Chapter 3

The apartment was empty, the silence pressing in on her. Cayla moved like an automaton, cleaning and bandaging her wounds with a detached efficiency.

She took out a small, locked metal box from her closet. Inside were her only treasures: a faded photo of her and Justen, a dried flower he'd given her, a movie ticket from their first date.

She traced the outline of his face in the photo, her fingertip trembling.

"I'm so tired, Justen," she whispered to the silent image. "I don't know if I can do this anymore."

Her phone buzzed, shattering the quiet. It was Grafton. His voice was cold and clipped, a command, not a request.

"Cherrelle wants a specific cake from a bakery across town. Go get it for her."

The line went dead before she could reply.

Outside, a storm had broken. Rain lashed against the windows.

Cayla looked at the photo one last time, then closed the box. She picked up an umbrella and walked out into the deluge.

The line at the bakery was long. By the time she bought the cake, she was soaked to the bone, her body shivering with a deep, persistent chill.

She delivered it to Grafton's penthouse. Cherrelle, wrapped in a cashmere blanket, took the box from her.

"You're all wet," Cherrelle said, a fake sweetness in her voice. "You'll get the floor dirty." She turned to Grafton, who was watching from the couch. "Isn't that right, honey?"

Grafton's gaze swept over Cayla's drenched form, his expression unreadable.

Cherrelle took one bite of the cake and made a face. "It's too sweet. I don't like it. Go get me another one. From the downtown branch this time."

Cayla stood silently for a moment, water dripping from her hair onto the marble floor. Then she nodded. "Okay."

She went back out into the storm.

This became the pattern. Cherrelle would find a new, impossible demand, a new way to torment her. A specific coffee that had to be bought from a cafe an hour away. A book that was only available at a specialty store. Each time, Cayla would have to brave the storm, her body growing weaker, a persistent fever taking hold.

After the fourth trip, Cherrelle finally declared herself satisfied. She snuggled against Grafton.

"Darling," she cooed, "I'm bored. Let's have a party. And you have to drink with me."

Brooks and Jeramy, who had come over, were shocked.

"Cherrelle, you know he can't," Brooks said. "He's severely allergic to alcohol. It could kill him."

"If he really loves me, he'll do it," Cherrelle insisted, her eyes welling up with tears. "It's just a little test."

Jeramy, who had once been Cherrelle's biggest supporter, finally snapped. "A test? You want him to risk his life for a 'test'? What is wrong with you?"

Cherrelle burst into full-blown sobs, turning to Grafton for comfort. "They're being mean to me."

Grafton, his face grim, picked up a glass of whiskey. "It's fine."

He was about to drink it when Cayla, who had been standing silently in the corner, suddenly moved. She snatched the glass from his hand.

"What are you doing?" Grafton demanded, angry and confused.

"You'll end up in the hospital," she said, her voice raspy from her fever. "Or worse." She turned to Cherrelle. "He can't drink. I'll drink for him."

Cherrelle smiled, a cruel, triumphant gleam in her eyes. "Fine by me."

Before Grafton could protest, Cayla took out a small packet of allergy pills and shoved them into his hand. "Take these. Just in case."

Then she started to drink.

She downed glass after glass of whiskey, the harsh liquor burning her throat and stomach. The room fell silent, everyone watching her.

Grafton stood frozen, the packet of pills crushed in his fist, his knuckles white. A dull, throbbing pain started in his chest. He watched her pale face, her trembling hands, her unwavering determination.

He remembered all the other times. The speeding ticket she took for him. The business deal she saved by working for 72 hours straight. The angry investor she faced down on his behalf.

He had always told himself it meant nothing. That her devotion was an obsession he didn't want.

But watching her now, poisoning herself for him, he felt his throat tighten.

He tried to ignore the strange, suffocating feeling. He loved Cherrelle. He had to love Cherrelle. He repeated it to himself like a mantra, a desperate attempt to drown out the sight of Cayla's silent sacrifice.