ms. Greenlee pointed out earlier, I am a busy man, and I'd
appreciate it if you didn't waste my time any further."

Daniel took a deep breath. "I apologize, your honor. That certainly wasn't my intention."
The judge adjusted his glasses. "I'd hate to see any suspicions rise about your sister in connection

with all the assistance she's been giving you. She's not immune to this either, you know."

"Your honor," Ms. Greenlee cut in. "Please - this is ridiculous. There is no need to intimidate my

client. He's done nothing wrong."

"My apologies, Mr. Thorne," the judge intoned. "I certainly never meant to cross any lines. I'll see

you at the trial." And with that, he was standing up and gathering his papers. I sat there on the hard
wooden chair, completely stunned at what had just transpired. Ms. Greenlee looked like she'd been
sucking on a lemon, even more so than usual. She rushed up to the judge, calling after him as he
headed for one of the side doors - "Robert - ROBERT! Wait! I want to talk to you!" But he brushed
her off with a gesture.

She came back to us, dejected.
"I'm sorry, Daniel," she said. "I've never known him to be so hostile. I never would have

suggested this hearing if I thought…"

"It's all right," said Daniel, his face very grim. "I didn't really expect anything different."
But I could tell he was upset. He'd been hoping for a better outcome, of course - we all had. But

the judge obviously had strong personal feelings about the case, for whatever reason, and we
certainly weren't going to change his mind.

I could have sworn there was an actual cloud hovering over our group as we walked out onto the

sidewalk and headed towards the street corner where John was going to pick us up, minus Ms.
Greenlee, who broke off at the parking garage with a polite little wave.

"Well, it's nice to know he'll be the one conducting the trial," said Daniel with a hollow smile.
"Can't you petition the court for someone different, if you think he's biased?" Lindsey looked over

her shoulder. "Shit, I should have asked what’s-her-name."

"Oh, no doubt," said Daniel. "But how will that look? 'I don't like this judge, please send me

another.' Everyone already thinks I'm a rich spoiled brat who just gets whatever he wants. If I get a
new judge, too, on top of everything?"

"But you're entitled to a fair trial," I said, as we climbed into the car. "Everyone is. It doesn't

matter."

"How did it go?" John asked, gingerly.
"Not well," said Daniel. "Don't worry, you'll still get your paycheck," he added, which I assumed

was a wry attempt at humor. It fell flat on John, who looked slightly offended as he pulled away.

"That's not what I'm worried about," he said.
No one responded.
I wished Daniel would just cave and ask for a new judge. This one had left a horribly unpleasant

feeling in my chest, and in some way I couldn't quite explain, it was about more than just the things
he'd said, and the way he'd talked to Daniel. He unnerved me on some other, deeper level I couldn't
quite explain. I just knew things would be much better if someone else presided over the trial, but at
the same time, I could understand Daniel's concern. He didn't want to look demanding and petty right
off the bat, before he even had a chance to make a first impression in his trial.

I wondered how long the arraignment would actually take. I knew from following cases in the

news that things like this often dragged out for years, and I simply couldn't imagine living through
something like that. I knew I had no choice - I certainly wasn't going to leave him - but it already felt
like we'd been slogging through a dismal swamp for God knew how long, and it was about to get
worse.

"I really think it would be better," I said, trying again, more gently, "if you just got a different

judge. I know it's not the best thing, for the sake of appearances, but this is ridiculous. You have to do
something. You can't just lie down and take his abuse, he obviously dislikes you for some reason."

"Maddy, please."
I wasn't sure if that was meant to be Maddy, please let me make my own decisions or Maddy,

please shut up, but either way, I was appropriately cowed. I sat back and stewed quietly in my own
annoyance.

"For what it's worth, Daniel, I think she's right." Lindsey spoke up, finally. "You can't just let

yourself be mistreated, no matter how you think it might look if you start complaining. I don't know
why he was acting like that, but whatever the reason, you don't want him presiding over your trial. It's
only going to make things more difficult."

"I just want some time to think things over!" Daniel said, more loudly than he needed to. "Is that

too much to ask? Both of you, just keep your opinions to yourselves for a few minutes?"

We all sat in silence for the rest of the journey. Poor John, I thought to myself, absurdly. He

looked like he wanted to disappear into his seat, or maybe spontaneously combust and never seen any
of us again.

Once we were home, Daniel stormed up to the bedroom again and sequestered himself. I

wandered aimlessly around the kitchen, and Lindsey turned on the TV in the living room, flipping
through the channels so fast I was sure she couldn't possibly be processing what was on each of them.

"There's a channel guide, you know," I said, flopping down next to her on the sofa.
"Ugh. I don't even want to watch anything," she said. "I just want Danny to stop being such a

shitheel. After everything we've done for him? He's still going to act like a whiny little baby when we
try to give him some very well-placed advice."

"Well, he's under a lot of stress," I pointed out. I couldn’t believe I was defending him.
"Maddy, please." She shook her head at me. "I think he's been treating you worse than anybody.

You don't have to pretend."

I took a deep breath. For some reason, hearing her say it was just too strange. "I don't think he's

been…bad," I said. "He's just preoccupied. I'm pretty low-maintenance anyway."

"But you're sticking by him through all this. You're trying to help out. And all he can think is that

you might…"

I looked at her. "I might what?"
She shook her head vigorously. "Nope, nope, I swore not to tell you. I'm sorry. I should have just

kept my mouth shut. It's stupid, it's a silly little irrational fear that he has and it doesn't have any
bearing on reality and I'm not allowed to tell you - I'm sorry, I just can't."

"Please," I implored, leaning towards her and lowering my voice. "I need to know - if there's

something I can do, anything, if I can just know why he's acting the way he's been lately. It's almost
like he doesn't remember that we're really together, you know? Like we're back to just being…a fake
couple." Now that I said it out loud, I realized how true it was. All this time, I'd been carrying around
the insecurity that came from the fact that our relationship had started as a business arrangement.

"He's just trying to protect himself, that's all," said Lindsey. "He's just trying to…look, if I tell you

this, you have to promise me you won't take it badly. And for the love of God, don't tell him I told
you."

"Of course not," I said, my heart thudding in my chest. "I just want to know. Any hint of what he's

thinking. I don't have a god damn clue and it's driving me crazy."

"He's afraid," said Lindsey, softly. "That's all. He knows you were only with him, in the first

place, because of the money. And I think there's still a part of him that thinks…it's not just you, either.
It's everybody. He always thinks it's about the money, that it couldn't possibly be about him. He thinks
he's not worthy of people's attention on his own, and it's always been that way, ever since he first
started making enough money to wear nice clothes and drive nice cars. He's neurotic about it. He only
tells me about it because I'm his sister. I'm required to care about him whether he's a billionaire or
not."

She smiled, briefly. "But Maddy, I swear to God, it's not about you. It's not that he thinks you're

gold-digger, or anything like that. But all of his previous relationships eventually ended with him
pushing them away because he couldn't convince himself they really cared about him. I mean, he
might have been right. Who knows. But I know you're not like that, and I think he knows it, too. But
he's having a hard time convincing himself."

I bit my lip. "That…makes sense, actually," I said faintly.
"But really, I don't think there's anything you can do. You're already being so supportive, or trying

to at least. But if he's not letting you in, that's all it is. He's just trying to keep you at a distance. He
does it to almost everybody. I know it must be painful as hell, believe me, but I think it might just be
something you have to weather for now. When all this is over, and he looks and sees that you're still
by his side, I think he'll realize how silly it is. But there's too much going on inside his head right
now. He can't see things clearly."

It did make sense. It made perfect sense. Back when we were first "dating," before our fake

marriage and long before our relationship became something real, I'd said something about wanting to
remain friends, and he'd acted like I was just saying it out of obligation. Like I couldn't possibly want
to be friends with him just because of…him. But after all this time, I would have thought he'd have
gotten over that - just a little.

I could sort of understand why he was still afraid, though. He'd given me a lifestyle that was

difficult to walk away from. Some people might have been able to talk themselves into staying, even
if they didn't have feelings for him, just for the money.

I wanted to think he knew me well enough by now, but that wasn't really true, was it? In some

ways, after all this time, we still hardly knew each other at all.

"Thank you, Lindsey," I said. "I promise I won't tell."
"I know you won't, honey." Lindsey leaned over and gave me a sideways hug. "Just hang in there,

okay? Things are going to get a hell of a lot easier once all this calms down."

"Yeah, but how long will that take?"
Lindsey shrugged. "I don't know, really. But eventually, things just sort of get…normal. You'll

adjust to the stress. You both will. Once the whole thing is finally over it'll be like letting out a breath
you've been holding for months and months. But that doesn't mean that every day leading up to that has
to be painful."

"You sound like you have some experience."
"Not quite the same thing," she said. "I took someone to court once. But, I know the feeling, sort of

- it's just like this long nightmare and you start to feel like you're never going to wake up. But
eventually, you do. You wake up, and the world hasn't ended like you thought it would. Everything's
just sort of…carrying on, so you start carrying on with it, even if you don't feel like you know how
anymore."

"Thanks," I said, leaning back on the sofa with a long, deep sigh. "It’s good to know I’m not losing

my mind."

"Hey," said Lindsey, with a smile. "No guarantees."

***

A few days later, I was on my way home from yoga after finally paying the stupid water bill.
Blessedly, no one at the studio ever seemed interested in talking to me beyond the basic pleasantries,
so I never found myself engaged in conversations about Daniel’s troubles - it remained a sanctuary
for me. On impulse, I stepped into the hardware store on the way home, picking up a small bag of
potting soil for the basil plants. I’d noticed the current setup was starting to look a little mildewed,
and I had no idea if it had ever been replaced since I’d moved in.

"Hello?" I called out when I walked in the door. "Anybody home?"
Abject silence greeted me; I wasn’t surprised, really, but I had to admit it was starting to get

lonely around here. I sighed, dropping the potting soil on the counter and bringing the planter over to
the sink. I carefully dug each plant out of the packed-down soil, setting them down gently in the sink.
They were starting to get root-bound.

I pulled out a big garbage bag and shook the planter over it, jostling the old soil to loosen and fall

out.

Thump. Thump.
Okay, that didn’t sound like dirt.
I set the planter aside and peered into the bag.
It was something in plastic. No, somethings. I reached in gingerly and snatched one of them with

two fingers, shaking the loose dirt off as I lifted it out of the bag. It was a Ziploc, an old one, and
there was something rectangular inside it, wrapped in foil.

Oh, Daniel.
"You nutjob," I muttered, knowing what I was going to find even before I unwrapped it.
Oh, yes. It was a stack of hundred dollar bills.
I knelt down, digging further into the garbage bag and pulling out another. And another. And

another. Four packages in all - no wonder the soil was starting to get mildewed. It was amazing that
the plants were doing as well as they were, without being able to drain properly. I wasn’t going to
take the time to count it, but each stack was thick - maybe fifty bills or more.

For some reason, my heart was pounding in my throat. I’d done absolutely nothing wrong, but I

still felt a powerful urge to cover my tracks, and I had no idea how much longer I was going to be
alone. Hastily, I set the bags of money in the sink along with the plants. I took the planter and poured a
thin layer of soil along the bottom, then carefully lined up the money more or less the way I imagined
it had been before.

Something made me stop, halfway between arranging them and grabbing the soil to make the next

layer.

Without knowing exactly why, I hastily opened each bag, unwrapping the stacks and thumbing a

few bills out of each. I stuffed them in the side of my bra, thoroughly re-wrapping the foil and making
sure the bags were pushed flat and sealed. I poured on another layer of soil, then nested the plants in,
taking the time even in my frantic state to massage the roots a little. Then, I filled the rest of the
planter with soil, making sure to pack it down so it didn’t look too fresh.

I folded up what remained of the soil in the package and shoved it into the garbage bag, tying it up

quickly and rushing it to the garbage chute down the hall. Back inside, I swept up the stray dirt into
the dustpan and tossed it out the window, finally replacing the planter in the exact spot where it had
always been.

There - no one would be any the wiser.
I washed my hands, which were still trembling a little. I had no idea why I felt like a criminal,

other than the fact that he obviously didn’t want me to know about this money. But that wasn’t exactly
my fault. If he didn’t want me to stumble across it, he should have done a better job of caring for his
plants.

I walked upstairs, still feeling nervous and guilty, and carefully folded up each of the bills I’d

taken. I tucked them into the very bottom of my makeup bag, underneath the old stuff I hardly ever
used, and zipped it shut. There was absolutely zero chance of him ever coming across it in there.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. There was no doubt in my mind that he had other stashes of

money, elsewhere in the apartment. Whatever he’d been dipping into to pay rent and bills obviously
wasn’t this; it clearly hadn’t been touched in a long time. So it stood to reason that he wouldn’t he
dipping into it for a while longer, to notice that anything was gone.

Anyway, I had a right to look after my own interests. Especially with Daniel behaving the way he

was, and our future being so unsure, I had every right to make sure that I was taken care of.

If I kept telling myself that I didn’t feel guilty, perhaps I could make it come true.

CHAPTER TEN

I still hadn’t told Daniel about my placement at the show.

At first, I’d been telling myself that I was holding onto it until things "calmed down," but then I

realized nothing was going to be calm for a long, long time. After that, I actually tried a few times -
I’d open my mouth to speak, and then I’d look at him, and I’d think - why? He wouldn’t care. He was
too busy with everything he had to worry about. There was no use in me mentioning it, only to see the
underwhelmed look on his face. The hollowness in his voice when he congratulated me, the distracted
way he’d kiss me on the forehead.

But telling Lindsey was another matter entirely. I considered not doing it - there was a chance

she’d tell Daniel, even if I asked her not to. But I supposed I didn’t really mind if he found out. Maybe
I wouldn’t even mind if he cared enough to show up unexpectedly…

Okay, no, that wasn’t going to happen. But maybe telling Lindsey was a good idea.
I waited until Daniel was out, approaching Lindsey in the kitchen while she was puttering around

with something.

"I got a gallery placement," I said. "At a show next month."
Lindsey squealed, running over to hug me. "That's fantastic! I'm so happy for you, sweetie."
"Thanks," I said. "Yeah, I just…I wish it had come at a better time."
"Well, I guess," she said. "But in a way, this is perfect, right? A really nice distraction. You could

hardly ask for a better one. Does Daniel know?"

I shook my head. "I don't think I'm going to bother telling him," I said. "He's just…he's got too

much to worry about as it is, you know? And he wouldn't be able to go, anyway. Too risky to show up
somewhere in public, he could get accosted by every journalist in the city. I'd rather just do this
myself."

Lindsey looked at me for a moment, like she was trying to comprehend the whole thing. "Okay,"

she said, finally. "If you don't want me to tell him, I won't tell him. But I really think you should share
this with him. I know how much he worried about you getting a showing."

I frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, he was talked about it all the time, when you started submitting your portfolios. About how

beautiful your work was, but he was afraid you'd get overlooked and discouraged. He'd be so proud
if he found out."

"Proud? Really?" My head was swimming a little bit. I'd always assumed that Daniel was

enduring my endless prattling about my submissions and strategies thereof just to be polite - I didn't
know he was actually taking an interest in my career as an artist.

"Of course he would. But…I understand, sort of. This is something just for you. Maybe it'll be a

jumping-off point." She smiled. "By the time all this calms down, you'll have a showing every night of
the week, and he'll be appearing at all of them."

"God, I hope not." I had to laugh. "I'd hate for pimping my own art to become a full-time job."
"Nonsense, you can still actually make art during the day." Lindsey grinned. "But your nights will

be exclusively for shilling. That's how Rembrandt did it."

***

It was half past ten at night, and someone was pounding on the door.

A second later, whoever-it-was seemed to remember there was a buzzer, and started leaning on it.

Daniel was muttering to himself as he hurried to answer it, and I wasn’t terribly envious of whoever
he was about to come face-to-face with.

Then, as the door swung open, his face changed completely.
"Gen," he said, in surprise, as Genevieve charged through the door, waving a manila envelope

above her head. Lindsey perked up, over on the sofa.

"We got them," said Genevieve, breathlessly, throwing the envelope down on the kitchen island. "I

haven’t even looked at them yet, not that they’d mean anything to me anyway. But I couldn’t wait to
come and show you." She stopped to catch her breath, looking from my face to Daniel’s and seeming
to notice our confusion for the first time. "Pictures," she said, "pictures of whoever your broker’s
been meeting with."

Daniel snatched up the envelope and ripped it open. I watched over his shoulder, and Lindsey

came over from the living room to join us.

They were very distant and dark, but from the first few shots I could tell that it was a woman.

Daniel started spreading them all out on the counter, leaning down and staring at them closely.

"I know they’re not the greatest," said Genevieve, "but he really did the best he could without

getting spotted. It’s better than nothing, at any rate."

"Yes," said Daniel, slowly. I came closer and started studying the photos too. They certainly

weren’t anything to write home about, but as I let my eyes drift across them, something was nagging at
the back of my mind.

Finally, I reached the last one, and a pang of recognition hit.
"Well?" said Genevieve. "What do you think? Any idea who it might be?"
Daniel was shaking his head. I’d opened my mouth to reply, but I quickly shut it again when I saw

him.

"Sorry," he said, "I don’t think so."
"No, I’m sorry," said Genevieve, sighing heavily. "I was really hoping this would be the

breakthrough. God damn it."

"Well," said Daniel. "I’ll keep them, at any rate. Maybe something will come of them."
"You could try hiring a private investigator," Genevieve said. "I mean - it couldn’t hurt."
Daniel nodded. "Thank you, Gen. I do appreciate it."
I followed him as he showed her out, and as soon as the door was shut, I grabbed his arm.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" I asked.
"What?" he said, frowning at me.
"Are you telling me you don’t see it?" I went back to the kitchen and picked up the last of the

pictures, thrusting it at him. "Really?"

"You’re making an assumption," he said. "Based on paranoia."
"So you do see it. And you know it’s only paranoia if you’re wrong." I waved the picture for

emphasis. "And I’m not wrong."

Lindsey was walking over. "What the hell are you two talking about?" When neither one of us said

anything, she grabbed picture out of my hand.

"Oh," she said, after a moment of frowning at it. "Oh, my God."

***

After Daniel switched the bedroom light off, I was only able to lie there in silence for a few moments
before I spoke.

"You have to say something," I said. "Tell someone. You have to…you have to do something."
He let out a long, slow breath.
"We don’t know," he said. "We don’t know for sure."
"We both saw it," I said. "It’s her."
My eyes hadn’t fully adjusted, but even without being able to see him, I could tell his jaw was

clenched tight. Maybe his fists, too.

"Maddy, we can’t," he said, softly. "After what happened, you and I both…we’re going to see her

around every corner. Tell me this hasn’t been in the back of your mind since that phone call came."

"It hasn’t," I said.
"It’s confirmation bias," he insisted, rolling over. "You can’t even see that woman’s face, in the

picture. We have no idea if it even has anything to do with me."

Well, all right then. If that’s how he was going to be.
I hardly slept that night, rolling out of bed early and sneaking out before Daniel even woke up. I

crept into the bathroom, snaked the cash out of the bottom of my makeup bag, slipped on some clothes,
and stole down the stairs and out the door.

Once I was a few blocks down the street, I sat down on a bench and started searching on my

phone. What I needed, clearly, was a private detective. The hard part would be finding one who
wasn’t some kind of scam artist, or just plain useless. Despite the romantic notions I’d picked up from
books and movies, I knew that most P.I.s weren’t anywhere near as glamorous or as impressive as in
fiction. But all I needed, really, was someone who could answer a question.

Who was the woman in the picture?
I knew the answer, of course. But I couldn’t prove it.
So I was going to hire someone who could.
I ended up choosing someone a few miles away - the first local one who had a website that didn’t

look like it was designed in GeoCities in 1994. He said he had a ninety-percent success rate,
whatever that meant. As if I could verify it. After a few minutes of trying to hail a taxi, I decided to go
it on foot.

It was a beautiful day, with just enough of a light breeze to whisk away the sun’s heat. I kept a

brisk pace. I knew there was at least a passing chance I’d be photographed by someone, but it
wouldn’t matter. My hair was pulled back and I held my head up high, and although I was wearing my
sensible walking shoes, I was confident I’d come across a little better than I had on the blog.

I couldn’t believe that was something I actually had to think about, these days.
When I finally reached the office, I actually walked past it a few times before I doubled back and

realized what it was. The building looked abandoned - there were actually a few boards nailed over
some of the first-floor windows, although in a haphazard-enough way that I wasn’t sure if they were
meant to signify vacancy or possibly ward off very lazy thieves. There was no address number above
the door, but judging by the ones I could see, it had to be the place.

I stepped up to the door. Alongside it, there was a long strip of little black buttons. Not a single

one of them was labelled.

"Great," I muttered.
I wasn’t about to stand outside a building like this and just buzz random doors, so I decided to try

jiggling the door handle, on a whim. It didn’t give, of course, but through the filthy frosted glass
windows, I could see someone or something stirring inside. Well, at least I was making progress.

The door creaked open. An enormous, greasy, sullen man stared me down in complete silence.
"Hello," I said, smiling. "I’m here to see the detective agency?"
He grunted, turning and shuffling away but leaving the door open. I took this as a signal to come in,

and followed him.

"Second floor," he wheezed, sinking back into a lopsided folding chair in the lobby. "There’s a

sign."

"Thank you so much," I said, shutting the door behind me and then immediately wishing I hadn’t,

when the smell hit me.

I made my way up the ancient stairs, beginning to think I’d made a horrible mistake. But I’d

walked all this way; I had to see it through.

There was, in fact, a sign on one of the doors. It was scrawled on cardboard, with what looked to

have been a ballpoint pen, so that I had to get close before I could read it.

PRIVATE EYE
Fantastic.
I raised my hand to knock on the door, and just as I was about to connect, it swung open.
"Oh," I said, startled. "Hello, you must be-"
"Kelly," said the woman standing there, flatly. "The private eye. Come in."
I stepped into the tiny, tiled mudroom and looked around. The smell didn’t seem to be as bad in

here;  there  were  stacks  of  newspapers  all  over  the  place,  but  I  supposed  they  might  have  been  for
legitimate research purposes. We briefly passed by the kitchen, which was grimy in the way that only
40-year-old  kitchens  could  be,  with  mustard  yellow  appliances  and  dishes  piled  in  the  sink.  In  the
back  of  the  apartment,  there  was  a  cluttered  desk  with  an  old  banker’s  lamp  and  many  overstuffed
manila folders. I sat down gingerly in an industrial-grade padded chair that looked as if it had been
stolen from a ‘70s office building. Inwardly, I berated myself for assuming that Kelly must be a man,
just because she was a detective. After all, I’d wanted to be a detective when I was a kid. Kelly was
living the dream.

"Hello," said Kelly, sitting down heavily behind the desk. Her tone was flat, but not in a hostile

way - it seemed to speak more of general exhaustion and irritation with the world. She was slightly
disheveled, but it was obvious she was making an effort. Her hair was smoothed back, and she’d
dabbed on enough eye makeup to make herself appear somewhat awake, if you didn’t look too
closely. "How can I help you?"

"I need you to look into something for me," I said. I pulled out the envelope of photos. "Do you

think you can find out who this woman is?"

She studied the pictures for a moment. "Where is this?"
"The address is on the back of the first one," I said. She flipped it over and looked at the location

that Gen had scrawled there.

"All right," she said. "Do you have any suspicions?"
"Yes," I said. "But not much to go on."
"Well, tell me what you know." She interlaced her fingers and leaned forward.
"Her name is Florence Allen. We used to work together, over at the main office of Plum Tech.

Then I married my boss." I hesitated, and looked up at her. "Daniel Thorne."

"I know," she said. "I know who you are."
"Ugh," I said. "That stupid blog."
"That stupid blog," she agreed, smirking. "So, you married your boss."
"I married my boss, and then I found out that he used to date her. She went completely apeshit and

tried to ruin our lives. Stalking, threats, the whole nine yards. Then she sort of disappeared, and
now…other things are happening. Well, I’m sure you know."

"And you think she’s behind it." Kelly looked down at the pictures. "Interesting."
"I know I sound crazy," I said. "Paranoid, even."
Kelly was silent for a long, long time. Finally, she looked up at me.
"You don’t sound crazy," she said. "But, I’ll have to track her down. She might be staying

somewhere under a fake name."

"Can you even do that anymore?" I glanced at the half-empty bottle Johnnie Walker on the desk.

"Doesn’t every place want, like…a credit card on file?"

Kelly gave me a withering look.
"Okay," I said. "So I don’t know the criminal underworld. I’m sorry. But I can pay you. That’s not

an issue. How much do you need to get started?"

She raised her eyebrows about half a centimeter. "It’s three hundred dollars a day, plus expenses.

But I don’t usually take anything up front."

"Well," I said, taking one of the hundreds out of my pocket. "Let’s get you off to a good start,

huh?"

"Thank you," she said, taking it and giving me a slightly amused look. "You’re not used to being

rich, are you? I can always tell."

"Hate it," I said, without thinking. "Well - I mean - I don’t hate having money. But, you know."
"Sure," said Kelly. "How can I contact you?"
"Oh, right - I’ll give you my number." She handed me a pen, and I scribbled it quickly on the back

of the one of the photos. "I don’t think Daniel answers my phone, but on the off chance he does…"

"…I’m your yoga instructor. Got it."
"It’s just…" I hesitated. "I…he doesn’t think it’s her, he thinks I’m just seeing what I want to see.

But I know I’m right. I can just…I can smell it."

"Sure," said Kelly. "You know, this isn’t the first time I’ve looked into something like this." She

sniffed, rubbing her finger under her nose briskly. "God damn allergies. Sorry. I mean, not exactly
like this. But you know - when people have suspicions like this, there’s usually a reason."

"That’s what I thought," I said, standing up. "Thank you, Kelly."
She accepted my hand to shake, looking slightly confused by the gesture. After she’d showed me to

the door, and I was halfway out into the hall, she reached out and grabbed my arm.

I froze.
"Yes?" I said, gingerly twisting free of her grasp.
"I’m sorry," she said. "I should have told you earlier. But I couldn’t decide if I should say anything

or not."

"…Yeah?" I stared at her, apprehensive.
"Just, uh…" she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. "God, I shouldn’t have said anything. Just…

don’t look at any of the newspaper boxes on your way home, okay?"

"Oh, please." I smiled at her, reassuringly. "I promise you it’s nothing I haven’t seen before."
Her mouth was twisted into a sort of grimace. "Trust me," she said. "Just keep walking."
Of course, as she’d feared, she had only ignited my curiosity. As I left, down the creaky stairs, I

turned back to see her still standing outside her open door with a worried look on her face. I gave her
a reassuring smile and little wave, as if to say, don’t worry, I won’t look.

I was totally going to look.
The man in the lobby stared at me balefully as I left, and after I’d finally stepped out onto the

sidewalk, I took a deep breath. Even the faint smell of garbage and burning tires passed for "fresh air"
after what I’d just been breathing.

There was a newspaper box just a few blocks up. As soon as I saw it, my throat constricted. If I

had an ounce of good sense in my head, I’d take her advice and just walk right past, never thinking
twice about it.

But I’d never been one for good sense.
Before, I’d been so focused on finding the place that I hadn’t let my eyes wander to any of the

headlines in the dilapidated boxes. Outdated mode of news reporting that they might be, I still found
myself looking at them on occasion - as a kid, I’d gotten used to them being a primary form of
information delivery, even if all I got to see was the front page.

I planned to keep my head high as I walked past the first box; at the very least, I wanted to make it

to a box that wasn’t possibly within eyesight of Kelly’s office. She’d been nice enough to warn me
off. I didn’t want her to see me openly defying her kindness.

But then, I caught something in my peripheral that made me stop dead in my tracks.

THE WOMAN BEHIND THE MAN

It was giant white text, laid out artfully over a blown-up version of that very same coming-home-

from-yoga picture that had already been a thorn in my side. Was this really happening? An entire
article about me?

I reached over and opened the box - it was one of the free papers, of course - wanting more than

anything to turn and walk away, to pretend I’d never seen it. But there was no closing this Pandora’s
box.

Since the advent of the insider trading scandal, there’s been one question on everyone’s mind -

who is that woman? We know this much: her name is Madeline, and she’s Daniel Thorne’s wife,
whom he met and married when she was his subordinate over at the main offices of Plum. But
where did she come from? How did she capture a billionaire’s heart? And how does she feel now,
having boarded his sinking ship?

One imagines that she was quite pleased with herself, back when she first managed to nab his

attention. Thorne was a billionaire before he rose to his current level of media prominence, so he
wasn’t exactly a diamond in the rough - unless, of course, you count his renowned anti-social
tendencies. It’s not hard to see what she saw in him. But what about Thorne? When he first laid
eyes on her, did he think to himself - yes, I will make her my bride?

There is most likely no way to plumb the depths of Daniel Thorne’s mind, to understand his

motivations for doing what he does. And if anyone did have such ability, they’d do much better to
make themselves into billionaires as well, rather than waste any energy trying to figure out what
Thorne sees in this plain, ordinary - let’s be completely honest - frumpy aspiring artist who was
once under his employ.

I sat down heavily on a nearby bench.
The article went on, but for some reason, I didn’t feel in the least compelled to read it. And not

because I was angry, either. I looked at the cover again - at the absurdly unflattering picture of me -
the huge headline, and took a moment to sit back and really appreciate the fact that everyone was
expending this much energy wondering about me. Plain, ordinary, frumpy old me.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Oh, don’t be silly. It was my pleasure," Genevieve was saying. I was pretty sure it wasn’t my
imagination - there was something meaningful about the way the word "pleasure" rolled off her
tongue.

She smiled at Daniel, and he smiled back.
When he’d suggested taking her out to dinner, as a "gesture," he’d said it in a tone of voice that

suggested the decision was already made. So I’d just nodded and smiled, thinly. Gen was able to
suggest a restaurant where she absolutely guaranteed no one would bother us, and so far, it was living
up to her promise. But once I’d managed to stop looking over my shoulder, I realized the scenes that
were playing out directly in front of me were a lot worse.

Gen wasn’t nearly as blatant as the pretty young things that all the papers had been sending during

Daniel’s heyday, before everything fell apart. But there was simply no mistaking the way she looked
at him, letting her eyes linger a little too long. The way she’d touch her lips, lightly, like she was
imagining his fingers on them. She’d cross and uncross her legs, incessantly playing with her
necklace, ducking her eyes down and then back up again every time he spoke to her.

On a certain level, as one human being to another, I couldn’t blame her for being attracted to him.

And really, she wasn’t doing anything too untoward. What was wrong with a little harmless flirting?

On a certain other level, I wanted to throw her through the plate-glass window.
I forced myself to take few deep breaths, and tried to focus in on what they were saying.
"…and by that time, I didn’t even want it anymore. So I ended up at Brandeis instead, which, you

know - it was fine. It was a great experience, and looking back I can’t imagine doing anything
different, even if it wasn’t what I thought I wanted at the time." Gen took a sip of her wine and
glanced at me briefly, before looking back to Daniel.

"Isn’t it funny," he said, "how things always work out like that?"
"Not always," I said, quietly, but neither one of them had anything to say to that.
Before the entrees came, I actually tried to involve myself in the conversation. And they weren’t -

excluding me, exactly, it was just that neither one of them looked at me very often, or responded
directly to something I’d said. Mostly, it seemed like I was just talking to myself. So I finally gave up.
I focused on my meal when it came, refusing to let myself get upset that the two of them seemed about
ready to crawl under the table. After all, we were all responsible adults here. It wasn’t like anything
was going to actually…happen.

Because if it started to, I’d stab her with my fork.
I had to snicker at the thought, covering my mouth with my napkin. As if anyone was going to

notice.

"What’s so funny?" said Daniel, as if on cue, looking at me for the first time in about twenty

minutes.

"Nothing," I said, because that seemed like a better answer than oh, just trying to figure out if

you’d be horrified or aroused if me and Gen got into a massive, nail-breaking, hair-pulling fight

over you across the table.

Gen glanced at me briefly, then went back to her salad.
I fumed. There was a tiny rational corner of my brain that told me I might just be imagining things,

or at least exaggerating them. And even if I wasn’t, so what? Daniel wasn’t really the type to pursue a
torrid affair as a married man. At least…I didn’t think so.

But it was that sort of deep-seated, irrational jealousy that’s not necessarily the product of

anything you might call "real." I knew nothing was going to happen between them, and I knew most of
Gen’s reactions to him were probably subconscious. She wanted him. Who could blame her? But she
wasn’t going to get him.

He was mine.
The thought hit me like a ton of bricks, and it left me feeling lightheaded and tingly, in a way that I

was pretty sure had nothing to do with the wine I’d been drinking all night. This man, as utterly
infuriating and downright heartbreaking as he could be sometimes - was…all mine. Nobody else’s.
Nobody else had the right to touch him like I could, or crawl into bed with him at night, or see him the
way I saw him. In spite of how well he might close himself off, and in spite of how distant he could
be sometimes, I was still privy to a version of Daniel Thorne that no one else got to see.

No one else could watch his face transform when he lost control - his pupils blown wide open,

almost swallowing the irises in blackness - his lips parted - the way he’d almost bare his teeth, the
little noises - and then afterwards, the smile. The way his whole body would sag, relaxed. That little
performance was a privilege that I, and I alone, could enjoy.

I licked my lips, letting my eyes dart from him to her and back to him again. No matter how badly

she wanted to see him like that, she never would. And I could see it anytime I wanted. I could see it
tonight.

Or now.
I was struck with a wicked idea.
"Excuse me," I said, sweetly, standing up and walking away from the table, briskly. I went down

the little hallway that obviously led to the bathrooms, cursing inwardly when I saw that there were no
single rooms with locking doors, only a multi-person affair that anyone could walk in or out of, at any
time.

This was a fancy restaurant. I had a feeling they wouldn’t take kindly to this sort of thing.
It was in that moment that I almost lost my nerve. But my body was already thrumming and I knew

there was no turning back at this point. I stood in the hallway for a second, considering. Despite my
eagerness, I’d never actually done this before. I’d never really thought about it in enough detail to
figure out the logistics. A man in the women’s bathroom would certainly be more scandalous than a
woman in the mens’ bathroom - well, that decided it.

I pushed the door to the mens’ bathroom open, slowly. Peering inside, I quickly scanned the

empty-seeming room to make sure we we really would be alone.

For now, at least.
Oh, God - why did that thought send a not-unpleasant shudder through me?
I stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind me. It was pristine - I expected nothing less

from a place like this. But still, it was nice to know. I hurried into one of the stalls, shut and locked
the door, and briefly considered crouching on the toilet so nobody would notice the obvious women’s
feet sticking up under the stall. But couldn’t quite bring myself to act like a fugitive.

I pulled my phone out of my purse and began hastily composing a text message.
I stood in silence for a while, the sound of my own breaths echoing harshly in the room. I took a

moment to smooth my hair and blot a little more lipstick on. As if he’d notice. As if he’d care, at a
time like this.

The door swung open.
My heart stopped for a split second, and then started beating again like it was trying to escape

from my ribcage. I stood stock-still, praying that it was Daniel - praying that if it wasn’t, he’d have
the good grace to leave well enough alone.

The footsteps came closer and closer, finally stopping directly in front of the door.
"Maddy," he said, softly.
I threw the lock back and pulled the door open, and he stepped in, quickly, re-locking it behind

him without missing a beat.

He was on me, kissing me wildly, before I even knew what had happened. I was of course hoping

he’d react well to my proposition, but this was even better than what I’d imagined. I could feel him
pressing against my leg, stiff and hot already.

"You…" he whispered, his hands all over me, pressing me up against the wall. He was hurriedly

untucking my blouse from my skirt, his fingers fumbling with the delicate little buttons. I didn’t know
what he planned to do, exactly - I wasn’t quite so lost in a fit of passion that I wouldn’t object to my
favorite blouse being slung over a bathroom stall door. But apparently, he just wanted to open it
enough to see me and touch me a little better. He stopped halfway down, reaching up and roughly
pushing my bra up over my breasts.

"I…what?" I breathed, tilting my head back so he could press his lips against my neck. When he

nipped me with his teeth, I squealed, but it wasn’t hard enough to leave a mark. Not this time. By the
time we got back to the table, no matter what excuse he’d used to slip away, it would be abundantly
clear what we’d been doing - hickey or no hickey. There was no use rubbing it in.

Besides, I didn’t particularly want to be banned from this restaurant for life.
"We won’t get in trouble," he rumbled, his mouth against my collarbone, like he knew exactly

what I was thinking. "I could buy and sell this place."

I normally hated it when he said things like that, but for some reason, now, in this moment, it was

the hottest thing I’d ever heard in my life. Even so, I felt I had to at least put on a show of protest.

"Shut up," I said, planting my hands on his chest and shoving back at him. He didn’t budge an inch;

his face registered surprise for a moment, and then he smiled, wickedly.

"Really?" His hand slid behind my head, grasping a handful of hair. I hissed. "Is that really what

you want? For me to shut up?"

I didn’t answer. "What if somebody walks in?"
His mouth twitched. "Ms. Wainwright, this was your idea. Surely you’re not getting cold feet

now."

"I’m not," I insisted. "I just think we should have…a plan."
"Here’s the plan," he said. Then, he closed his hand around the very top of my throat, where it met

my chin - not hard, not nearly enough to be uncomfortable, but just enough to hold me in place. And
then he kissed me.

I made a soft noise against his mouth, but he swallowed most of it. I wondered how thin these

walls were. The restaurant wasn’t particularly quiet, but it wasn’t necessarily loud enough to drown
out everything.

Then again, with every passing moment, I was caring less and less.
He was shoving his knee between my thighs, the way he knew I liked - forcing my stance wider

and wider. In my high heels, I had too little traction to try and fight it. My feet slid apart, exactly as far

as he wanted.

I moaned into him, gripping his arms for balance. His muscles flexed under my hands as he

grabbed me hard around the waist, breaking off our kiss long enough to nuzzle at my face, then slide
over and gently nibble at my ear. I shivered and gripped him harder, feeling like I might actually lose
my balance.

The skin around my mouth was tingling from his stubble rubbing against it. I exhaled harshly. He

hesitated for a moment, pulling back and looking at me with concern.

"I’m fine," I reassured him, smiling a little. "I swear. I’m breathing and everything."
He grinned, and his hands slowly slid up under the hem of my skirt. The pads of his fingers left a

burning trail on my bare thighs; I was suddenly very, very grateful that I hadn’t worn pantyhose. I
hated them anyway, though I knew I was "supposed" to wear them with certain outfits - and Daniel
certainly never complained.

And at that exact moment, I heard the door swing open.
We both froze.
His fingers were inches from the hems of my panties. His eyes followed the sound of the footsteps,

all the way across the marble tile, to the urinals. I knew there was a very small chance that our
unexpected visitor would even turn to see to the two pairs of feet under the stall. And even if he did,
he might choose to ignore it. But in defiance of all logic, my heart was beating so fast I thought it
might explode. More than anything, I wanted to take a deep breath, but I didn’t want to risk making a
sound.

The water ran, and a few impossibly long moments later, I heard the door swing open again.
We were alone.
Daniel’s eyes met mine. The corner of his mouth was twitching, and for some reason I felt a

hysterical  laugh  bubbling  up  inside  me.  I  let  it  out  -  quietly  as  I  could,  but  it  was  infectious,  and
suddenly we were both laughing -  gasping,  leaning  against  each  other,  trying  to  stay  as  quiet  as  we
could. Daniel buried his face in my shoulder, shaking. When we finally recovered, he lifted his head
and looked at me again; his eyes were shining, and suddenly this wasn’t just about my jealousy or the
risk  or  anything  but  my  need  for him.  The  intensity  of  it  hit  me  all  at  once,  and  I  was  breathless.  I
couldn’t tell what was throwing me more off-balance - the deep thrum of desire in my body, or the
familiar twinge in my heart. I wanted him. Every part of him, always, and I couldn’t stand the thought
of  it  not  lasting  forever.  Just  now,  this  moment,  wasn’t  enough.  No  one  moment  would  ever  be
enough. I had to know, really know, that I would always have this.

That I would always have him.
This realization all happened in one fraction of a second, but it must have shown on my face,

because I saw his brows knit just a little before he leaned in and kissed me again. As my heart
thumped faster and faster, I tried to do as he’d always told me. I tried to breathe, taking in the smell of
his cologne, the taste of his mouth. The way his body felt under my hands, the hard angles, the
radiating heat. In a moment, he’d hoisted me up, lifting me effortlessly off my feet so I could wrap my
legs around his waist. I’d almost forgotten how strong he was.

He tugged at my panties, pushing them aside and guiding himself into me in one, remarkably

smooth motion. Leave it to Daniel Thorne to make bathroom sex elegant. Even this silly little thought
made my heart throb painfully. God, I was in love with this ridiculous man.

I grabbed at the back of his neck as he held me up against the wall with his hands and body.

Within moments, I was so overwhelmed with him that I probably wouldn’t have noticed if someone
else walked into the bathroom. He had a way of doing that to me. I was acutely aware of every point

of contact - his fingers digging into my thighs, my hips, his hands always moving and sliding to get a
better grip - his mouth on my neck, my ears - and of course, the place where we were joined. The
stall was shaking under the force of his thrusts, and I could feel already that my spine was going to be
sore afterwards. But I wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

When my climax rattled through me, I bit my lip to keep quiet, but I couldn’t quite stifle the low

whimper as I shuddered and pulsed. My head snapped back, and would surely have hit the wall were
his hand not there to stop it. I felt his fingers flex against my scalp as he stilled inside me.

A few long, shaky breaths later, he was slowly letting me back down on my feet. I kept leaning

against the wall to steady myself, and he straightened himself up quickly, looking not at all like a man
who’d just had a sordid public sexual encounter. I was sure I still looked flushed and guilty and
reeked of his cologne, and probably would for the rest of the night.

Oh, well. Wasn’t that kind of the point?
"You go first," I said, and he nodded, flicking the lock back and making a hasty retreat. I stayed

there for a few minutes longer, cleaning up as best I could and catching my breath.

As I walked unsteadily back to the table, I could feel Gen’s eyes following me. My instinct was to

look away, but instead I forced myself to meet her gaze. My mouth curved up into a sly smile, without
me even trying.

I sat down gracefully. Briefly, I wondered if they’d been sitting her like this, silent and awkward,

for the entire time since Daniel got back. Gen kept sort of opening her mouth, looking like she was
about to say something, and then deciding against it at the last moment.

Our food finally arrived, and we all busied ourselves with eating for a while. Some polite,

subdued comments on the quality of the meal ricocheted around the table, but other than that, we were
all content to focus on the business at hand.

In upscale restaurants, Daniel always ate like he’d been trained by Emily Post. It wasn’t his usual

style, but it was pretty entertaining to watch. Sometimes I’d amuse myself by trying to mimic him,
holding my fork upside down and dabbing my mouth with my cloth napkin (kept in my lap, of course)
between each sip of wine. Most of the time, though, I just ate like a normal person, and no one seemed
to mind. At this particular moment, considering what had just transpired in the bathroom, it seemed
ridiculous to try and be ladylike. So I continued using my fork as a shovel, occasionally glancing at
Gen and trying to read her studiously blank expression. She had switched back into Professional
Journalist Mode, which, while admittedly an unintended side effect, was perfectly fine with me.

"So," I heard myself say, finally. "Elephant in the room."
Gen’s eyes widened. I heard Daniel set his fork down and look at me.
"The article," I said. "You know. The Woman Behind the Man. You’re dying to ask me if I’ve seen

it."

"Oh." Some of the color came back into Gen’s cheeks. "Well, I wasn’t going to mention it."
"What is this, now?" Daniel was looking from one to the other of us; for once, he was the one left

out of the conversation.

"Oh, you didn’t see it?" Gen was surprised. "Well, that’s probably for the best. It was a…" she

looked at me, as if anything she could say would be worse than the actual article.

"It was nothing," I said. "Just a stupid feature about me. All speculation and bullshit. But it’s fine.

I’m used to it know. I laughed about it, actually."

Gen was looking at me searchingly. "That’s good," she said, finally. "I can’t imagine."
"Yeah," I said. I could feel Daniel’s eyes burning a hole in me, but I didn’t look at him. "Well,

with any luck, you’ll never have to."

When we’d said our good-byes and Daniel and I climbed into the back of the town car, he

immediately hit the button to close the partition. John glanced once over his shoulder, but didn’t
comment - all the times I’d been in this car, I’d never seen Daniel do that.

"You didn’t say anything about that article," he said. "Who wrote it? I’ll make some phone calls.

I’ll make sure the writer regrets it."

I shook my head. "Don’t be ridiculous."
His face was grim. "I hate seeing you dragged through the mud because of me."
"I know." I settled against him, resting my head on his shoulder. "But it’ll be over before long."
I wasn’t sure if I was right. But in that moment, listening to his breaths and his slow, even

heartbeat, it didn’t matter so much.

CHAPTER TWELVE

When my phone rang unexpectedly in the afternoon, I answered eagerly, hoping it would be Kelly
with some news about her investigation.

"Hello?"
"Maddy? It's Curtis. Can you come down? I put up your installment and I want you to see it before

the show. Let me know if you want anything changed. Is there any way you can find the time?"

"Oh…sure," I said, looking across the room at Daniel. But he didn't seem to even notice I was

talking. I retreated quickly into my studio and shut the door. "Sorry," I said. "I just had to go
somewhere where I could talk."

"It's fine," said Curtis.
"When did you want me to come?"
"Any time that's convenient for you. Seriously. I practically sleep here." I could hear that he was

smiling, perhaps a little wryly.

"I'll try to stop by tomorrow," I said. "If I can get away." Without Daniel noticing, I added

silently.

***

As it turned out, it was - once again - incredibly easy to slip out without Daniel even looking up. I'd
been coming and going to my usual classes, workouts and errands without him noticing at all, so I'm
not sure why I thought this would be any different. Still, I had a sort of secret thrill in the pit of my
stomach as I made my way to the gallery. It was sort of nice to have something just for me, in the
midst of all this chaos. It was a relief to leave the house, to talk to someone other than Daniel or
Lindsey or prying journalists.

The first thing I noticed was the free-standing wall in the middle of the gallery, which Curtis had

already picked out for me. He'd painted it black, so it stood out stark and imposing, like the monolith
from 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Curtis was just emerging from his office, having heard the bell ring on my arrival.
"Do you like it?" he said, enthusiastically, coming towards me. "I think it'll be perfect, they're

going to stand out so nicely."

"Yeah, they sure are," I replied, staring at it. "You don't think it's…too much?"
"Too much? No, no," he said, stepping close to me and looking the wall up and down, from my

vantage point. "I think it's just right. Why?"

"I don't know. I feel like I'm going to wake up one night and see it standing at the foot of my bed."
He laughed. "You're too young to be making that reference, missy. But, all right, point taken.

Would you prefer to be gray? Or something else maybe?"

I shrugged. "I mean, if you really think it'll complement it," I said. "You're the expert."

"Well, I was never the best with colors," he admitted. "I mean - I get by. But my wife - rest her

soul - really, she was the one with the gift. I'm still a little bit lost without her." He shook his head.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to go off on a whole…thing."

"It's all right," I said. I wasn't sure if it was recent enough to justify saying I'm sorry, so I decided

not to comment. "Well, I think it looks nice. I'm just…I'm just nervous, I guess. First show and all
that."

"Did you want to review the pieces?" he asked, gesturing towards his office. "Come on, just take

one more look. I think I've picked my favorites, but I'm absolutely open to suggestion. I want you to
feel like I'm showcasing your best work."

"Well, you'd be a better judge of that than I would," I replied, following him into the small room.

"I think it's all crap."

He laughed. "That's normal. Trust me. Usually when people think that, though, they're not right. If

you think everything you make is pure spun gold, that's when you should be worried."

"All right," I said, sitting down. "I'll take your word for it on that."
He'd picked out two other drawings - one of a horse that I'd done years ago, and a still life with a

bowl of wax fruit that I hardly even remembered. They were both technically well done, but both of
them, I thought, lacked a certain depth of feeling. No one was going to look into a bowl of fruit and
feel like I'd touched some long-forgotten childhood memory. But looking through the rest of my
portfolio, I had to admit he'd made the best possible choices out of what was available. My best work
was mostly done while I was still a student; I'd been floundering ever since, either too exhausted from
my string of soul-crushing retail jobs, or too distracted and drained by working for Daniel and his
company. At least, that was the excuse I always told myself.

"So what do you think?" Curtis said finally, shaking me out of my reverie.
"Sorry," I said. "I sort of got lost in there. Yeah, I think you chose pretty well. I just wish I had

something better to give you."

"Don't be ridiculous." Curtis sat down, tucking an e-cigarette between his lips and taking a long

pull. "I wouldn't have given you an installation if I didn't think your work merited one."

"Well, that's comforting." I glanced up at the walls, noticing for the first time that they were

plastered with little drawings, sketches, and watercolors - exactly the type of thing I wished I could
do, but could never quite achieve. "See, that kind of thing -" I pointed to a portrait of a young man
lounging on a windowsill, staring out at the landscape beyond. "That's what I wish I could do."

He smiled faintly. "You and me both," he said. "That was…well, still is, I suppose. One of my

wife's drawings. That was me, once upon a time. Believe it or not."

I stood up, moving closer to it. The man's face was mostly hidden, but the physique certainly

matched. "I can definitely believe it," I said. "I'm…she was very talented."

"Yeah, she was." He exhaled a lungful of vapor. "You want to hear the most pathetic story you'll

be told all week?"

I chuckled, sitting back down. "Okay, I doubt that. But okay."
"We met in college. I was an artist. Well. An 'artist.' " He made air quotes around the word. "But

she  was  an artist, you know what I mean? I was ashamed to even look at her. We had some of the
same classes, figure drawing, you know, whatever…and I'd look over at her sometimes and her hand
would just be fucking flying across the paper. I had no idea how she was even doing it. It was like the
ideas  came  so  fast  that  her  pencil  couldn't  keep  up.  I  looked  at  the  shit  I  was  drawing,  and  then  I
looked  at  her,  and  I  thought  to  myself…there's  no  way  she'll  ever  take  a  second  look  at  me.  All
predicated on this idea of me being a worse artist than she was, you know? Now, in retrospect, I have

no idea if she would have been immediately turned off at the idea of dating someone who couldn't
draw as well as she could. I mean, I have no idea if that was even on her list. But for some reason, at
the time, I was utterly convinced that my inability to draw was going to ruin my chances with this girl.
So, do you know what I did?"

"What?"
He was chuckling a little at the memory. "I knew that the one hot commodity - the one thing that

every artist wanted, was a connection with a gallery owner. I'm sure I don't have to tell you how hard
it can be just to get a placement. And no matter how good she was, she was still going to end up in the
same slush pile as everyone else, right? So I figured - the one sure way to get her attention would be
to just go ahead and…buy an art gallery."

"Oh my God." I was already laughing. "Please tell me you didn't."
He shrugged, grinning. "Well, I managed to sell it to my dad as a business opportunity. This space

was up for sale, and it was a complete dump, so it was cheap. He had the money ten times over, so he
fronted me and I bought the damn thing. I spent all my nights and weekends renovating it, to the point
where my grades suffered even more than they already did. But by the end of it, it was worthwhile. I
was able to do my first showing, and when I approached my wife with the proposition, of course she
said yes. It was an amazing opportunity. I didn't have nearly enough spots for all the students, so it
was going to be a stiff competition for my first showing. And I was straight up offering her a spot."

"And she fell for it?"
"Well." He took another puff. "What kind of sociopath would buy an entire art gallery just to

impress one girl? Of course she bought it. It was much easier to believe than the truth."

I grinned at him. "I'm deeply troubled," I said.
"Don't worry, I told her before we got married. By then, she already knew I was a little crazy, so

she took it all in stride."

I had to laugh. Really, it was nice to know there was someone out there with an even more fucked-

up origin story than Daniel and me.

"Did you ever wonder?" I looked up at her paintings again. "I mean - did it ever occur to you that

maybe…manufacturing things like that…did you ever feel guilty, like she wouldn’t have ever been
with you otherwise?" I realized how bad it all sounded, and I quickly began to backpedal. "I’m
sorry," I said. "I don’t mean to be…that was a really rude thing to say. It’s just that…" I hesitated and
took a deep breath. Curtis was watching me closely, concern on his face. "Daniel’s got this weird…
thing. I think because he was my boss, and because of his money, he thinks I somehow felt obligated
to be with him. Or whatever."

It was close enough to the truth without revealing our secret. Curtis was nodding.
"So it makes some kind of sense to you?" I asked, fiddling with my purse strap.
"Sure," he said. "I mean - not at this point, how long have you been together? Years, right?"
"Just over two." I cleared my throat. "But I mean…you know, there have been some rough

patches."

Curtis sipped from a mug on his desk. "Of course," he said. "But some people are just a little

more, you know, insecure. And odds are, he’s dealt with it before - people who were just sort of
intimidated by his status, or they’re after his money, or whatever. It’s probably his default mode to
just be bitter and suspicious." He took another drag from his e-cigarette. "Still, though," he said after
a moment. "You’d think, after all this time."

I smiled, wanly.
"Yeah, you would think, wouldn’t you?"

***

The next time I got an unexpected phone call, it actually was Kelly. I only knew because I
remembered her voice - she didn’t bother to introduce herself when I answered the phone, leading
instead with:

"So, what do you know about this stolen prototype business?"
"Uh…" I quickly walked into my studio and shut the door. "I’m sorry, what now?"
"The prototype. The original…" she drifted off, for long enough that I was just about to check to

see if the phone had disconnected. "Wait, do you really not know about this at all?"

"I guess not," I replied. "Care to enlighten me?"
"Okay." She sounded like she was shuffling through some papers. "So I’ve been doing a little

digging, and I came across a little bit of a kerfuffle in your husband’s past. It happened back in
college. The court records were sealed, but…well, you know, I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I
couldn’t get to them anyway."

"Hold on, hold on. I hired you to investigate Florence, not Daniel."
"Yeah, well, I leave no stone unturned. And it’s a good thing, too. Listen to this. The details are all

a little bit muddled, but the accusation is that Daniel pretty liberally…’borrowed’ a pocket organizer
prototype from some college buddies, and ended up using a lot of the specs when it came time for him
to develop the very first Plum device. Remember that monstrosity?"

I forced myself to speak. "Yes," I said. "But…"
"But," Kelly repeated. "So here’s the deal, the case settled in court, and one of the conditions was

that nobody involved could talk about it. So that kind of explains why no one ever brings it up." She
hesitated. "But, that doesn’t mean they’re not thinking about it."

"Who?" I switched my phone to the other ear. "Who’s thinking about it?"
"The guys," she said, patiently. "From college. The ones he…maybe, sort of, kind of, might have

stolen from."

All of a sudden, I remembered our honeymoon in St. Lucia. I remembered the journalist, and how

he’d alluded to this very thing.

"Shit," I said aloud, as it all clicked into place.
"Now, granted," Kelly went on. "I don’t know if there’s any connection here. I was actually sort of

hoping that you could shed some light on it, but…"

"I’m sorry," I said. "I mean, he doesn’t talk about it."
"Understandable," said Kelly.
I hesitated. I wanted to tell her about the journalist, but I was also slightly terrified about starting a

shitstorm over something that Daniel clearly wanted to forget about. I was already starting to regret
getting Kelly involved at all. I didn’t know her. I couldn’t trust her, really. What if she decided to go
public with what she found, capitalizing on a short-term payday from the media? It might end her
career if anyone found out, but if she played her cards right…

"You want to tell me something," said Kelly, after my long silence. "I can tell. Just spill it.

Nobody’s going to find out. I take my detective-client privilege very seriously."

"Is ‘detective-client privilege’ even a real thing? I don’t even recall signing a contract."
"Do you really want a record of this on paper?"
"Okay, fine. But I still think you made up the ‘privilege’ part."
"Yeah, maybe. But I want to keep working in this town. I won’t betray you, Scout’s honor."
I sighed. "Okay, so there’s this thing. When we were on our honeymoon…" I hesitated again.
"Go on," said Kelly. I could hear her grinning.

"Ha ha," I deadpanned. "This journalist came up to us while we were eating. Well - before that,

he’d been taking pictures of us on the beach. He claimed it was just a coincidence that he was there."

"Yeah, sure," Kelly cut in. "But he knew something about the lawsuit, you think?"
"Oh, he definitely did. He sort of led Daniel into the topic, and then started asking about it. Daniel

got really upset and we left, but he wouldn’t tell me anything - he just said it was a long time ago, and
it was settled with a non-disclosure agreement. That’s literally all I know about it."

"You got a name?" I could hear papers rustling on her desk.
"Whose, the journalist’s? I think…Ryan Brewer. That sounds right. He introduced himself to us

before things went south. Of course I don’t know if it’s real."

"I’m sure it’s real," said Kelly. "Or at the very least, it’s what he uses on his byline. He wouldn’t

resist the opportunity to plant his name in someone’s head."

"I wouldn’t even venture a guess as to how he found out about it," I said. "I looked it up online

afterwards, because of course I was curious. But there was nothing."

"Sure," said Kelly. "If you don’t know where to look."
"Granted." I plucked a pencil from my desk and examined it like I’d never seen it before.

"Obviously Mr. Brewer does."

"Could be," she said. "Could be. Well, thanks for the information. I’ll call you once I have

something."

"Thank you," I said.
I’d been so absorbed in all of this mess that I’d completely forgotten about Ryan Brewer,

freelance journalist. It hadn’t even occurred to me that he might be involved in this, or even that it
might have something to do with the lawsuit he’d alluded to. But now, I couldn’t help but wonder.

Hastily, I typed his name into a search and began scrolling through the results. He did indeed have

many credits on his byline; a lot of the ridiculous tabloid stuff I expected, as well as some more
mainstream articles. Interesting.

I found myself wondering about his seemingly insider knowledge. Kelly had her ways. But if the

information were easily accessible to anyone who was curious, why wasn’t every paper headlining
with this story? DISGRACED BILLIONAIRE DANIEL THORNE: A HISTORY OF THEFT?

Obviously, Ryan Brewer knew something I didn’t. And I wanted to find out what it was.
I knew Kelly wouldn’t be too happy with me launching my own investigation, but hell - I was

paying her, not the other way around. If she didn’t like it, too bad. Daniel was my husband. I had a
right to find out a thing or two on my own.

It didn’t take long to find the anonymous email address that Ryan used as his "tip line." I shot off a

quick note from a similarly throwaway account.

Mr. Brewer -

I have some exclusive information on the Daniel Thorne case that I think you might be

interested in. I’d like to meet. I’m in NYC. Will you be in town any time soon?

I got an answer within minutes.

Very interested to hear what you have to say. I’m flying in next week for a conference. Can

meet Mon-Sat any time after 6pm, Manhattan area is best. Name the time and place. Looking
forward to meeting you.

- Ryan

I couldn’t stop smiling to myself as I composed a reply, naming a cafe that I vaguely knew on

Tuesday evening. I knew Daniel would be out late, at one of the meetings he was still conducting with
his creative team, even with the company frozen. Not that he’d be likely to ask questions, but I
preferred to hedge my bets.

The whole thing had me unreasonably excited. I barely slept for the next few days, planning out my

strategy for the meeting. I needed to find out what he knew and why. If he was like any other human
being on the planet, he’d be more than willing to tell me what I needed to know in exchange for some
cash. There was, of course, the question of whether he’d try to lie or obfuscate, but I figured he
probably wouldn’t have much motive to do so. I didn’t get the sense he had a lot of loyalties, when
there was a paycheck involved.

Then again, that could describe a lot of people.
I shook my head, trying not to think about the possibility that the allegations were true. That the

case against Daniel had been justified. I didn’t want to, as if avoiding the topic would somehow make
it less likely to be true. But I couldn’t confront that now. I had too much to think about as it was; my
mind was spinning, jumping in a thousand different directions at once. I couldn’t think about what it
meant - for me - for us.

I just had to keep taking it one day at a time.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

When I went to meet Ryan Brewer, I had a knot the size of a fist in my stomach. I still didn’t know
what I was going to say to him. There was a small chance he’d just turn tail and run as soon as he
recognized me, but there was another chance he’d be deathly curious and stay to hear me out. And
from that point on, I was going to let my money do the talking.

We were meeting in a coffee shop in the busiest part of midtown, which was either a brilliant

move on my part, or completely insane. Despite my recent media coverage, I was still more or less
able to make my way around without getting that "do I know her?" second glance - most of the time.
But the bigger a crowd I allowed myself to be in, the greater my chances of being recognized.

So far, so good, and I was able to jostle my way through the door of the shop without too much

hassle. As the bell dinged above my head, a few people looked up; Ryan was one of them. He was
seated in a quiet far corner of the shop, well isolated from the rest of the customers.

I recognized him immediately. He was wearing a Yankees hat and was much less tan than the last

time I’d seen him, but I remembered his face very clearly. As I walked towards him, he went even
paler, his eyes widening until I thought for sure they would jump out of his head.

"Madeline," he said, standing up and extending his hand for me to shake. I ignored it, and sat down

primly.

"Hello, Ryan," I said. "Don’t get too excited. I’m here to get information from you - not the other

way around."

"I wouldn’t presume…" Ryan frowned a little, sitting back down in his chair. "You know,

whatever you might think of me, I do take my professional courtesy very seriously. I protect my
sources. If you want to know something about…" I was pulling out my wallet, and his eyes widened
again.

"Go on," I said, fanning a few bills. "What were you saying about professional courtesy?"
He took a deep breath and reached for his water glass, but his eyes never left the money in my

hand. "On the other hand, it might be possible to make arrangements."

"Good," I said. "I want to know how you found out about the lawsuit."
He just looked at me for a moment, then leaned forward, lowering his voice. "You mean…the

prototype lawsuit? From when Thorne was in college?"

"That’d be it." I smiled, humorlessly. "Nobody else seems to know about it, so I’m curious.

How’d you stumble on that little gem? And more importantly, why haven’t you done a story about it
yet? This would be the time."

Ryan drummed his fingers on the table, his eyes darting from me to the door, and to the other

patrons in the shop. And then, of course, to the money.

"I can’t," he said, finally, with a massive sigh. "I really…look, I’m not going to lie, I could use the

money, and if it were anything else, but this…I can’t. They made it very clear to me that if I breathed
another word about the lawsuit…"

"They?" I repeated. "You mean, the plaintiffs?"

He looked at me, slightly pained. "I can’t say."
"Come on. You really think they’re ever going to find out about this?"
Ryan scoffed. "Of course they will. You expect me to believe your husband wouldn’t take any

excuse, any opportunity to go after them?"

I set my wallet down between my elbows on the table and interlaced my fingers. "So they’ve done

something worth ‘going after,’ then?"

He was gnawing on his bottom lip.
"Look," I said. "If you don’t give me something, something real - I mean, actual words coming out

of your mouth - you’re not getting paid. I’m not interested in hand gestures and meaningful looks."

He lowered his voice to just above a whisper. "All right," he said, leaning further across the table.

"Here’s the thing. Everything you’ve said is true, but I’m guessing you already knew that. I heard
about the lawsuit at first from an old high school friend. I guess he used to room with one of the guys,
and he actually saw the whole thing unfold. He’s one of the few people who really knows much about
it, on account of all the secrecy and NDAs. I’ve been sitting on the story for months, waiting for the
right opportunity. Right about the time Thorne was at the height of his popularity, a real media darling
- I figured that would be perfect. So I tailed you guys to St. Lucia, I figured he’d be in a better mood-"
he raised his hands in supplication. "Obviously that didn’t work out, so I shelved the idea for a while
longer. I wanted to break the story, sure, but I wanted to do it proper justice. I couldn’t just throw it
out there, unsubstantiated, from an ‘unknown source.’ My buddy’s a respected businessman, you
know, he doesn’t want his name tied to this shit."

"Who would?" I agreed, flatly. Ryan, to his credit, looked just the slightest bit ashamed.
"And then," he went on, "then, of course, all this happened." He waved his hands, vaguely. "And

that would be an even better time to break a story like this, but I still had nothing to back it up. Until
my buddy got in touch with me again - and this time, he had something really good." Ryan paused,
dramatically. "Turns out, his old college friend - one of the plaintiffs from the Thorne lawsuit - had
been in touch with him again recently, asking if he had any connections at Byte Magazine. Apparently,
he desperately wanted to get in touch with the writer of the ‘Daniel in the Lion’s Den’ article. I’m
sure you remember it."

I nodded. How could I forget?
"In particular, he wanted to find out the identity of the anonymous source named in the article.

Thorne’s ex-girlfriend. Now, she spoke on conditions of anonymity, but I have connections. I was
able to put them in touch with her, and they paid me pretty well for it."

"Flo," I said, grimly.
"So you’ve met." Ryan stared at the untouched chocolate chip muffin in front of him, then reached

out and picked at it halfheartedly. "Charming woman."

My head was swimming. I never would have guessed there could be a connection between Flo

and the lawsuit. My heart immediately leapt into my throat when I considered the possibility that
she’d told them about our sham marriage. I could only hope that the fact that we’d already been vetted
by the INS, and were still together, would hold more weight than another accusation of fakery.

But if they hadn’t contacted Flo to try and dig up more dirt on Daniel, what business could they

possibly have with her?

"All right," I said, pulling out some bills and laying them down next to his coffee cup. "Thanks for

your help. It’s been a pleasure."

***

Kelly called me a few days later, sounding triumphant. Daniel and Lindsay both looked up as I
answered the phone, but I just gave them a polite smile and held up my finger, retreating into my
studio.

"What’s going on?" I asked, as I shut the door.
"I’ve got them," Kelly announced. "I have pictures. Full face. I’m sending you one right now. Take

a look, see what you think."

My phone buzzed, and I pulled it away from my ear to look at the picture. This time, there was no

mistaking the face.

"That’s her," I said, lifting the phone to my face again. "That’s definitely her."
"Beautiful." Kelly sounded very proud of herself. "Did you want me to keep an eye on her? Try to

get a recording? Anything?"

"Sure, yes," I said. "All three. Thank you, Kelly."
"My pleasure." She sounded like she meant it.
As tempting as it was to throw the picture in Daniel’s face and say I told you so, I just sat in my

studio for a while longer and pondered my next move. The investigation was going well without him.
And, if I was being perfectly honest with myself, I was enjoying it. Having something just to myself.
Something sort of - thrilling.

It was stupid to think of it that way - like this wasn’t real life, like I was watching it on TV or

something. But I’d felt so helpless since this thing started, it was intoxicating to actually be able to do
something about it for once. And clearly, Daniel wasn’t interested in pursuing the same avenues that I
was. He wouldn’t investigate who framed him, he wouldn’t request a new judge - it was almost like
he was trying to punish himself.

Well, I wasn’t going to just stand idly by.
I walked back out into the living room to find Daniel alone.
"Lindsey manage to set herself up another meeting?" I sat down on the sofa beside him. "She’s

been a busy little bee lately."

"I keep telling her she can go home, but she won’t." Daniel shrugged. "Says I need the moral

support."

"Well, she’s very sweet. I’m glad she can at least get some work done while she’s here."
Daniel nodded, a little absently.
I picked at a loose thread on my shirt. I’d been meaning to replace it forever, but for some reason

I’d just never quite gotten around to it. "Have you guys always been close?"

He seemed a little surprised by the question.
"Yes," he said. "Well - on and off. We’ve had our moments. I think most siblings do." He cleared

his throat. "It was - difficult when she left for college, and I stayed back for a while longer finishing
high school. Suddenly she just wasn’t there anymore. The silence at home was deafening." He smiled.
"Things always tend to get quieter when Lindsey’s not around."

I had to agree.
"I’d be lying if I said I never got sick of it." He leaned back, reaching over and draping his arm

across my shoulders. "But it’s pretty refreshing, most of the time. She never really lies or keeps
secrets, unless you ask her to. She’s pretty much an open book. What you see is what you get. It takes
a very particular sort of courage to go through life that way, and I honestly have no idea where she
cultivated it, or how. I wish I could say I have it, but I don’t."

"I know what you mean," I said. "I guess it sort of comes from a place of…not really caring what

people think. But not in a mean way, just in a way of like…why does it matter, you know? You just
live your life. You do right by people, but you don’t need to spend all your time worrying about
leaving the wrong impression."

Daniel nodded, slowly. "She has faith in herself," he said, softly. "That’s what it boils down to,

really. She doesn’t need to spend any time worrying, because she trusts that no matter what happens,
no matter what situation she finds herself in, she’ll handle it. I remember, as a kid…" he paused, and
laughed a little. "I used to get so, sort of - nervous, and embarrassed, every time we watched a movie
or a TV show that had a wedding scene in it. My dad didn’t notice, of course, but Lindsey did. At first
she thought it was just that typical aversion to romance that little boys often have, but I didn’t react
that way to kissing scenes or anything else. Finally, one day we were all invited to a wedding, and I
had a complete breakdown. Lindsey actually asked me, for the first time, what the problem was.

"I tearfully confessed that I was afraid of getting married someday, because I didn’t know how. I

didn’t  know  what  you  were  supposed  to  say,  or  when  you  were  supposed  to  say  it.  How  was  I
supposed  to  know  when  to  walk  down  the  aisle?  When  to  say  ‘I  do?’  When  to  recite  my  vows?  I
could tell it was a very important ceremony from the reverence everyone gave to it, and my biggest
fear  was  being  suddenly  thrust  into  that  situation  and  fucking  it  up.  Even  as  a  kid,  I  was  thinking
decades forward and dreading the humiliation that I was sure would come.

"I could just picture the whole crowd, men in tuxedos and the women in their elegant dresses,

pointing  and  laughing  at  me.  That’s  how  I  was  then,  and  it’s  how  I  always  was.  But  Lindsey?  The
thought  would  never  occur  to  her.  Even  if  she  was  dropped  into  that  nightmare  scenario  I  had  as  a
child,  she’d  manage  to  give  a  beautiful,  impromptu  speech  that  would  have  the  whole  crowd
applauding on its feet." He was grinning. "I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous of her. But we can’t
all be born so lucky."

I shot him a wry smile. "If only you’d known then what you real wedding would be like. You

would have had a whole new set of things to worry about."

Daniel laughed, and wrapped his arm around me tighter.

***

A few evenings later, I happened to be downtown, picking up some takeout I’d been craving for
weeks, when my phone suddenly rang. By this time, I recognized the number.

"Kelly?" I said, as I picked up.
"I just texted you an address. Florence just arranged one final meeting with the broker, and that’s

where she’s leaving from." She sounded distracted, rifling through papers on her desk. "It’s at a new
location. She didn’t say where it was, over the phone. I think she might suspect."

"So what am I supposed to do? Go there? Follow her? Confront her?"
"Call the police," said Kelly, firmly. "Have them meet you there."
"The police don’t care about something like this," I said. "That’s why I hired you."
"She might be dangerous," Kelly insisted. "She’s unpredictable. I don’t have to tell you that."
"All right, fine." I took the phone away from my ear briefly, to glance at the address as it came in.

It was only a few blocks away from where I was now, but I had to admit that Kelly was right. Flo
was dangerous and unpredictable. I didn’t want to go into this alone.

And really, there was only one person I could call.

***

Daniel’s phone only rang twice before he picked up.

"Hey," I said. "Are you at home?"
"No," he responded, sounding slightly hesitant. "Why?"
"I’m at…" I hastily glanced at the street signs and rattled off the names. "I need you to get down

here, as soon as you can."

"Why? What’s happening?" His voice was tight with anxiety, and I could hear his keys jangling as

he shoved them in his pocket.

"It’s a long story. I’ll explain when you get here. Just hurry."
"I am hurrying. I’m coming now. Will you just tell me?"
I took a deep breath. "Okay. Don’t be mad, but I hired a private detective."
"You hired a private detective," he echoed. "For…what?"
"To investigate, you know. Everything." I cleared my throat. "The pictures. I wanted to find out for

sure if it was Flo."

"Jesus Christ, Maddy." I could picture him, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You didn’t think it

might be a good idea to tell me about this, before you go around blabbing secrets to everyone?"

"Hey. She takes her detective-client privilege very seriously."
He sighed. "That’s not a real thing. Listen - okay. So what’s happening, then? What am I walking

into?"

"Well, it turned out it was her. She’s meeting with your broker again," I said. "And she’s leaving

from here, and if you hurry we might be able to catch her in the act."

Suddenly, I heard the roar of an engine around the corner, loud enough to make me jump a little. I

turned to look - it was sleek, black affair, some kind of make I didn’t recognize - European probably,
a sports car, definitely. The windows were tinted dark. Annoyed, I lifted the phone back to my ear.

"Sorry, some self-important asshole-" I stopped as the car idled up beside me, and the window

rolled down.

"You were saying?" said Daniel, craning his neck over from the driver’s seat.
"Oh, for…" I climbed in, grimacing as I sank down into the ridiculously low seat. "Really?"
"It’s what I had when you called." He shrugged. "You said to hurry. Now, where is she?"
As if on cue, she came out of the door of one of the nearby buildings and started walking towards

a gray sedan parked on the street. Daniel quickly rolled up my window. The light changed, and a
steady flow of traffic started. At first it seemed like we’d both be stuck here for ages, but Flo saw a
dubious opportunity and took it, maneuvering herself into the flow.

"Shit. Shit." Daniel threw the car into gear, pealing out into a tiny gap in traffic. A few people

behind us leaned on their horns, but he seemed completely oblivious. Flo made it through the next
light, but stopped at a yellow, so she must not have spotted us.

"Does she know what this car looks like?" I asked, sliding down in my seat.
"No," said Daniel. He shook his head. "Yes. I can’t…I’m not sure. I don’t remember."
"How many cars do you have?"
The light turned green, and he didn’t answer. He was staying two or three cars behind, almost as

if…

"Have you done this before?" I asked, incredulous.
"Is that really an important question right now?" He was staring at the stoplight as if he could

force it to change through sheer will power. "Ten. I have ten various automobiles. Not all of them are
in drivable condition. Some are antiques. I keep them in a garage in Brooklyn. And no, I’ve never
been in a car chase before." The light changed, and he started to creep forward with everyone else.

"I was just cur - shit!" He’d just taken a turn so sharp that I hit the passenger door and almost slid

completely down onto the floor. "Jesus, calm down. We’ll find her one way or another. I’ll get Kelly
on the case."

"Kelly," he said. "That’s your private detective, then, is he?"
"She," I corrected. "And yes, she is."
We were flying down an alleyway so narrow I was sure he’d scrape the car, or at least knock

over a garbage can. But he was surprisingly skilled, especially for someone who barely ever seemed
to drive at all.

"I’m going to be honest," I said. "What with John and everything, I wasn’t even sure you had a

license."

"Will you please stop talking?"
We emerged just before another busy intersection, and Flo was the first at the light, tapping her

fingers impatiently on the wheel. I hunkered down again.

"Will you stop that?" Daniel shot me a look, sidelong. "She’ll recognize me before she’ll

recognize you."

"I just want to minimize the risk," I grumbled, straightening up, with my arms crossed.
Finally, she pulled into an anonymous parking lot down an alley. Daniel waited a few beats and

then followed her. Dusk was settling heavily over the city, and I knew it would be dark soon.

We parked on a low level and got out as quietly as we could, walking slowly up the ramps. My

heart was beating thunderously in my chest. As it turned out, I needn’t have been nervous - not at that
moment, anyway. We seemed to spot her long before she spotted us, tucking something into her purse,
framed by the lights of the city that were starting to switch on, one by one.

And then, she turned and saw us.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"I knew it," I shouted, practically spitting venom. But Flo just had a smug smile on her face, and I
realized after a few moments that I looked like the crazy one. I took a deep breath and shut my mouth.

"Well done," said Flo. She was still smiling, arms crossed.
"It’s so sad," said Daniel finally, softly. "After all this time, you’re still trying to…do what,

exactly? Ruin my life?"

"Oh no, honey." She looked so unnaturally calm that it sent a shiver through me. She was putting

on the same play-act she’d been using for years when we were co-workers, fooling me into thinking
she was normal. "No, you did a pretty good job of that on your own."

"I didn’t do anything," Daniel forced out, through gritted teeth.
"Sure," said Flo. "Not this time. Not in a way that’d get you caught."
"So this is supposed to be some kind of twisted justice."
"Sure. However you want to think about it." Flo rolled her head to the side until a vertebra

popped. "Doesn’t matter to me, one way or the other."

"Clearly," I said.
Flo laughed, turning and starting to walk away from us. "If you were about half as smart as you

think you are, you would have figured out by now that I didn’t do this for fun."

Daniel took a step forward. "What does that mean?" he called over her.
Flo stopped, but didn’t turn around. "I’m not supposed to say," she replied. "But, hey. What the

hell. I already cashed my paycheck." She turned, coming back towards us. "That’s a metaphor, I was
paid in unmarked bills. It was very James Bond. They don’t call it corporate espionage for nothing."

"They don’t call it ‘investment fraud’ for nothing," Daniel corrected her. "You’re going to jail,

Florence, is there any part of your mind that comprehends that fact?"

"Do you want to know who hired me, or what?" Flo was starting to look irritated. "I was planning

on being in Rio de Janeiro by now, so you’re kind of fucking with my itinerary."

"Someone hired you?" I repeated.
"Yes," she replied, irritated. "It was supposed to work as a red herring, and I gotta say, it was

pretty goddamn good, wasn’t it? You never suspected for a second." She tittered. "But I guess they
underestimated my burning desire to let you guys know just how wrong you are about everything."

"They?" Daniel said, taking a threatening step towards her. She giggled again.
"Your old friends," she said. "Do I really have to spell it out?"
I blinked. Daniel looked like he’d been punched in the gut.
"Wait," I said. "That doesn’t make sense."
Flo raised an eyebrow at me. "Doesn’t it?"
I was shaking my head. "No," I said, more firmly and calmly than anything I’d said up until that

point, because for once I had the upper hand. "I know for a fact that you didn’t meet with the plaintiffs
from the old lawsuit until well after all of this happened. So whoever bankrolled this from the
beginning…was either you, or somebody you’re not telling us about."

Flo made a face. "Fine. It was close enough to the truth. But if you think I’m spoon-feeding you any

more than that, you’re nuts."

Daniel was looking from one to the other of us, completely slack-jawed. I realized I hadn’t exactly

kept him in the loop about my own personal investigation; no wonder he was confused. Oh well, I
could catch him up later.

In a moment, two things happened simultaneously - Daniel started reaching into his jacket pocket,

presumably for his phone, and Flo’s hand snaked into her purse as she snapped:

"No. Drop it."
I had to blink a few times before my brain processed what I was seeing, in the darkness. Flo had a

gun. And it was trained on Daniel.

Daniel raised his hands, slowly, dropping the phone and letting it clatter to the concrete. Flo

started walking backwards, her aim unwavering. I felt like there was ice water in my veins, and there
was absolutely nothing I could do besides stand there and watch as she disappeared into the darkness.

As soon as she was gone, Daniel retrieved the pieces of his phone and began to walk briskly in

the other direction. I followed, already dialing 911 on my own phone as I jogged after him.

It was difficult to explain to the operator, especially as out-of-breath and shaking from adrenaline

as I was, but once I mentioned the name a few times they sent a car in pursuit and asked us to come
down to the station. We spent a few surreal hours under the flickering fluorescent lights, clutching our
instant coffee and trying to explain what the hell was going on. I had to take the lead most of the time,
and I could feel Daniel’s eyes fixed on me intently as I slowly admitted all the things I’d known
about, all the things I’d done without telling him. But even when we were left alone, all he did was
rest his arm on my shoulders or gently caress the back of my neck with his fingers. I supposed after
being held at gunpoint, anything I’d done barely even registered on the "minor betrayal" scale.

They called Kelly down after a while, and she came promptly, looking no more unkempt than she

had when we met, despite it being the middle of the night. She shook Daniel’s hand while attempting a
smile in my direction. "I’m not going to say ’I told you so,’" she deadpanned.

"I appreciate everything you’ve done for us," he said, as she collapsed in a chair. "Even if I didn’t

exactly…know about it until today."

"You’re welcome," said Kelly. "I have to admit, most spouses don’t take this kind of news so

well, in my experience." She sipped at her coffee, thoughtfully. "Then again, that might be because I
mostly handle infidelity cases."

Daniel let out a little snort of laughter, and I found myself laughing too.
After we’d gone every everything with three different officers what felt like a thousand times, I

was pretty sure all we’d done was thoroughly confuse everyone. They kept informing us that the
insider trading issue was a pending federal investigation, no matter how many times we said we
already knew. The captain kept shaking his head and saying he’d have to SEC, or maybe the FBI, and
then he finally let us all go home.

The gray dawn light was just beginning to creep over the city as we shuffled, bleary-eyed, through

the streets. Once we all remembered that we hadn’t eaten since lunch, we all sat in a diner for a
while, filling out stomachs with greasy food until we’d unwound enough to yawn our way home.

I barely remembered most of the drive back. I could only hope that Daniel was more alert; we

made it home without incident, at least, so he must have been in better shape than I was.

I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

***

I woke up with a start. The clock said 2:36 PM.

I had been thinking - or dreaming - I wasn’t sure which, really, but after going through every single

detail of this nightmare with the police, there were two things that still didn’t sit right with me.
Number one, the hostile judge. Number two, if Brewer were really telling the truth about how Flo and
the plaintiffs from the old lawsuit met, how did the whole thing start? Was it her idea, and hers alone?
If so, where did she get the money?

I sat down with a notepad and pen, and started to write. I had to just get my thoughts out of my

head somehow, no matter how ridiculous they might be.

First of all, there was the judge. Even Ms. Greenlee, who seemed to know him personally, was

shocked by his behavior. He didn’t normally conduct himself in that way. So what was it about this
case that had put him in such a mood?

Judicial bias was a serious accusation, I knew. If I wanted to pursue this, I was going to need

some serious evidence. But it was no more than a whim at this point, so much so that I hesitated to
even tell Kelly about it. Where would she even start?

I drummed my fingers on the table for a while. Of course, most of a judge’s life would be a matter

of public record. I could conduct my own investigation. And if I didn’t find anything, well, I didn’t
find anything. But if I did…

I shook my head. What did I think I was going to find, exactly? Any bias would have to be on

paper for me to prove it, and the far likelier scenario - that he simply didn’t like Daniel - wasn’t
exactly a punishable offense. But there was something there. A hunch I just couldn’t shake.

And then, there was the question of who exactly started this whole mess. As much as I wanted to

think Flo was the mastermind of it all, she seemed a little too…unstable. Then again, when we’d
worked together, she’d managed to convince me that she was normal.

I chewed on the end of my pen, finally pulling out my phone and typing in the judge’s name. As I’d

suspected, there was a sea of results - from elections, news blurbs, and everything else under the sun.
It was an impressive array of information - everything about his family, his background, his voting
record from when he was in congress - which I’m sure would have been vastly helpful, if only I could
figure out if it meant anything.

Just when my eyes were starting to glaze over, something jumped out at me. I’d probably glossed

over it a hundred times, but for some reason, this time it stuck.

Member of the University of Dartwood Alumni Association
Daniel had gone to Dartwood.
And so, by extension, had the plaintiffs in the old lawsuit.
It was probably a coincidence. It almost had to be, but for some reason, I couldn’t shake the

feeling that it mattered. If the judge had some prior connection with the other plaintiffs, or even some
prior knowledge of the case, it could be enough to sour him on Daniel forever.

I didn’t know enough about the legal precedents to be sure if this was enough to prove a serious

breach of judicial ethics, but I figured it must be enough to at least get us reassigned with a new judge,
if nothing else. That was, if I could demonstrate any more meaningful connection than all of them
simply having gone to the same college.

Daniel finally shuffled out of bed a few hours later, raking his hand through his hair and thumbing

blearily through his collection of takeout menus. I realized my stomach was growling.

"Any requests?" he wanted to know.
"Anything." I waited until he’d gotten off the phone with the Greek place up the street, then

gestured for him to come sit down. He did, glancing at me sidelong.

"Look," I said. "There’s this thing about the judge. I know you didn’t want to pursue it, but…"
He sighed. "All right, all right. What?"
"He went to Dartwood. Did you know that?"
Daniel rested his elbows on the island, turning to look at me with an expression of measured

patience. "Lots of people go to Dartwood, Maddy."

"Yeah, well, not that many. He’s active in the alumni association. It’s not outside of the realm of

possibility that he might have met those guys who tried to sue you, about the prototype."

We hadn’t discussed this yet, in so many words. It had come up at the police station, and his face

now looked the same as it had then, and on our honeymoon when Brewer had brought it up. Something
closed off in his eyes. He wasn’t going to discuss it. The matter simply wasn’t on the table.

"I’m just saying," I went on. "We don’t have to talk about that situation at all if you don’t want to,

but I think we probably shouldn’t just…dismiss this whole thing. The way he acted with you…I just
don’t think it was a coincidence, is all."

He was playing with an empty wrapper from something. I had no idea where he’d gotten it from.

"Why don’t you consult with your detective?" he asked. "You never needed my permission before."

I looked at him carefully, but I couldn’t quite detect the bitterness that I expected.
"Maybe I will."
We sat there for a moment, in silence. He hadn’t yet asked me how I managed to pay Kelly. Maybe

he didn’t care. Or maybe he already knew.

***

Just a few hours after I’d put her on the case, Kelly called me back about the judge.

"The bad news is, I couldn’t find anything personally. Yet." I heard the unmistakable sound of

liquid  being  poured  into  a  glass.  "The  good  news  is,  there  is  an  avenue  that  you  can  pursue.  But
Daniel  would  probably  have  to  approach  it  himself.  Maybe  with  law  enforcement  involved  -  or
maybe not. Depends on what he thinks. I’m getting ahead of myself. Here’s what I’m trying to say - if
any of the plaintiffs had any communication with the judge through their Dartwood email accounts, the
college should still have it on file somewhere. Everything is always archived at those schools. You
never know when there’s going to be some kind of academic dispute and they need to pull up emails
from  ten  years  ago.  The  trick  will  be  convincing  them  to  look  it  up  for  you.  That’s  where  I  think
Daniel’s alumni connection might help out."

"He doesn’t really…I mean, I don’t think she’s set foot on campus or even talked to anyone there

since he graduated."

"Well, considering what happened there, I can’t really blame him," said Kelly, sensibly. "But that

might not matter. Especially if he walks in with his checkbook open."

I hesitated for a moment. "Thanks for not thinking I’m crazy," I said, at last.
"Hey, no problem," Kelly replied. "You’re keeping me in good scotch. I’d go to the ends of the

earth for you."

I hung up laughing.
As it turned out, Daniel wasn’t quite as resistant as I feared he might be. He even made the phone

call to one of his contacts at Dartwood in front of me, rather than sequestering himself behind closed
doors. Once he’d promised to sponsor a fundraising dinner, it was amazing how quickly they
acquiesced. He was promised a call back with information within a few hours, and it came in thirty
minutes.

As he scribbled furiously on a piece of paper, I idly wondered if any Dartwood students actually

read the agreements carefully enough to realize that they had absolutely no privacy in their email
accounts whatsoever. I highly doubted it.

"Well," said Daniel, once he’d hung up. The expression on his face spoke volumes.
"What? What is it?" I jumped up and ran over to look at what he’d written.
"Nothing too damning," he said. "But enough to prove they had contact. The judge and…one of

them." He was chewing on the edge of his fingernail.

"You don’t know which one?" I frowned over his shoulder at the notes, but I couldn’t really make

any sense of them.

"Well, of course. But the name wouldn’t mean anything to you." His face was getting that

expression again - I was running up against another wall. I decided not to push it.

"Well, great," I said. "I hope you’re going to take that right down to the court when you file a

request for a new judge."

"Of course," he said, with a faint smile. "What else would I do?"

***

I found out the answer to that question the next morning.

When I woke up, Daniel was already gone. That wasn’t terribly unusual, but it was pretty early for

him to be meeting with someone. And after last night, I still felt vaguely unsettled. I wasn’t sure why,
but I suddenly needed to know where he was.

The first thing I did was call John.
His phone rang and rang and rang, but then he finally picked up.
"…Hello?"
"John, it’s Maddy. Are you with Daniel?"
He cleared his throat. "I’m…I drove him, yes, if that’s what you’re asking."
"Drove him where?"
He sucked in a breath through his teeth. "I’m not supposed to say."
"Come on. Seriously?"
"He was very adamant about it." There was something strained in his tone. Something beyond just

his resistance to spill Daniel’s secrets.

"John, I can tell you’re worried about something. Come on, just tell me. I’ll take care of it."
"I just -" John sighed. "It’s hardly any of my business, Maddy. But I think what he’s doing is a bad

idea, to say the least."

My heart clenched in my chest. "Please. Please tell me where he is."
"I’m waiting for him," said John. "Outside of the courthouse. He went to see the judge. He seemed

very…agitated, very angry. Not in any kind of state to meet with someone that important. I thought at
first he was going to just file a request for a reassignment, like you were all talking about on the way
back from the hearing. But he finally told me. I think he just needed to tell someone." John swallowed
audibly. "I shouldn’t have said anything, but…"

"No, no, you absolutely should have." I was already hopping into my shoes. "I’m going to get there

as fast as I can; let’s hope the judge has a full waiting room already."

I managed to nab a taxi with a driver who knew how to beat the growing rush-hour traffic, getting

me to the courthouse in record time. I rushed up the huge staircase, through the heavy wooden doors,
and breathlessly approached the receptionist.

"Judge Warren, please."

She gave me a look.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No," I said. "But it’s urgent."
"You’re the second person to come in today without one," she said, irritated. "It’s highly unlikely

that he’ll see either of you."

"Fine, okay, thank you," I said. "Which way is his office?"
She pointed wordlessly, and I could feel her eyes on me as I walked through the metal detector,

fetched my purse from the end of the x-ray machine, and ran up yet another spiral staircase. When I
finally rounded the corner where the signs told me his chambers would be, I spotted Daniel sitting on
a bench in the hall.

He looked up at me, startled.
"Are you insane?" I asked him, trying and mostly-succeeding at keeping my voice down.
"How did you find me?" he hissed.
I sat down. "Take a wild guess. Don’t you dare get mad at him - he did the right thing. What are

you planning to do, exactly? What could this possibly accomplish?"

"Personal satisfaction," said Daniel. "After all this, I think I’m entitled to a little."
"This isn’t going to accomplish anything, except warning him that you’re about to request another

judge. That’s insane. If he has any evidence, he’ll destroy it. You’re not thinking straight."

"He’s destroyed it already," said Daniel. "I promise you that. If you -"
The judge’s door swung open, heavily.
"Mr. and Mrs. Thorne," he said, looking at us like we were evangelists on his porch. "Please do

come in, I’m very interested in what you have to discuss with me."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I briefly considered turning and running away, but that certainly wasn’t going to accomplish anything
at this point.

"I’m sure you are," said Daniel, as we all crowded into the small, wood-paneled room. A clock

ticked loudly in the corner.

"Well?" said the judge. "I have a limited amount of time between cases."
"I appreciate that," said Daniel. "You’re a busy man. So am I. I just thought you might be

interested to know that I found out about you and the plaintiffs from my last case. The one about the
prototype. You’ve heard about it, yes? The case that settled in court just about eight years ago?"

"You seem to have made up your mind already," said the judge. "But as it happens, no, I’m not

familiar with that particular case."

"Bullshit." Daniel’s nostrils were flaring with every breath. "I spoke to my friends at Dartwood. I

have the emails, back and forth between you and Jim Paulson."

The judge blinked. "I seem to recall someone by that name," he said. "I believe he was a

Dartwood student, yes. We met at an alumni dinner. He had some very interesting ideas for a
handheld personal organizer."

Daniel leaned forward on the desk, his hands spread out on the polished wood. He loomed over

the  judge,  who  didn’t  seem  perturbed  in  the  slightest.  "And  you  were  one  of  the  first  investors,
weren’t you? All cash, no trail. You were careful, even back then. When his idea fizzled and I ‘stole’
it, you must have felt very hurt indeed. I’m sure it was easier to blame me, than to blame Paulson for
being  the  lazy  piece  of  shit  he  is.  I  might  not  be  able  to  prove  how  much  of  a  hand  you  had  in  this
whole thing. I’m sure when Paulson passed you the money for Florence to pay my broker off, he did it
very,  very  carefully. And  once  you  happened  to  be  assigned  to  my  case,  I  know  you  covered  your
tracks. You  couldn’t  pass  up  the  chance  to  eviscerate  me  in  front  of  the  whole  world.  That’s  how
Florence ended up working directly with Paulson and his friends in the first place - and you paid off
that scum journalist to lie about it."

The judge was smiling.
"I can’t prove any of this," said Daniel. "As I’m sure you know. But this is more than enough to get

me a new judge assigned, and to put you under the microscope. I hope you enjoy the scrutiny."

"What charming little theories you’ve cooked up," said the judge. "I suppose all of that is easier to

swallow than the idea that someone might simply think you’re an undeserving, spoiled little brat?"

"I’m not interested in your opinion of me," said Daniel, coldly. "I’m interested in how you arrived

there."

"I wish it were that sensational," said the judge. "You’re too young to understand this, but I’ve

been working in the courts for forty years. All that time, I’ve seen people taking advantage of the
system. Playing it to their own ends. I was never one of them, and my career suffered for it. But I got
where I was, finally, by being upright and honest - the things everyone tells you to to be. I got there,
after being stepped on by a hundred colleagues along the way. My reputation speaks for itself, and

even if it didn’t, I retire in three months. Who’s going to bother to look, no matter how compelling the
evidence is?" He looked up at us. "But tell me, Mr. Thorne, supposing everything you’ve said is true.
Does that change anything? Will you sleep any better at night?"

"I might," said Daniel. "That’s none of your concern."
"Whether you can successfully blame me for this or not," the judge went on, "you still have to live

with the realities of what you’ve done. Every decision you’ve made. Every time you chose to ignore
someone instead of extending a helping hand. Every time you stepped on someone’s neck. Every time
you did something that benefitted you, and you alone. Every time you left someone in your dust, or let
them languish in your shadow." The judge paused, his expression suddenly dark. "I believe we’re
done here, Mr. and Mrs. Thorne."

We walked out in silence, except for the loud clicking of our shoes in the halls. I felt like everyone

was staring at us. I might have been right.

So this was what winning felt like.
I didn’t expect it to taste so bitter.

***

"Sadly, he’s not wrong." Ms. Greenlee sounded slightly harried. Daniel had called her and actually
put her on speakerphone, which I had to appreciate. "When it comes to guys like him, who’ve been in
the system as long as they have…not to mention the fact that he’s retiring in less time than it will take
to get the investigation started. They’ll grant your petition, because they don’t want the hassle, but the
investigation’s probably going to be nothing more than a formality."

"I don’t understand," Daniel said. "Even if Paulson testifies against him? I’ve got my investigator

looking for them right now. I’ll only be a matter of time."

Ms. Greenlee sighed, and I noticed how tired and sad she sounded. I had almost forgotten that she

and  the  judge  had  once  been  friends.  Or  friendly,  at  least.  "I  doubt  the  judge  will  let  that  happen.
Anyway,  according  to  what  you’ve  told  me,  Paulson  approached  the  judge  for  help  in  taking  you
down,  not  the  other  way  around.  No  matter  how  he  tries  to  slice  it,  the  whole  thing  was  his  head.
There’s not much advantage to him trying to throw someone else under the bus. Especially someone
with as much influence as that."

Poor Kelly was working overtime on our behalf, simultaneously trying to track down Jim Paulson,

Ryan Brewer, and Daniel’s broker. According to Gen’s anonymous source, he hadn’t shown up to
work in over two weeks.

The local police had actually been of more help with the Flo situation than I’d anticipated, once

they took their sweet time verifying all of our information and going back and forth with the SEC.
They agreed that she’d mostly likely made good on her declaration to flee the country. INTERPOL
was now informed, and they assured us they’d let us know just as soon as they tracked her down.

"It’s difficult to hide nowadays," the police chief had assured us. "Cell phone signals, security

cameras everywhere - odds are, if she’s out there, we’ll be bringing her back in eventually."

Lying in bed one night, waiting for that elusive sleep to come, I found myself asking the question

that had been lodged in the back of my mind for ages. "Are you absolutely sure it was Paulson who
did it?"

Daniel didn’t answer for a moment. "Yes," he said. "Thinking back, yes, I’m certain. It was his

design, mostly. The one he says I stole. He was the only one among them who had any real talent. And
he was always the quietest of the bunch. The others would make fun of me to my face, but he never
did. I don’t know if it’s because he respected me, or because he was afraid of me, but either way - he

was the only one of them who took me seriously. The others would have most likely forgotten about
me, if it weren’t for him."

I didn’t know quite what to say to that.

***

"Thank you," said Daniel, out of the blue.

I paused, in the middle of pouring my coffee. "You’re…wait, what?"
Coming to sit down, I searched his face. He looked a little bit soft and unfocused, like he’s just

wandered back from being lost in thought.

"You know," he said. "Hiring Kelly. Pursuing everything. All those things I didn’t want to do. You

handled this much better than I did. I don’t mind saying it."

He did mind, I think, which only made me appreciate it more. I smiled, laying my hand on top of

his, which were folded on top of the kitchen island. He was still looking down, staring at the granite
countertop like it held the secrets to life, the universe, and everything.

"I don’t know why I sat on my hands," he said. "I kept telling myself, for some reason, that just

being innocent is enough to avoid being convicted of a crime. But I know that’s not true."

I shrugged. "I just figured I could do something about it, so I might as well. I was tired of just

sitting around and waiting."

He blinked a few times, rapidly. He still looked slightly lost. "I don’t know what I would have

done without you." He took his hand out from under mine and laid it on top.

This wasn’t the sort of complement I’d ever felt comfortable responding to, especially not from

him. Now, I was the one staring at the counter.

"You don’t think I…overstepped, a little?" I said, finally, because dredging up something negative

was easier than accepting something positive.

He shrugged. "Maybe when you took the money," he said, smiling faintly. "But I suppose that’s my

fault too, isn’t it?"

My heart constricted. "I didn’t…I didn’t think you’d notice," I said finally, lamely. "Anyway, it’s

my money too."

He didn’t say anything for a long while. "Kelly would have done pro bono work for you," he said.

"Most people like that will. They know you have no choice but to pay up when the bill comes,
because they know too much."

"Maybe," I said. "But I doubt Ryan Brewer works pro bono."
His smile twitched.
I stood up, sliding my hands out from under his and walking over to the fridge. The atmosphere in

the room was suddenly, stiflingly uncomfortable - as if he he’d only stated the conversation as an
excuse to scold me for what I’d done. But that was stupid. I was the one who’d brought negativity into
this, not him. Still, I felt there was a lot he still wasn’t saying, and I didn’t like it.

We didn’t talk again until the afternoon, when my phone started ringing. It was one of the numbers

I’d come to recognize as Kelly’s.

"You’re not going to believe this," she said, as soon as I picked up.
"Is that good, or bad?"
"The broker," she said, sounding incredibly pleased with herself. "He’s just been at home. Holed

up in his own apartment. The stupid bastard."

"Wow." My brain was racing to process this new development. "So what does that mean,

exactly?"

"It means I sent the cops there as soon as I realized it, and he folded like a cheap napkin as soon as

they knocked on his door."

"Cheap suit," I heard myself say. "I think it’s ‘folded like a cheap suit.’"
"Not anymore, it’s not. Anyway, they’re taking him in for questioning. He’ll probably spill

everything he knows. The downside is that he probably doesn’t know much of anything. But, you’ll
probably be getting another call from the station soon. Just be prepared to be underwhelmed."

"Thanks, Kelly." I sat down on the sofa, letting my head drop back on the cushions. "I appreciate

the heads up."

"Well?" Daniel cut in, after I hung up. I wasn’t sure where he’d popped out from.
"The broker," I said, craning my neck to look at him. "She found him, they’re taking him in. But she

doesn’t think he knows anything, really."

"Still, a confession is enough to get my case started." Daniel sat down next to me, the line of his

body sagging from exhaustion, still, after all this time. "I expect to be tied up in litigations for the next
ten years at least."

"Hey," I said, patting his arm. "That’s all well and good, but don’t let it age you by another ten."
"Right," he said, his eyes tightly shut. "Wouldn’t want to lose my good looks on account of all

this."

I chuckled. "You know, when you actually say nice things about yourself, I can never tell if you’re

being sarcastic."

"I usually am," he said. "But I’m starting to believe I’m at least good-looking enough to draw you

into my web."

***

Ms. Greenlee didn’t look pleased.

"You’re familiar with the term ‘circumstantial evidence,’ yes?"
Daniel and I both nodded.
Her lips were pursed. "Without testimony from the broker, I don’t see how we can pin down

Paulson. Unless he just…confesses, of course."

"But the broker doesn’t know where the money came from," said Daniel. "They didn’t tell him, of

course they didn’t."

"Good for them, bad for you." Ms. Greenlee frowned. "Then again, Florence is still out there

somewhere. If it’s presented to him that she’ll be found, and will testify against him anyway, which is
almost certain given what she said to you, he might agree to a plea bargain. Which might be the best
we can hope for."

"You don’t think they’ll find her?"
"Oh, they will. Eventually. But unless Paulson confesses to something quickly, they won’t even

have precedence to hold onto him for twenty-four hours, let alone the amount of time it’s going to take
them to track her down. You might think securities fraud, obstruction of justice, assault with a deadly
weapon, and unauthorized flight is quite the laundry list of charges, but as far as INTERPOL is
concerned, if she doesn’t have a bomb strapped to her chest, she’s not going to be their first priority."

Daniel sighed, raking his fingers through his hair. "What about one of the others? The other

plaintiffs? What if one of them testified?"

Ms. Greenlee brightened a little. "That would be ideal. One or both of them. If he was in contact

with them, if either of them knows enough to prosecute him - we could hold obstruction of justice
over their heads until they agree to testify against him for immunity. If they can produce emails,
anything like that - so much the better."

"I’ll do my best to get in touch with them," said Daniel. "I have…a friend of sorts in the alumni

association."

"Good, good. Excellent." Ms. Greenlee was much happier now, and that made me feel slightly

better, although my head was swimming with everything she’d told us.

Daniel made good on his promise to contact the alumni association again, that very day. After he’d

spent so much time trying to roll over and accept injustice, it was encouraging to see him like this
again. He explained the situation to his new friend as delicately as he could, and the alumni
representative promised to put both plaintiffs directly in touch with the authorities, if he could reach
them.

From then on, it was another waiting game.

***

The police chief called, a few days later. He spoke only to Daniel, who looked very solemn as he
answered monosyllabically.

"Well?" I asked, as he hung up.
"One of them came in," he said. "But he won’t testify unless he gets a chance to talk to me first."
I bit my lip to keep from asking if I could be there, too. At this point, I felt like I ought to, but I

didn’t want to push him.

"You should come," he said.
I didn’t realize it was that obvious that I wanted to, but I wasn’t going to say no.
When we got down to the station, I realized I was horribly nervous and I didn’t know why. I

reached down and clasped Daniel’s hand as we walked through the halls, and very briefly, I felt his
fingers squeeze mine.

The man who was waiting for us in the interview room had sandy blond hair and tired eyes. He

didn’t look up, not even when Daniel’s chair scraped loudly against the floor as he pulled it out to sit.

"Well," he said, after a moment of silence. "They said you wanted to talk to me. Here I am."
The man swallowed, audibly. He finally looked up.
"I’m sorry," he said. "I went over it in my head, a million times, but now I don’t know what to say

anymore."

Daniel’s mouth twisted. "Well, I’m glad I came all the way down here."
The man sighed, his head resting in his hands. "I don’t know. I don’t know where to start, exactly.

I got a phone call yesterday telling me I could be facing up to five years in federal prison, and then I
drove all night to get here. My head’s not exactly…"

"It’s fine," said Daniel, flatly. "It’s going to be fine, all you have to do is tell them what you

know."

"They’re sending over a public defender," he said. "After that, I’ll figure out what I’m going to

do."

Daniel drummed his fingers lightly on the table.
"It wasn’t right, how we treated you," said the man, finally. "I’ve…I wish I could say I realized it

right away, but it’s been gradual. I think about it a lot. Especially lately. It’s hard to even walk down
the street without seeing your name on some headline."

"I’m aware," said Daniel.

"I just thought you should know." He looked at the wall for a few moments. "You know, if I’d

thought  Jim  was  serious  about  this,  I  would  have  told  him  to  leave  you  alone.  But  I  had  no  idea.  I
thought  he  was  just…venting."  He  took  a  deep  breath.  "But  apparently,  he  was  serious  about  it.  I
didn’t  realize  until  he  started  asking  me  for  money  to  help  out  with  ‘the  cause.’  That  was  what  he
called it. I explained to him that I was still paying off my student loans, and barely making my rent
every month, but I guess I should have told him what I was really thinking. A million times I ranted
about it to my wife, I told her how he needed to just let go, and leave you alone, but I never said it to
him. Maybe if I had…but that’s not the point, I guess. I can do something about it now. I just wish it
hadn’t gone this far."

"Well, you couldn’t have known," I put in, since Daniel didn’t seem like he was going to respond

anytime soon.

Silence reigned, for a few more minutes.
"Is that all?" Daniel said, finally.
"I just wanted you to know I’m sorry," said the man. "And I don’t hold it against you."
Daniel straightened, suddenly. "Don’t hold what against me?"
The man looked up, blankly. "I’m sorry," he said. "I shouldn’t have brought it up."
I looked over at Daniel; he waited for another moment, and then stood up abruptly and went

towards the door. I followed him, glancing back at the other man as we left. But he didn’t look up as
we left. He just kept staring at the table, his head in his hands.

"He feels bad," I said, when we were out in the car.
"Yes, well," said Daniel. "Try as I might, I can’t drum up too much sympathy."
I knew he had a right to feel that way, but there was still something unsettled in the pit of my

stomach.

We came home to a notice on the door. They’d tried to deliver a certified letter, something

overnighted. Daniel hurried to the post office, and I stayed behind, updating Lindsey on everything
that had happened.

Daniel came back in a little while, with an expression on his face that looked like it might almost

become a smile.

"They granted the petition," he said. "I’ve got a new judge."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"Congratulations, Danny. Have I said that enough times yet?" Lindsey was so excited she could hardly
contain herself.

"You know this means we have to start over completely, don't you?" said Daniel, but he was

smiling. "I'm going to be up all night tomorrow working with my lawyer, we have to completely re-
build the entire case and present the whole thing over again. This essentially resets the timetable."

"But this time you have a judge who's not determined to crucify you," I said. "And that makes all

the difference." So he’d be working all night. The night of my showing. I had no idea why a feeling of
sick disappointment blossomed in my chest; I’d already decided he wasn’t invited.

"Do you really have to work all night? Can't it wait?" Lindsey wanted to know.
"The new judge is fitting me in starting next week," he said. "And my lawyer's got cases booked

during the day until then, so we have to work after-hours. Otherwise I'd have to wait for months and
months to even get started. This whole thing has thrown the trial schedule for a loop."

"Well, that's ridiculous," said Lindsey. "Can you at least relax and celebrate tonight?"
"Maybe," he said. "As long as 'celebrating' means takeout and beer in the kitchen. There's

absolutely no way I'm subjecting myself to being in the public eye."

"Okay, fair enough." Lindsey opened one of the kitchen drawers. "I'll start digging for menus."
"I can't believe you still have all those," I said, eyeing the massive stack of wrinkled paper that

Lindsey pulled out of the drawer. "You know it's all online now, right?"

"You say that," Daniel replied. "But you remember that Italian place we wanted to try once?

Didn't even have so much as a profile online. We had to go and read the menu at the table, like we
were in the dark ages." He grinned. "I'm in the mood for anything, Linds."

Lindsey gave him a mock salute, her nose buried in a binder's worth of menus.
We talked about everything but the trial over dinner, and Lindsey turned in early, determined to

get a full night's sleep before a teleconference she had in the morning. Daniel and I stayed up, talking,
even laughing a little, and it was almost - almost - like all this had never happened.

But not quite.
I looked at him now, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the accusations. I wasn’t naive; I’d always

assumed that someone of Daniel’s prominence had probably conducted himself with less-than-
pristine ethics at some point in his career. But assuming and knowing were very different things.

When I’d first married him, it was just a business deal. I didn’t concern myself with what kind of

person he was, beyond his ability to honor our agreement. But somewhere along the way I’d managed
to fall in love with the man. And now, I was actually getting to know him. It was deeply unsettling,
which I supposed was the cost of doing things backwards.

Jesus Maddy, stop being such a drama queen. It’s not like he’s in organized crime.
"So," I heard myself say after a lull. "It’s going to be weird facing Paulson in court again, right?

After all those years?"

He was looking at me sidelong. "I suppose," he said.

"I bet you thought you’d never run into him again."
"Well, the matter was settled." He rotated his beer bottle around, slowly, over and over again. "In

a very literal sense of the word. Non-disclosure agreements were signed."

"But you can’t really blame him for holding a grudge." I paused. "I mean, without taking sides or

anything."

"Without taking sides, he had nothing without me," said Daniel, tightly. "And he knows that."
I shrugged. "Maybe it’s not as obvious to him as it is to you. Not that I was there, of course. I don’t

know what happened. But whatever kind of…you know, misunderstanding…"

A muscle in Daniel’s jaw twitched. "There was no misunderstanding," he said. "All of them, they

just wanted a taste."

"Well," I said. "That would be your perspective."
"Well," said Daniel. "As you say - you weren’t there."
My head was buzzing.
"And what if I did?" he said, his voice suddenly growing louder. "What if I did steal it?"
I couldn’t look at him. "I don’t know," I said.
"Would it change the way you feel about me?"
There it was - the question I’d been afraid to ask myself, all this time. I hadn’t exactly invited my

feelings for him, but now that they were here, I didn’t know how I could live without them. I was
afraid to look them in the face, but I was even more afraid to let them go.

What if he did do it?
What if he made that mistake, all those years ago? Blinded by ambition, or frustrated by inaction,

or driven by some forces that I simply couldn’t understand, and never would?

Would it change the way I felt about him? Was there anything he could do, that would make me

love him less?

Suddenly, I knew the answer. And it terrified me. But not at all in the way that I expected.
"Of course not," I said, my voice sounding much more bitter than I intended.
"Well then," he said. "It doesn’t matter, does it?"
"I’d like to know," I said. "I’d like to know that you trust me."
"You know that already," he said.
"You keep saying that." I stared at my beer. "But ever since this whole thing went down, you’ve

barely talked to me. And I don’t know if it’s because you just don’t have any energy left, or if it’s
because you’re hiding something. But either way, I don’t really know how you expect me to feel about
it."

"I didn’t want to burden you," he said, in a tone that suggested even he wasn’t convinced of this

excuse.

"Wrong," I said. "Try again."
I heard him shift a little on the stool, and I finally looked at him again. He’d turned towards me,

his face indescribably tired and sad. He was picking at the label of his beer bottle with his thumb.

"People always think they want to help," he said. "But they don’t. Not really. Nobody wants to

hear about how much I worry. How that’s the only thing that drives me. People ask all the time. Every
interview,  there’s  some  variation  of  it.  What  pushes  you  forward?  What  makes  you  tick?  Nobody
wants  to  hear  the  real  answer.  It’s  fear.  Fear  of  losing  ground,  fear  of  becoming  irrelevant.  Every
accomplishment just becomes another albatross around your neck. The bar’s being raised, every day,
every hour, every minute. Something like this happens, and it just confirms every fear I’ve ever had. It
validates  all  those  sleepless  nights.  I  spend  every  free  moment  thinking  of  something  that  can  go

wrong - of how the rug’s going to get pulled out from under my feet - but I still never manage to guess
at what actually happens. This fucking disaster, and the one before - two, if you count Flo trying to
ruin our fucking lives - who could have possibly seen that coming?"

"So why worry?" I said, quietly.
He stared at me, balefully.
"I’m not trying to be flippant," I said, laying my hand on top of his. His thumb finally stilled. "I’m

serious. If you can’t possibly see it coming, when it happens, why spend time worrying about it?"

"Because I can’t stop," he said, looking at me incredulously. As if it were that obvious.
"Can’t, or won’t?"
"Both?" He pulled his hand away. "And as much as I appreciate your support, you really don’t

want to be dragged even further into this than you already have been."

"Daniel, I have paparazzi following me. I don’t think I could possibly be dragged in any further."
"You think that," he said. "But it always gets worse. Always."
"Okay, but you run a technology company. You’re not Marilyn Monroe." I sat up straighter. "At a

certain point, you have to relax."

I could see his lip twitch, like he wanted to sneer.
"Come on," I said. "Don’t hold yourself back. Tell me how you really feel."
"How I really feel?" he said, finally letting the sneer come to life. "Fine. You’re right. I’m not

Marilyn Monroe. I’m not you, either. You think you know what’s going through my head, but you
don’t."

I swallowed hard.
"Fine," I said, quietly. "But just for the record, I never thought I knew what was going through your

head. I’m sorry if it seemed like I did."

"Now you apologize," he said, almost laughing, bitterly. "You’ve been so ready to get involved,

all the time, Maddy knows best - and now you’re pretending like you’re sorry, because that’s what
you think I want to hear. What do you want to hear, Maddy? That I’ve never made a mistake? That
I’ve never capitalized on someone else’s idea, not even a little? Is there anyone out there who hasn’t
borrowed something to achieve success? You want a clear-cut answer, did I steal from those kids or
not? Because that’s what they were at the time, by the way - kids. We all were. I hope to God you’re
never called into court to account for a mistake you might have made when you were in college.
Because there’s not always a clear-cut answer, Maddy. There’s not always one person to blame. I
know that’s what you want. That’s what everyone wants. It’s easier, and it’s simpler, and it makes a
better headline."

I stared at him. I couldn’t reconcile his behavior with the way it had been before; the way he’d

been so thoughtful and kind, thanking me for taking action, giving me credit for helping him through it.
I couldn’t resist taking one more jab at him. "So you did do it."

He stood, so abruptly that the stool rattled beneath him, almost tipping over. "That’s really all you

care  about,  isn’t  it?"  he  almost  shouted,  slamming  his  hand  down  on  the  counter  -  whether  to
accentuate  his  point  or  steady  himself,  I  wasn’t  sure.  "There  was  nothing  formal  back  then,  no
contracts, nothing written down. It was a free exchange of ideas. If by ‘exchange’ you mean they just
leeched off of me and contributed nothing of their own. Until one day, when they finally had an idea I
could work with. I didn’t take it on purpose. Or maybe I did. Maybe there was some part of me that
wanted  to  get  back  at  them  for  everything,  for  the  long  months  of  subtle  mockery  and  using  me  for
their purposes and calling it ‘friendship.’ But it doesn’t matter now, does it? I paid my dues. They got
everything they deserve from me. But now they want more. Everyone always wants more." He was

headed for the end table, grabbing his keys and shoving them in his pocket. "I’m going out. Clear my
head."

"Oh no. Absolutely not," I called after him, struggling to get to my feet. "No way are you going out

like this."

"I'll take a cab," he said.
I squeezed my eyes shut, tightly.
"Fine," I said.
When I opened them, he was already gone.

***

I made a valiant effort to go to sleep after he left, but I couldn’t. After tossing and turning in bed for a
while, I flicked the light on again and started thumbing through books without even looking at the
covers - or the words, if I was being completely honest with myself.

Eventually, I came to terms with the fact that I couldn’t possibly focus. I got up and wandered back

to the bookshelf, returning everything one by one.

As I did, my eyes drifted over to the closet. Not Daniels’ clothes closet - THE closet. He almost

always kept the doors closed, and for some reason, I had never ventured to open it myself. He’d
never explicitly told me not to. I just didn’t, as if it were some kind of inner sacrament that I wasn’t
allowed to touch.

For some reason, in that moment, I realized that was ridiculous. It was as much my closet as it was

his. I had every right to go in there, if I wanted to.

My heart was pounding as I approached the door. Even though I knew I’d be able to hear the front

door open well before he could get upstairs, I was still taken with the ridiculous fear that I’d turn
around and see him standing behind me, his arms crossed, and his eyes dark with anger.

I slid the door open, slowly. The sound of the runners scraping against the track was deafening in

the silent room.

I’d caught glimpses of this side before, when he opened it in front of me. I knew that there were a

few small floggers and whips hanging along the back wall, and several lengths of rope looped over
the bar that was meant for hanging clothes. On the floor, there was a large black duffel bag that I’d
never seen unzipped. I grabbed it by the handles and dragged it forward, with the intention of finally
peeking inside, after all this time.

And then, I saw something that derailed me completely.
At first I thought it might just be a shadow, but leaning down further I could see there was

definitely something on the wall - an outline of a square, almost like…

I reached out and touched it. I almost jumped out of my skin when that little portion of the wall

popped open, displaying a small cubby in the wall. I wasn’t sure what I expected to find there - a
safe, or some kind of strongbox. But instead, there was a small shoebox, slightly tattered around the
edges.

I reached in and removed it, gently. Sitting down on the bed with it on my lap, I slipped my

fingertips under the lid and raised it. As I did, a fleeting thought passed through my head - the box was
too small to have ever held an adult’s shoes. He must have been holding onto it since he was a child.

Inside was a mess of papers, photographs, and tiny objects, disorganized in a way that ran counter

to everything I knew about Daniel. I heard something rolling around in the bottom. A marble? I could
see the corner of an old photograph peeking out from behind some folded papers, so I pulled them out
and set them aside.

It wasn’t just one photograph, I realized, but a whole stack of Polaroids, beginning to peel and

yellow around the edges, the chemicals starting to seep back into the photographs and distort the
edges into a strange kaleidoscope of colors. The first in the stack was a classic. A little boy was
sitting in his high chair, holding a handful of spaghetti noodles, with sauce smeared all over his face.
The decor of the kitchen was distinctly late ‘80s. I flipped the picture over. Someone had written on it
in a long, elegant hand - in pencil, so it was all but unreadable now - Danny, Aug ’86.

In the next picture, he was older, and a sandy-haired girl who must be Lindsey was there too.

She’d just begun to reach that gangly stage of ten or eleven, and crouched between them, with her
arms wrapped tightly around them both, was a woman who could only be Daniel’s mother.

Although she was obviously posing, she also looked to have been taken by surprise, mid-sentence,

but still smiling. Lindsey looked like she was trying to smile, but the sun was in her face. Daniel was
scowling.

I flipped through each picture, one by one. It was everything one would expect from a stack of

family photos. The last one was taken in the midday sunlight, featuring Daniel’s mother sitting on the
side  of  the  pool,  dangling  her  legs  in  the  water.  Daniel  and  Lindsey  were  swimming  and  splashing
nearby,  almost  out  of  frame.  I  looked  a  little  closer.  Daniel’s  mother  was  smiling,  but  that  sort  of
faint,  tired  smile  that  you  can  only  just  manage  when  you’re  sick.  Her  bikini  almost  looked  baggy
around her in certain places. And in spite of the bright sun, her skin was as pale as anything.

I shivered, and went to slide the picture back into the bottom of the box. As I did, my fingers

brushed against something that felt…sharp, almost, yet delicate. Frowning, I lifted up the rest of the
box’s contents and fished for the object.

As my fingers closed around it, I realized what it was. But I didn’t quite process it until I lifted it

up and opened my hand, looking down at the little shell sitting in my palm. A tiny nautilus shell, as
beautiful and delicate as it was the day I found it.

For some reason, as my heart twisted and my throat tightened, all I could think to do was pick up

the pile of folded papers that I’d removed from the top of the box. The first one looked oddly fresh -
cleanly folded. New.

I opened it.

I know you’ll likely never read this, but I have to write it. It’s the best way to clear my head, I

think. I suppose we’ll find out if it helps.

I don’t know what to say to you, Maddy. I’ve been sitting here for hours just thinking about it,

and I still can’t find the words I’m looking for. I don’t even know where to start. And if I can’t
think of it now, how can I possibly hope to find them when I’m sitting there, looking at you? Seeing
your face and knowing that there’s only one reason why you’re with me at all?

Things like this have never been easy for me. I’m sure you know that by now. But the reality of

the situation is that I’m afraid. That’s all. I’ve come so close to losing you, but then again I’m not
sure if I ever had you. If I tell you this, you’ll be offended. And rightfully so. Why shouldn’t I
believe you, when you say you love me? Nobody wants to be with someone who doubts them. You
deserve better than that.

So I err on the side of saying nothing, and most of the time it doesn’t matter much. But then

things go wrong, and you wonder why I don’t confide in you. Why don’t I seem to trust you? Why
don’t I act like someone who’s in love? Why do I go from lavishing you with love and attention to
suddenly withdrawing, becoming cold - even hostile?

I suppose that question is bigger than just you and me. I suppose even if you weren’t just with

me because of my money, I’d still find a reason not to let you in. That’s generally what I’m best

at.

After a string of failed relationships I convinced myself I was better off alone, and you were the

one who changed that. When I first started going through the motions, I told myself that was all it
was. But I should have known I was getting in over my head, and dragging you with me. I can’t
really bring myself to regret it. I’m happier than I’ve ever been. I know it might not always seem
like that, but it’s true.

I love you, I love you - and I think I am going to spend the rest of my life trying to learn how to

act like it, how to convince you it’s real - how to convince myself. You seem determined not to
leave me. I’m not going to pretend to understand why, but I am grateful.

I know that neither one of us will be able to forget how things started between us. But in time, I

hope it will dissipate - the dark cloud that hangs over us, the memory of how it began as a sham.
How it used to be almost a joke to us. Pretending to be in love. I hope someday I’ll wake up, see
you next to me, and forget to wonder if you’re still just pretending.

And maybe, someday, when all of that has passed, I’ll be able to show you this letter. Then

you’ll start to understand, if only a little. I’m sorry for everything.

I love you, Madeline Thorne.

Hot tears were brimming in my eyes. I folded the letter up again, quickly, shoving it back into the

box and hurriedly fumbling the lid back on. I hurried back to the closet and shoved it back into the
compartment, which was as far as I got before I crumpled up on the floor and let myself cry.

Finally, I picked up my phone and hit the speed dial for Daniel. My throat tightened and my heart

thumped in my chest as it rang and rang and rang, finally clicking over to his voicemail.

I hung up.
Taking a deep breath, I reached back into the closet and pulled out the box again. I took out the

letter, unfolding it and smoothing it across my lap. His hand was still so even and elegant, even as he
wrote something like this.

I went to his dresser and laid it out, carefully, weighting down the corners with a couple of

cufflinks.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

On the morning of the showing, I woke up early. And alone. I looked at the phone on my bedside table
and thought about calling Daniel again, but I still couldn’t quite bring myself to do it.

"Ready for your big night?" Lindsey said, brightly, when she saw me in the kitchen.
"Yeah," I said, forcing a smile. "What should I wear, do you think?"
"Something flirty," she said. "But still semi-formal. You want to seem approachable, right?"
"Well, I don't know about that," I said. "But I'm hoping there won't be much of a presence from the

media. Curtis didn't tell anyone that I'd be there."

"Ooh, you're the surprise guest? How romantic. Okay. Let's see what you've got."
She helped me rummage through my closet for a while, finally pulling out a slightly asymmetrical

black cocktail dress that fell mid-thigh at its shortest point. I'd never actually worn it; it always
seemed a little too sassy for more formal events, but still not quite right for something casual, either.

"You think?" I asked her, holding it up in front of me in the mirror and trying to imagine how it

would look - me, the disgraced billionaire's wife, showing that much thigh at an art gallery.

"You're a featured artist. I don't think there's a dress code." Lindsey laughed. "And even if there

was one, I'm sure that would be just fine." She went for my jewelry box and started picking through
it.

"I guess," I said, sitting down heavily on the bed. "Pantyhose, or no?"
"I dunno, will they even be able to tell in that lighting?" She held up a pair of silver earrings that

almost looked like little bunches of grapes. I couldn't remember buying them. "What about these?
They're sort of fun and elegant at the same time."

"Sure," I said. "I almost wish the paparazzi would show. Let them see me ready for my close-up."
"Oh, they don't care about that. That's boring." She held the earrings up on either side of my face,

tilting  her  head  to  look  at  them.  "I  mean,  they  might  show  up  if  you  tip  them  off.  I  did  some  design
work  on  a  house  -  I'm  not  allowed  to  say  whose,  but  it's  somebody  you'd  know.  His  publicist  had
every single trashy newspaper and gossip blog on speed dial. It was completely ridiculous. He got
pissed  if  he  went  to  Starbucks  and  there  weren't  candid  shots  of  him  in  line  plastered  all  over  the
internet by the time he got home."

"God. I can't imagine."
Lindsey shrugged. "It's a different world, you know? That's what some people live for."
"I just want people to maybe like my paintings," I said. "Then I'd be happy."
She looked at me, serious for a moment. "Is that really all you need?"
"Well, you know," I said. "And maybe some other stuff too."
She smiled.

***

Lindsey had been right about one thing - the lighting in the gallery was incredibly dim, with the room
mostly illuminated by the individual light sources that were dedicated to each work on display. I got
there early, and I had to rap on the door for Curtis to let me in.

"Hey, sweetie! I'm so glad you could make it!" He clasped my hand as I walked in. "How are

things going?"

"Well," I said. "Do you want a real answer, or just pleasantries?"
"Real answer, always. Of course."
"Not great," I said. "I mean, things were going better, but then I fucked up. As usual."
"How so?" He took my coat and went to hang it up in his office.
"It’s weird," I said. "We were able to successfully petition for a new judge, so we got exactly

what we wanted. But afterwards, I just felt worse. And I ended up starting a fight about something
stupid."

"That’s understandable," said Curtis. "You’ve probably been bottling everything up for months

because you didn’t want to add to the general stress, and now that things are better, you can’t really
tamp them down anymore."

"Yeah, I guess." I shook my head at the memory. "I had a couple beers, and all of a sudden it

seemed like a good time to hassle him about a bunch of things that don’t really matter. You’re right,
there’s a lot I’ve been ignoring. This journalist who’s been flirting with him…and, you know, other
stuff…" I certainly wasn’t going to get into the prototype lawsuit now.

"Well," he said. "Couples fight about things like that all the time. I'm sure you'll bounce back just

fine. It's not like anyone really did anything wrong." He glanced at me. "Right?"

"Right," I said. "As far as I know." I was talking about the prototype, but I was really talking about

Gen, too.

He raised his eyebrows slightly.
"I mean - I don't really think anything happened," I said. "But does it really matter? I mean,

ultimately what I want is for him to want to be with me. If he stays with me out of obligation even
though he'd rather be with someone like her, it feels like winning on a technicality."

"I'm sure that's not true," he said. "I’m sure he’s with you because he wants to be, because you’re

not like all the people who hang on him because of his money and his reputation."

"He's said stuff like that before," I agreed. "But I don't really understand. Like…if he was

interested in just any old average woman, he could go down to the grocery store and pick one up just
like anybody else could. He doesn't have to be with models and heiresses if he doesn't want to."

"But you're not ordinary," said Curtis, softly. "You're pretty extraordinary, actually, I think."
I felt my ears turning red. "Thanks," I said. "But a lot of people can draw."
"I'm not just talking about that." Curtis took a step towards me, and I didn't step back. "You're…I

mean…I don't know you well, but honestly, I know exactly what he sees in you. I can't really explain
it." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, I - this is weird. I'll shut up."

"No, it's okay," I said, smiling. "This is…it's nice to hear. Sometimes I never know when Daniel

is being…you know, genuine."

"More than you think, I'm sure," said Curtis. "He's very…he's a very lucky guy."
I cleared my throat and looked up at him. His clear, gray eyes were fixed on mine. I felt myself

turning up to him, further, almost as if -

"Oh, my God," we both said at almost the exact same time, stepping away from each other hastily.
"I'm so sorry," said Curtis. "Maddy, I'm really - I'm really really sorry. I never do this kind of

thing. I - this show is crazy, I'm stressed out, it went to my head. I'm….I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," I said. "Really." I smiled, encouragingly, even though my legs felt like jelly. "I

understand, we both got….caught up. But it's okay. We didn't…it's fine." I pushed my hair behind my
ears, smoothing it and clearing my throat. "I'm going to go take a look at my installation and get

ready."

"Of course," he said, staring at the floor. "I'll see you later on."
I hurried into the cramped bathroom on the other side of the gallery, considering splashing some

cold water on my face until I remembered that it would ruin my makeup. I leaned on the sink, instead,
taking a series of deep breaths until the red in my face started to disappear. I washed my hands,
smoothed my hair again, and went back out into the gallery.

People were just starting to filter in. I grabbed a glass of champagne and a few mysterious little

puff pastries, standing next to my installment like a kid at a science fair. Truth be told, I really had no
idea what was expected of me. I mean, I knew in theory - but I felt incredibly awkward, shoving little
hors d'oeuvres into my mouth and drinking down all my champagne in one go. I stood there,
awkwardly holding my empty glass, and trying to figure out what I'd just eaten.

"Oh my God," I said, softly, to no one. "I think those were tiny Beef Wellingtons."
"They were," said Curtis, suddenly appearing beside me. "Smile, you're on camera. Not literally.

But you know what I mean."

I let out a long breath. "Okay," I said. "I think I'm ready."
"Don't get too nervous. You barely need to do anything. Just stand here and look stunning, but that's

not hard. I'm sorry. I just - I mean, you look great. But if someone asks you a question, just answer it.
If someone wants to buy it, be extra nice. That's pretty much all you need to know. And I'm here if you
need anything. I'll be mingling. Just look for me."

"Thanks, Curtis," I said.
"No problem." He smiled. "Now, I've got to go be social for a while."
He wandered over to a group of people that had congregated towards the back of the room. With

me being the focal point, I could feel everyone's eyes being drawn to me as they walked in, but most
seemed to lose interest quickly and keep moving. I wasn't sure if they just felt awkward that I was
standing there, or if they thought my drawings were terrible. Either way, it wasn't terribly
encouraging.

There were only a few other artists there, and none of them seemed to want to make eye contact.

So I went to fetch another glass of champagne and tried not to wonder if I'd be standing her all night,
alone and silent, watching everyone walk around me in droves.

When I turned back to my installation, I saw an older businessman type standing there, frowning at

it.

"These are very beautiful," he said, matter-of-factly. "Very…simple. But I like that." He eyed me

for a reaction.

"Thank you," I said.
"Oh, you're the artist?" he said. "Very lovely." His eyes drifted to the name plate, then back to my

face, then back to the name plate again. I could tell he wanted to say something, but was perhaps
thinking better of it.

"Yes, well," he said, at last. "I hope you keep drawing, I'd love to see more of your work."
I wasn't quite sure what that meant, but it clearly wasn't going to lead to a sale tonight, so I went

back for another round of appetizers and tried to sip more judiciously at my champagne. I had to
survive the rest of the night standing on heels, after all. It probably wouldn't look too great if I had to
lean on the free-standing wall just to stay upright.

As the place started to fill up, I finally had a few more interested parties - just no one quite

interested enough to spend any money. I tried not to let myself look too closely at the other pieces on
display, because the more I did, the more I noticed how small and plain all of my drawings looked,

compared to theirs. There were so many gorgeous, lifelike paintings, intricate sculptures, and things
that looked like - well, like they belonged in an art gallery. And here I was, with drawings that looked
like they belonged on my mom's fridge.

I suddenly felt very small. I shrank against the wall, my shoulders hunched, sort of willing

everyone to keep on ignoring me so I could wallow in my own inadequacy.

"Excuse me," said a voice. I looked up. A sharply-dressed businessman type was standing in front

of me.

"Uh, hi," I said. "Can I help you?"
"Yes, I think so." His eyes darted over to my drawings. "Lovely work. Really lovely. I had no

idea you'd be here tonight. You're Daniel Thorne's wife, aren't you?"

"…yes," I said. "But I'm just here as an artist tonight." I forced a smile. This was getting off to a

very poor start.

"And a very talented one, I'm sure," he said. "But listen - I think I can offer you a unique

opportunity to tell your story in the midst of all the rumors and incorrect speculations that are swirling
around your husband. I'd absolutely love to do a feature on you - get your unique perspective on the
whole situation. I'm with the Post." He reached into his lapel and pulled out a business card, pushing
it in my direction. I just stared at it. He gestured for me to take it a few more times, until I finally
relented.

"Thanks," I said, "but no thanks."
"Are you sure? This would all be on your terms. You don't have to answer any questions you don't

want to."

"Yeah, I know all about that," I said. "I'm going to have to stick with my original answer."
"This would be a unique chance for you to improve your image after that unfortunate cover page,"

he said, more quietly, drawing closer to me and bending his head down. "I know that's not how you
want to be seen."

"I don't want to be seen at all," I said. "Did you want to buy a drawing, or what?"
"If I buy a drawing, will you do an interview? Just one page. It'll be twenty minutes. We can do it

right here." He was actually reaching for his wallet.

"No!" I said, louder than I meant to. There was enough ambient conversation that it was hardly

noticeable, but a few people turned to look at me curiously. "No," I repeated, more quietly this time.
"Absolutely not."

"Have you read our paper?" he pressed, tucking his wallet back into his pocket. "I know

sometimes the headlines can seem sort of…inflammatory, but we're really quite fair. We have a
circulation of almost seven hundred thousand. This is a unique chance for you, it's unlikely to come up
again."

"Wait, you mean if I called you up tomorrow and told you that I changed my mind, you wouldn't

want to run the piece?" I smiled at him. "Sorry, but I don't believe you. Now if you'll move along to
the other exhibits so everyone can have a chance for a meet and greet?"

He looked over his shoulder, then stepped closer, his voice lowering. "Nobody else is interested

in talking to you," he said, softly. "They don't know who you are. But I do. Your drawings aren't
enough to catch people's attention, honey, I'm sorry to break it to you. The only facet of interest you
could possibly have for anyone is being Daniel Thorne's wife."

"Excuse me," said someone at my elbow. I turned to see Curtis standing there, holding a glass of

champagne so tightly it looked like it might shatter. "I'm the gallery owner. Can I help you?"

The journalist pasted on a smile. "No thank you. I was just having a nice conversation with Mrs.

Thorne here."

"Oh, is that all?" Curtis' smile was frigid. "Well, I have to say, I'm not an expert, but it didn't

sound all that friendly to me."

"With all due respect," said the journalist, "this isn't really any of your business."
"With all due respect, this is my gallery, and I'd prefer that my featured artists not get hassled by

someone like you."

I edged away, slowly. The journalist's hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. "I'd really prefer that

you not leave," he said. "We have a lot to talk about, if I can just get rid of this…busybody." He
glared at Curtis.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," said a voice so familiar that it made my heart leap into my throat. "But

could you move out of the way? I can't quite see the drawings."

The journalist whirled around. "And just who the hell do-" Suddenly he went white as a sheet, and

stepped backwards reflexively. "Mr. Thorne," he said, his voice suddenly much softer.

"Yes," said Daniel, smiling faintly. "And who did you say you were?"
The journalist swallowed dryly. "I didn't," he said, stepping further back.
"I got his card," I supplied, with the part of my brain that wasn't staring dumbfounded at my

husband.

"Oh, you got his card. Excellent." Daniel sidled up to me and placed his hand on the small of my

back, the way he always liked to do. "Well, then."

The journalist disappeared into the crowd.
"You look beautiful, darling," said Daniel very softly, dropping a kiss on the top of my head.
"God damn Lindsey," I muttered. "She promised not to tell."
"Oh, she didn't," said Daniel. "Don't be so quick to lay blame."
"I'm sorry," said Curtis, who was still standing awkwardly on the other side of the installation. "I

couldn't resist."

"You fucker," I mouthed at him. But I was smiling, and so was he.
"I'm ridiculously proud of you," said Daniel, looking out over the gallery with a half-smile playing

at his lips. "You know that, right?"

"I just didn't…" I let out a sigh. "I didn't want to give you one more thing to worry about. I'm sorry,

I just figured I could do this on my own."

"You could," said Daniel. "And you did." He smiled down at me, his grey eyes shining with the

light reflected off the little fixtures on my installation. "But isn't this better?"

I leaned closer to him, wrapping my arm around his waist and breathing in the smell of his

cologne. It was so expensive that it didn't even have anything written on the bottle. All this time, and I
still didn't know what it was called.

"Yes," I said softly, "this is better."
Curtis had disappeared at some point. I'm not sure how long we stood there, holding onto each

other as the crowd walked around us, but after a while Curtis came back, hand extended, with a little
piece of paper folded up between his fingers.

"What's this?" I asked, taking it.
"It's an offer," said Curtis, nodding his head towards a nearby couple. "From him. He wants the

willow tree."

It was strange - all the anticipation and planning and dreaming, and I'd never once considered how

it would actually feel when someone really bought something I'd made. It was such an odd,
exhilarating thought. And sad, somehow.

I looked up at Daniel. "Did you put him up to this, to make me feel better?"
"Of course not. Open it."
I did. My fingers, for some reason, were shaking.
I looked back up at Daniel, who was smiling.
"You know," I said, "there was a time when this is the kind of money that would have made a

difference to me."

"I still makes a difference," he said. "Of course it does. That's how much he wants to own

something you created."

I looked down at the paper again, and then up at the room. The buyer was walking towards me, his

wife lingering a few steps behind.

"Hello," I said.
"Beautiful," said the man, gesturing towards the drawing. "What do you think? Have I named the

right price?" He reached back, putting his arm around his wife's shoulders and pulling her forward,
gently. "If not, just let me know. She has to have it."

His wife was blushing prettily. "It reminds me of being a little girl," she said. "I just want to be

able to look at it every day."

"In that case," I said, "I think we have a deal."
They both smiled. The man shook my hand and then they both withdrew, chatting happily in quiet

voices.

"Congratulations," said Daniel.
"Thank you." I tucked my arm around his, letting out a long, soft breath of air. "You know, I really

am only with you because I want to be." I hesitated. "Because I love you."

There was a moment of silence.
"Yes," he said. "I'm beginning to understand that." He pressed another kiss to the top of my head,

and this time, I felt him smiling. "I love you too."

He was right.
This was better.

About the Author

Melanie Marchande is a young writer who loves creating fun, flirty, and occasionally steamy

stories about two people realizing they just can't live without each other. If you'd like to read more
from her, please leave a review letting her know what you liked about the book so she knows what to
write next! You can also connect with her online:

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Coming Soon

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Insatiable Reads Book Tour, Summer Edition

I Married a Billionaire: The Prodigal Son

Writing billionaire tech mogul Daniel Thorne's official biography is no small task. His wife Maddy
isn't quite sure how it fell on her shoulders - but she's not exactly complaining. It's given her a rare
opportunity to learn about the details of Daniel's life that he's never shared with her before. After a
rocky beginning, their relationship has finally settled into something comforting and secure. After a
while, Maddy begins to reconsider her once-staunch decision not to have children.

Then, one night, a ghost from Daniel's past appears.

His father, believed to be dead, has come back in hopes of repairing their relationship. Daniel is
devastated by the years-long deception, and suspicious of his father's motives in reappearing after so
much time. Old Mr. Thorne has his reasons for disappearing, but how can he possibly repair a
relationship that's been so badly fractured by distance and lies? Meanwhile, Maddy gets some
unexpected news of her own, and she realizes she must find a way to reach her husband and his
father, to knit them all together into a family again.

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