Chapter 3

I must have passed out from the stress. When I woke up, I wasn't in our home. The air was stale, smelling of cheap cologne and something metallic. I was on a leather couch in a room I didn't recognize-a sleek, impersonal penthouse apartment that screamed of bachelor-pad wealth. It wasn't Liam's.

My head pounded. My heart pounded harder. Panic began to claw its way up my throat.

The door opened and Scarlett walked in. She was dressed for a night out, a slinky black dress and heels. She looked at me on the couch with an expression I couldn't quite read. It might have been pity. It might have been triumph.

"Where am I?" I asked, my voice hoarse. "Where is Liam?"

"Liam's busy," she said, examining her nails. "He had a business deal to close. He... lent you to Mr. Peterson for the night. As a sign of goodwill."

The words didn't compute at first. They were so monstrous, so impossible, that my brain refused to process them. Lent me? Like a car? Like a piece of property?

"What did you say?"

"Don't look so shocked, Ava," she said with a little smirk. "It's just business. Liam said you'd understand. You've always been so dedicated to his success."

The full weight of her words crashed down on me. I felt sick. A wave of nausea so profound it made the room spin. He had given me to another man. He had sold me.

Just then, a heavy-set man in an expensive suit walked in from a back room. Mr. Peterson. He looked me up and down like I was a cut of meat.

"Ah, you're awake," he said, his voice slick with unpleasant familiarity. "Liam said you were a work of art. I'm eager to see for myself."

Before he could take another step, Scarlett let out a sharp cry.

"Ava, no!"

She clutched her arm, her face contorted in pain. She stumbled backward, bumping a small table and sending a glass vase crashing to the floor.

"She has a knife!" Scarlett shrieked, pointing at me.

I looked down at my hands. They were empty. There was no knife. It was a complete lie, a setup.

Mr. Peterson's eyes narrowed. He looked from me to the "cowering" Scarlett, and his expression hardened. "What the hell is going on?"

The front door burst open and Liam stormed in. His eyes immediately locked on Scarlett, who was now sobbing theatrically.

"What did you do?" he roared, not at Peterson, but at me.

"Nothing!" I cried, scrambling off the couch. "She's lying! Liam, listen to me!"

He didn't listen. He never listened. He strode past me, straight to Scarlett, checking her arm as if she'd been shot. "Are you okay? Did she hurt you?"

"I'm fine," Scarlett whimpered. "She just... she scared me. She looked so crazy."

Liam turned to me, his face a mask of pure, unrestrained rage. He grabbed me by the throat, his fingers squeezing tight, cutting off my air. I clawed at his hand, my vision starting to swim with black spots.

"You just can't stand it, can you?" he hissed, his face inches from mine. "You can't stand to see her happy. You can't stand that I care for someone else."

He shoved me away. I collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath.

"You want to hurt her?" he snarled. "Fine. Then you'll know what it feels like." He turned to Scarlett, his voice softening. "Honey, did you lose an earring? That beautiful diamond stud I gave you?"

Scarlett's eyes widened. She touched her ear. "Oh my god... yes! It must have fallen off when she pushed me!"

"It's probably in the street," Liam said, looking at me with cold deliberation. "Go find it, Ava."

"What?" I gasped, still on the floor.

"It's cold out. It's dark. But that earring is very important to me. To us," he said, gesturing between himself and Scarlett. "You will go outside, and you will search that street on your hands and knees until you find it. And if you even think about running, remember your family."

The doorman at Mr. Peterson's luxury building didn't even blink as Liam forced me out onto the cold, damp street. I was still in my thin silk pajamas, my feet bare. The pavement was icy and rough against my skin.

"Find it," Liam commanded from the doorway, before turning and going back inside.

So I searched. I crawled on my hands and knees on the dirty sidewalk, the biting wind cutting through my thin clothes. My knees were scraped raw within minutes. Cars drove by, their occupants staring. A few people stopped.

"Isn't that Ava Monroe?" I heard someone whisper.

"What is she doing? Is she drunk?"

Soon, a small crowd had gathered. They were filming me with their phones, laughing.

"Look at her! The great artist, crawling in the gutter!" one man jeered.

"Hey, Ava! Lost your dignity?" a woman shouted.

Someone threw a half-empty soda cup. It hit my back, the sticky liquid soaking through the silk, cold against my skin. Then a crumpled-up piece of trash hit my head. They were laughing, mocking, attacking me.

I was alone. I was freezing. I was being publicly stoned with garbage and ridicule. All for an earring that was probably nestled safely in Scarlett's jewelry box.

I squeezed my eyes shut, the humiliation a burning fire in my chest. I just wanted to disappear. I wanted the world to swallow me whole.