“Ma’am?” Keanu asks for guidance, eyes locked and loaded on the man in the seat across from me.
I lift my hand, gesturing for Mr. Andrews to stand up. “I thought Mr. Andrews here would appreciate a nice escort out of the building.”
I smile at Jacob, venom dripping from my lips. “I would say it was nice to meet you, but then I would be lying.”
Without a word, Max walks over and takes Jacob by the arm, practically dragging him out of the room as he tries to reason with them. But Max and Keanu know better.
The first day I hired them, I told them everything they needed to know, no secrets. I was assaulted, and I don’t like being alone with men. I don’t like feeling trapped, and when I want someone gone, don’t question it.
And they never have.
I also told them that being with them makes me uncomfortable. But time after time, they have saved me from nosy paparazzi and drunk and handsy boys, and my trust in Max and Keanu has grown. Sometimes, I swear the only place I truly feel safe is with them.
“You all right?” Keanu asks me as he sits on the edge of my desk.
Pushing away the burning itch burrowed under my skin, I nod to him, the smile of kindness sliding back onto my lips. “Send in my one thirty.”
“You got it.” He heads to return to his post outside my door but pivots on his foot, facing me again. “He didn’t touch you, did he?”
“No. Never got the chance,” I immediately tell him, face straight.
He smirks. “Good.”
He turns and walks out the door, and seconds later, a familiar face walks into my office. A face I haven’t seen since the trial, one that knows and shares in my agony of Brady. A face that stirs all that pain back up.
But it’s not her fault, and I’m working through it—or trying at least.
She has always seemed to have handled herself with grace and a smile. I wonder how much of that is manufactured. Maybe she is happy most of the time, maybe she is kind and poised. Or maybe, like me, she is really good at hiding.
And before she even gets to my desk, I stick my hand out to Sophie Santiago. “You’ve got the job.”
THREE
Callum
Becca’s scream tears through me. “Help me! Cal! Help!”
Chains hold my arms and legs in place. I can’t get to her. I can’t save her.
“Cal!” Her voice isn’t the usual silk that sings in my ears. It’s raw and streaked with horror.
Brady’s hand clamps down on her mouth, and his other hand undoes her pants.
She writhes and kicks and tries to break free from his hold, but she can’t—he’s too strong.
He looks me dead in the eyes before taking off his pants, releasing her mouth.
“Cal, please, please save me.” Her voice is soft, whimpers falling from her lips.
Brady grabs her hips, and she screams.
My body jerks, ice-cold beads of sweat running down my forehead. I throw my comforter off and shoot to my feet, taking off for the bathroom.
My fear slithers in my skin, chilling my bones.
I barely get above the toilet before I’m puking my guts out. When the last urge to gag goes away, I grab the toilet seat and slam it down a bit too hard. The plastic cracks and shatters into a hundred pieces.
“Fuck!”
