Chapter 3 3

The sun over the Hamptons was relentless. It beat down on the manicured green of the golf course, baking the earth and shimmering in the air.

Anna stood by the golf cart, squinting against the glare. She was wearing a polo shirt that was two sizes too big and a pair of shorts that she had dug out of the bottom of a forgotten drawer. She looked like a caddy. She felt like a servant.

Grayson stood under the shade of a large umbrella, laughing with Hunter Yates. Hunter was the kind of man who had never been told "no" in his entire life. He had a face that was soft from easy living and eyes that were hard from cruelty.

"Jesus, Gray," Hunter said, taking a swing with his driver. The ball sailed into the distance. "What happened to her face?"

Grayson glanced over at Anna. He looked at the band-aid on her cheek.

"She walked into a door," Grayson said. He didn't sound convincing. He didn't try to be.

Hunter chuckled. "Rough night, huh? You play too hard."

Grayson shrugged. He took a bottle of water from the cooler in the cart. He took a sip, then held it out toward Anna without looking at her.

"Hold this," he said.

Anna stepped forward. As she reached for the bottle, Hunter shifted his weight. His elbow knocked into her shoulder. It wasn't hard, but it was calculated.

The bottle slipped from Anna's hand.

Water splashed over Grayson's pristine white golf shoes.

The laughter stopped.

Grayson looked down at his shoes. The leather was darkening as the water soaked in. He looked up at Anna. His expression was one of mild annoyance, like she was a dog that had just peed on the rug.

"Clean it up," he said.

Anna looked around. There were other groups of golfers nearby. People were watching.

"Grayson," she whispered. "I don't have a towel."

"Use the one on the bag," he said. "Get on your knees and clean it."

Anna felt the blood rushing in her ears. The humiliation was physical. It made her skin itch.

She walked to the bag, pulled out the microfiber towel, and knelt in the grass.

She wiped the water from his shoes. She could smell the freshly cut grass and the leather polish. She could feel the heat of the sun on the back of her neck.

"Pathetic," Hunter murmured.

Anna's hand froze for a second, then continued wiping.

"I bet you ten grand she cracks," Hunter said. He wasn't whispering.

Grayson looked down at the top of Anna's head. "Cracks how?"

"Leaves," Hunter said. "Runs away. Jumps off a bridge. Something. She looks like she's hanging by a thread."

"Make it a hundred," Grayson said.

Anna stopped wiping.

"A hundred thousand?" Hunter asked, sounding impressed. "That she won't last the summer?"

"That she'll never leave," Grayson said. His voice was calm, certain. "I own the debt. I own the house. I own the narrative. She's not going anywhere."

I own the narrative.

The words triggered something in Anna's brain.

A high-pitched ringing started in her ears. It sounded like a siren, distant at first, then screaming closer.

Flashback.

Her father's study. The smell of old paper and betrayal. The pen scratching across the document that signed away her life. "It's for your own good, Anna. You're sick."

Rain. Dark water. Felix's car going over the edge. The splash that sounded like the end of the world.

The world tilted.

Anna dropped the towel. She scrambled backward, away from the shoes, away from the voice.

She couldn't breathe. Her chest felt like it was being crushed by a hydraulic press. She clawed at her throat.

"Anna?" Grayson's voice sounded far away. "Get up. Stop acting."

She couldn't get up. The grass was spinning. Black spots danced in her vision.

She collapsed onto her side, gasping for air. Her fingers dug into the turf, tearing up clumps of grass.

"Is she having a seizure?" Hunter asked, sounding more curious than concerned.

"It's a panic attack," Grayson said. He sounded bored. "She does this for attention."

But Anna wasn't doing it for attention. Her heart was beating so fast it felt like a hummingbird trapped in her ribcage. Her limbs were numb. She was dying. She was sure of it.

"Call... help..." she wheezed.

Grayson sighed. He pulled out his phone. He didn't dial 911. He dialed his private doctor.

"Yeah, bring the car around," he said. "She's having an episode. Take her to the clinic in East Hampton. The discreet one."

Anna felt herself being lifted. Not by Grayson. By the caddy master and a security guard.

She was shoved into the back of a black SUV. The leather seat was hot against her cheek.

As the car pulled away, she saw Grayson through the window. He was wiping the last spot of water from his shoe with the towel she had dropped. He took a club from his bag and lined up his shot.

He didn't look up.

Darkness took her.

She woke up in a white room. It smelled of antiseptic and lavender.

She was hooked up to an IV. A sedative drip. Her body felt heavy, like it was made of lead.

She closed her eyes and drifted.

Dream.

It was raining. Felix was there. He was wearing that cheap suit he always wore, the one with the frayed cuffs. He was smiling.

"You have to live, Anna," he said. He touched her cheek. His hand was warm. "You're the only one who knows where the bodies are buried. You're the witness."

"I can't," she cried. "It hurts too much."

"Pain is just data," Felix said. "Use it."

Anna opened her eyes. The room was dim. It was evening.

A nurse was adjusting the drip. She looked efficient and expensive.

"Where is he?" Anna croaked. Her throat was dry.

The nurse didn't look at her. "Mr. Warren settled the bill. He took the helicopter back to the city an hour ago. He said you can take a car service when you're discharged tomorrow."

Anna stared at the ceiling.

He had left her. He had bet a hundred thousand dollars on her misery, watched her collapse, and then left her in a clinic so he wouldn't miss his tee time.

She felt a tear slide down her temple and into her hair. It was hot and salty.

She clenched her hand into a fist. The IV tube pulled at her skin.

I own the narrative.

"Not for long," she whispered to the empty room. "Not for long."