Chapter 5 5

Christal dragged her feet through the freezing rain for two miles before a rusty yellow cab finally stopped for her. She collapsed into the backseat, her teeth chattering so hard her jaw ached, and gave the driver Clara's address in Lower Manhattan.

The cab pulled up to a crumbling red-brick apartment building. Christal paid the driver with her last twenty-dollar bill. She grabbed her wet canvas bag and pressed the rusted intercom button by the front door.

Static crackled. "Who is it?" Clara Bowen's sleepy voice asked.

"Clara," Christal sobbed, her voice breaking completely. "It's me."

A loud, harsh buzzer sounded. Christal pushed the heavy glass door open and dragged herself up four flights of dark, narrow stairs.

Clara was waiting in the hallway, wearing oversized pajamas. When she saw Christal's mud-stained coat and blue lips, Clara gasped and pulled her inside.

Clara slammed the door and locked the deadbolt. She grabbed a thick towel and started aggressively drying Christal's hair.

"What happened to you?" Clara demanded, her eyes wide with panic. "Why are you covered in mud?"

The last thread of Christal's sanity snapped. She threw her arms around Clara's neck and broke down. Between violent, gasping sobs, she told Clara everything. The fake audition, the dark hotel room, the photos, Kellie's confession, and Ethan's psychotic threat in the rain.

Clara kicked the coffee table, cursing the Finley family to hell. When she heard what Ethan said, she marched over to the windows and locked every single latch.

Clara dug out a dry pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. She forced Christal to change, then pushed her onto a chair right next to the clanking radiator. She shoved a mug of hot cocoa into Christal's shaking hands.

"I have to find a job," Christal whispered, staring into the brown liquid. "I need money to get out of New York. He won't let me go."

Suddenly, Christal's cell phone vibrated violently on the table. The screen lit up with the name of her acting agent.

Christal flinched, reaching out to decline the call.

Clara snatched the phone first. She hit the speaker button, ready to scream at whoever was calling.

"Christal," the agent's voice came through, cold and corporate. "I'm calling to inform you that your contract with our agency is terminated, effective immediately."

Christal stopped breathing.

"What?" Clara yelled. "You can't do that!"

"Ethan Stein's law firm just called," the agent continued, completely ignoring Clara. "They informed us of your moral scandal. Every brand deal and audition you had lined up is canceled. Furthermore, we are filing a lawsuit against you for breach of morals to recoup our losses."

The line went dead.

The mug slipped from Christal's numb fingers. It shattered on the floor, hot cocoa splashing over her bare feet.

Ethan wasn't just threatening her. He was systematically cutting off her oxygen. He was making sure she couldn't survive without him.

Clara cursed loudly, grabbing a towel to clean up the mess. "Screw them. I work backstage at the Broadway theater. I can get you a job moving props. It's under the table. Cash. Ethan won't know."

Christal slid off the chair and hugged Clara tightly. She swore to herself she would work until her hands bled if it meant escaping Ethan.

For the next three weeks, Christal lived in the shadows, her life a blur of physical exhaustion and constant fear. By day, she hauled heavy wooden set pieces in the dark theater backstage, her muscles screaming in pain. By night, she sat in Clara's apartment, sending out resumes for basic office jobs.

Every time she got an email offering an interview, a second email would arrive hours later, canceling it. An invisible hand was wrapped tightly around her throat.

On a freezing Friday evening at the end of the month, Christal walked out the back door of the theater into the alley.

She froze.

Parked at the end of the alley was a sleek, black Maybach.

Christal pressed her back against the dirty brick wall, hiding in the shadows. She watched as Ethan's assistant stepped out of the car. The theater manager walked out to meet him.

The assistant handed the manager a thick white envelope. The manager peeked inside, smiled greedily, and nodded his head.

The next morning, the manager called Christal into his office. He fired her, claiming they were "overstaffed." When she asked for her week's pay, he laughed and told her to get out before he called the cops.

Christal walked the streets of Manhattan in a daze. She looked at her reflection in a shop window. Dark circles bruised her eyes. She looked like a ghost.

She walked back to the apartment. Clara was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at her laptop, pulling her hair in frustration.

"My credit cards," Clara panicked, looking up. "The bank froze all of them. They said it's for suspicious activity, but they won't tell me what it is. I can't even buy groceries."

Christal's heart stopped.

Ethan's poison was spreading. He was attacking the only person who helped her. He was going to make Clara homeless just to force Christal to her knees.

The guilt was a physical weight crushing her chest. She couldn't let Clara suffer for her.

Christal took a deep, shaky breath. She pulled out her phone and unblocked Ethan's number. Her thumb hovered over the screen. She pressed call.

He answered on the first ring.

"I thought you would last at least two more days," Ethan's low, arrogant voice vibrated through the speaker.

Christal bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper.

"Stop hurting Clara," she whispered, her voice dead. "I'll go to the banquet with you tomorrow night."

A low, chilling laugh echoed down the line.

"Good girl," Ethan commanded. "Eight o'clock. Wear the dress I send. And Christal? Don't do anything to embarrass me."