AN: If you're in my Facebook group I posted a poll a little earlier this week asking whether I should split this chunky chapter into two... Two chapters won the vote, however when it came to physically splitting it up, it just didn't work! So I've shifted 500 words into the next chapter instead which works much better.

TRIGGER WARNING: attempted sexual assault/assault. Please don't read this chapter if this is likely to upset you. I'll happily send an edited version if you message me.

Thanks once again to Mel, Meg, May and Ciara who help me sweat out the small stuff. All mistakes my own.

Chapter 8

Prelude

•

I find it funny that as children we're taught not to lie—to tell the truth—because lying is bad. Then as young adults we find that we've been told lies our entire lives: Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, that eating carrots can make you see better in the dark. Now, as an adult, lies have become an integral part of who I am—how I survive day to day. I lie on instinct, to everyone.

I'm Isabella Swan, escort and expert liar.

And the thing about lying to everyone about where I am and what I do is that when I also have to lie about other things, it becomes increasingly complicated. Especially my own feelings.

Staring at my bedroom ceiling, I trace a hairline crack in the plaster with my eyes. I follow its jagged path down the wall to a corkboard with faded photos tacked up—mostly of Rose and me as teens, with and without friends that have faded away. We look happy and innocent, blissfully unaware of what the future holds. But underneath the cheerleading uniform and wide smile, I was hurting, even then.

I was just good at hiding it.

I was just good at lying about it.

Rolling over, I bury my face into pillows that have seen better days, because as much as I can play pretend, the past few days have been lonely in a way I can't explain.

My choice to have sex with Edward has me questioning my own character. The depths of my selfishness. The carelessness that I treat myself with in lieu of feeling something. The desperate lengths I'm going to for money. It all feels increasingly tragic.

Rose is the only person I can talk to about any of it, and because of that, I've been actively avoiding her calls. I don't trust myself not to tell her because I'm craving her reassurance. I want her to tell me it's not the end of the world and a lapse of judgment doesn't make me a terrible person. That I shouldn't care. It was transactional sex. It was his choice to betray his wife. It was his choice to pursue me like that. I want to ask her what she would have done if she were in my shoes.

Edward was right though: I'm not going to tell anyone out of fear for him. For ruining him. His judgment was resoundingly better than mine on that count. The money he paid me for that afternoon was double what Emmett had given me for the whole night just weeks earlier. Money talks, but I'm sure it won't be the only thing that does. It won't be long before he serves me with an ironclad NDA to prevent further repercussions, I'm sure. He's not stupid.

Or perhaps he is.

Raising my head, I take in the remnants of the bouquet Edward sent. The stems sit in a vase I dug out from under the sink, on top of my desk. The time on the clock next to them draws my eyes. At five AM, I have time before the day beckons—a meeting with my professor at nine, an early lunch date with Angela, an afternoon discussing my dad's palliative care plan with the nursing team. It's enough to make me want to stay in bed for an eternity.

Instead I get up, facing the day head-on, determined not to be cowed by life.

Sitting with my dad during breakfast, I balance a bowl of granola on my knees, combing through the wisps of coarse hair as he sleeps. This week he's been sleeping a lot, his pain medication increased. When he's lucid, he's still vocal, still here. I kiss his cheeks, and for the first time in a while, I let a tear sneak down my own.

•

Lauren calls me while I'm walking across campus. I answer it reluctantly—I'm about to meet Angela, and I'm enjoying the warm day. Perhaps enjoying is the wrong word given the heaviness of it, but I'm liking the fresh spring air, and the satisfaction I feel after being praised on my thesis progress.

I'll submit it all in the next few weeks, and then I'll be free from that particular pressure, too. And then what?

Banner had asked, but the question isn't something I had an answer to. It all depends on what happens next and I told him as much. Still, he insisted on emailing some internship and graduate opportunities over, mentioning Senator Cullen as a viable prospect. It took all my willpower not to react. It's completely natural to suggest his office in context, and I agreed with him like anyone else would have done. I agreed with him like I hadn't had my lips on the Senator's cock just days before.

Cutting across the grass, I pick my way through groups of students sitting on jackets and sweaters. Music blares from portable speakers, shouts from a group playing a game of soccer a little further afield.

"Darlin'?" Lauren drawls, pulling me back to our conversation. "Are you listening?"

"Sorry. What were you saying?"

"Dubai. I was talking about Dubai. In July. A month out there, how does that sound?"

I'm quick to shut it down.

"I would, but with my dad… I've told you this," I say, unable to keep my tone neutral, knowing I've explained this to her countless times over the past year. In six weeks' time, I don't even know whether he'll still be here.

Lauren huffs into the phone.

"All right. You're going to miss out on the most insane experience of your life though. Are you one hundred percent sure?"

"I'm one hundred percent sure," I tell her flatly, hearing her acrylics tapping away at her keyboard.

"Fine. I'll send you a client for tomorrow. Check your email. Should be with you anytime now."

Bringing my cell down from my ear, I pull up my email, my stomach sinking when I see the client profile she's sent me.

James.

The one Rosalie had been seeing; the one she believed was becoming attached. My skin prickles with dislike as I take in his face—angular and brooding. There's something inherently entitled about a face like his.

Carrying on walking, I spy Angela waving at me from a bench in the distance. Raising my own hand in return, I hurriedly ask Lauren for the details.

"It's a party with his parents for a wedding anniversary. A private function room at a restaurant with a rooftop bar," Lauren reels off, sounding as unimpressed as I feel.

"Great," I reply, grimacing, wishing for something easier—an intimate dinner, an event with work colleagues. Family events always seem to be the most difficult to navigate out of them all.

Lauren clicks her tongue.

"Is there a problem?" she asks irritably. "Take it or leave it."

"No, no problem. It's fine. Just, Rose said—"

"Rose said what?"

I shake my head, pausing.

"Nevermind. It's good."

I hang up just before Angela reaches me, enveloping me in her arms and hugging me tightly.

"We've got so much to catch up on." She grins, looping her arm through mine as we begin the walk to a small café across the road from campus.

I smile genuinely, grasping for a respite of normality.

"Tell me everything."

•

Rose comes over that evening. She sits with Charlie and me, holding his hand as they talk quietly. There's a fondness between them—he's seen Rose grow up, too. Another father-like figure in her life. He tires quickly. Even though he tries to fight it—to stay in the moment with us longer.

"How long?" Rose asks, once he's succumbed to sleep and we've stepped out onto the back porch, where the sky glows as the sun sets.

"Could be two months, could be two weeks." I shrug helplessly as Rose takes out a vape. "The nurses said we'd be able to tell. But just going on the deterioration in the past few weeks, I think months is very optimistic." I bite my lip hard as Rose rubs a hand down my arm consolingly.

"God. Fuck cancer," she says savagely, her eyes teary. "I fucking hate it. You're being so strong, Bell. A lot braver than I'd be. You've got so much going for you, and I know Charlie is so, so proud of that."

We're silent as Rose inhales deeply, exhaling a cloud of sweet smelling vapor into the air. I know my dad is proud, but it's always poignant when other people tell me he is too.

"What do I need to know about James?" I ask her, changing the subject, trying to stay focused on other things, rather than the inevitable.

"You have him?" Rose asks, her eyebrows knitting together. She runs a hand through glossy blonde hair. "I thought Lauren would have kicked him off the books by now."

"That bad?"

"He was fairly rough with me the last time. Not in a good way. I did tell her. I guess it just depends on his mood. He wasn't pleased he couldn't book me anymore. Just keep your cool and act dumb—it makes him feel smart. Massage his ego. He's pretty much there for the sex and the fawning. Oh, and he's a liar. Likes pretending he's much more important than he is."

"How so?" I ask, curiously.

"Like, he pretends he needs you to go somewhere important with him. He told Lauren we were attending some fancy magazine launch, and he got turned away at the door. He wasn't even on the list. And then the scene he caused." She visibly cringes. "I mean. The secondhand embarrassment was fucking intense…"

"Should I cancel?"

"It's up to you," Rose says, hesitating. "Knowing you, I would. You're more sensitive than I am."

I don't take it to heart; between the two of us I probably am, but part of me feels defensive—like I need to prove I can handle him, despite what Rose says.

"I can always shut it down," I tell her. "Lauren's not given me anyone else, so…"

"If you're sure," Rose says, sounding doubtful. "He's very persistent."

"Yeah," I say. "It'll be fine."

I feel like now would be the perfect time to gauge Rose's advice about Edward. To divulge all the sordid details to her. It's right on the tip of my tongue, but I can't bring myself to speak it out loud. Instead I let the words go and go back to doing what I'm good at.

Pretending.

•

Arriving early to the bar on Saturday evening, I find myself an empty table facing toward the door, so that I can see James when he enters. It's a sports bar, not anywhere close to the same classy establishments of the weeks prior. Being a Saturday, it's also crowded with groups wearing Cubs and Padres jerseys—the buzz so loud as one team hits a home run, it makes it difficult to hear myself think. Using the QR code on the menu, I order a rum and coke to my table to avoid getting swallowed up in the crowd—just in case James shows up.

I don't need to worry.

I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Eventually he slides into the seat across from me thirty minutes later, with a beer in his hand. He brings the cloying scent of cigarettes with him, enough for me to want to wrinkle my nose. Hiding my annoyance, I greet him with a soft smile instead.

"I've been watchin' you for a while," he says. "From over by the bar. Can I just say, Maria, you're stunning."

"That's sweet of you to say." I bring my glass to my lips, savoring another sip–wishing it was something stronger. I find it unnerving that he's been here watching me. For just how long? "You're a journalist, is that right? Do you like to watch people?"

"Sure. I like to watch people. Figure them out. I write. I edit. I'm pursuing some creative avenues at the moment—photography. Had some images picked up recently by a few publications. Guess you could say I'm multi-talented."

"Wow. Sure sounds like it. I do like a multi-talented man," I tell him with faux admiration, watching as he laps it up with a smirk. It's exactly like Rose had said. "What kind of photography? Editorial?"

"A little of that." He leans forward, his smile more of a leer. "Do you do anything in front of the camera?"

I shake my head.

"No OnlyFans? No Influencer-shit on Instagram? Porn? Bet the camera would love you."

"None of that."

"Why not?" he asks. "I bet you'd make a lot of money."

"This is more discreet. I don't want to be famous or infamous," I tell him, truthfully, before trying to get back to the task at hand: tonight. "Did you want to go through how this evening will go? I was told it's a family wedding anniversary?"

"Not really," he says, leaning forward so the next words are just for my ears. "I just want to skip to the good part, where you're on your knees."

My smile is weak as he laughs, a hand running through short dirty blond hair. He takes in my look of distaste and mocks me.

"Oh come on, you're the last person who should be uptight about this stuff…Don't be a prude. It's your fucking job."

"I'm not a prude—"

"No, I bet you're not. I bet you're fucking filthy."

Trying not to lose my cool is hard. Some men are like this, because of course they are. It's probably sheer luck that so far most of my experiences have been, at the very minimum, bearable. The worst offenders, however, tend to be the men who seem to forget they're paying for an escort and not a whore.

"It's my job to accompany you to this event; anything else is purely at my discretion. I think you need to be more respectful," I tell him bluntly. "Nothing is guaranteed here. I just want to make that crystal clear."

He raises his hands in protest.

"Look, look—I'm not trying to be disrespectful. You just need to relax. I'm having a bit of fun—a joke. I respect you," he says solemnly. "I do."

I take a sip of my drink, breathing out heavily through my nose, chewing over my choice.

"Tell me a little bit about your family then," I ask eventually, resigning myself to him for the evening. "If I'm playing your girlfriend, I want to know a little bit about you and your family before we spend hours in their company. We also need a bit of a backstory if you want this to look genuine."

"Fine." He leans back in his seat. "You're trying to break into modeling. We met through my work. As for my parents…they're celebrating a sham marriage where my dad fucks anything that moves and my mom is drunk eighty percent of the day. But honestly, none of those people are going to care about you. This is a vanity party to stroke their over-inflated egos. Just be pretty. Don't make me mad. Let me lead."

It's exactly what I do when we arrive at the restaurant forty minutes later, hand in hand. We're shown upstairs to a function room decorated in silver. Large illuminated numbers stand tall at one end, spelling out 'twenty-five'. The room is heaving with people, but James makes no attempt to introduce me to anyone, heading instead to the bar and leaving me to sit at a round table decorated with extravagant white flower centerpieces. I'm glad for the reprieve because being around James feels like balancing on a knifepoint.

Scanning the crowd, I wonder whether there are any previous clients here. It's always a possibility, especially at events. Everyone seems to look like they belong in those types of circles, even if James seems more low-brow than my usual clientele. He seems like the product of a rich family, without much going for himself. On the surface he seems to be able to have everything he wants, apart from what can't be bought. A real relationship. Love. Chemistry.

My eyes land on the back of a tall man with dark hair, and a build similar to Edward's. For a moment it feels like my heart stills. I stare, waiting with bated breath for a glimpse of his face—of his perfect jawline and dark mirthful eyes. I get neither, because it isn't him. Part of me is relieved because I wouldn't know what to do if it was, but a small part of me is also disappointed, despite the emotional turmoil Edward left in his wake.

Returning from the bar with drinks in hand, James offers a flute of champagne to me as he sets down a whisky for himself. He doesn't savour it, he drowns himself in it, quickly going up to the bar again for another.

His parents approach us not long after he returns. James is a younger replica of his father, only far skinnier. His mother striving to cling onto her youth—skin unnaturally tight, fillers more than obvious. She kisses James' cheek as he stands—grabbing onto me and pulling me up with him like I'm a posession—a toy he wants to show off.

"Darling," his mother coos. "You came."

James' arms wrap around my waist.

"I wouldn't miss it," he replies smoothly. "Mom, Dad, meet Maria, my girlfriend."

He makes a show of kissing the side of my head, and I want nothing more than to recoil at the feeling of his cold, dry lips. Instead I keep perfectly still, James' father preoccupied with looking at me, his eyes roving over the blue dress I'm wearing, from my breasts, down to my bare legs.

"Where do you find these women?" he says to James half jokingly. "What on earth do they see in you?"

James' face sours even more than I thought possible. His chin juts, his cheeks hollowing as he struggles to contain a retort, and even harder to ignore is the grip he keeps on me, keeping me uncomfortably flush to his side.

"Well, obviously he gets his wonderful sense of humor from you," I lie, thinking on my feet, earning a raucous laugh. "I'm so appreciative of being invited to celebrate your twenty-fifth wedding anniversary with you, Mr. and Mrs. Witherdale. Everything looks beautiful, especially Mrs. Witherdale. Are you wearing Dior?"

His mother softens, and just like that, we enter into an animated conversation—about the restaurant and the disaster they had with their first party planner; about her Dior dress and the Tiffany earrings she's wearing—before they're whisked away by more friends.

"That went okay," I offer, trying to add some light relief to the tension I can feel rolling off James as he sits down, nostrils slightly flaring.

He grunts in response, and when I try to speak again he pulls a bottle of beer towards him and tells me to be quiet.

My mouth snaps closed, a huff of air blown forcefully out of my nose which, if James heard, takes no notice of.

Time thankfully speeds up. There's a speech from his father, food, dancing—but not by us. James sits, taking it all in disdainfully, occasionally making small talk with those also at our table, leaving me mute by his side. I try not to cringe every time his hand slides under the table and lands on my leg and tries to climb higher.

Part of me feels sorry for him, but a bigger part of me wants to leave.

The thought of how much money I'm set to make persuades me to stay.

It's a mistake.

James corners me in the darkness of the corridor that leads to the bathrooms just as I exit them. I took slightly longer than normal, texting Rose to tell her how much I'm struggling with the evening—with the revulsion I feel. Those feelings are only reinforced as he looms over me, a predatory gleam in his eye.

"Are you avoiding me?" he asks.

"No," I lie. "Just freshening up."

He licks his lips.

"Maybe you should give me somethin' now," he says, nodding towards the bathrooms leans against the wall with an arm above my head. "I think I've been very, very patient so far."

"Not here," I tell him, quickly trying to give myself more time. Instead it does the opposite.

James dips his head lower so that his alcohol-fuelled breath caresses the shell of me ear, making me shiver. His free hand finds my wrist. "Follow me then."

All the way out of the restaurant I try and think of some way of escaping the next few hours of my life. The word is obviously 'no', but it's harder to articulate that in the moment—mostly because I've never had to before.

I'm worried he'll make a scene.

Worried I won't earn enough if I don't see it through.

Every time I slow, trying to gather my thoughts, his hand tugs me along. We barely pause as we cross the threshold of the restaurant and into a rainy evening, where a cab is already waiting.

In the confines of the car, as the city streaks by, I tell myself this is a choice, and I've already made it consciously. I tell myself that I've had sex with people I don't find attractive before, and this is no different.

But it does feel different, even from all those other times and I can't pin point why, exactly. It could be a number of things, I ponder. The lack of effort. His expectations. The attitude towards me. It's a one-eighty from the interest Edward showed... the chemistry between us that was so novel to me—so heart flutteringly good, and the actual sex was...

I isolate those thoughts, trying to switch off. To approach this as I normally would. Cold. Calculating. Transactional.

James squeezes my thigh. "Almost there," he drawls, eyes heavy with lust. With anticipation.

I tell myself that it's always okay.

And this time won't be any different.

It's another mistake.

Rose calls me as we exit the cab, as rain bounces off the side walk and splashes my feet, the wind making me shiver as we head into a towering apartment block. She calls again just as James is shutting the door behind him and I'm taking in his paid-for penthouse and penchant for beer and pizza, evidenced by the containers and cans littering the kitchen counters.

My cell is in my hand, and then slowly being plucked out of it. James smiles slyly as it lands with a thud on a thick cream rug, still vibrating.

"That can wait."

My eyes dart quickly between him, and my cell, and then to the open plan living room, and a camcorder set up on a tripod, facing a plush, dark grey corner sofa.

My stomach lurches, eyes widening slightly.

"No cameras," I tell him, wondering whether he filmed Rose. Whether he has a whole seedy collection that he wants to add me to. Whether he bothers asking for consent.

"It won't record," he slurs. I just like being able to watch a different angle on the TV."

Stalking over to my cell I pick it up under his unwavering gaze.

"I have to take this," I tell James, glowering.

"Leave it," he growls, hand flying out to catch my wrist again.

"I have to take it." I shake him off, snatching my phone closer to my body. "It's my sister," I lie. "It won't take long."

"Every second is a second too long. Get over there and strip," he demands. "I've been patient."

"And I said I need to get this. There's time."

He lunges for my hand, a tussle ensuing. He rips my cell away from me and this time he throws it toward the door. It hits it with a loud thud, and I see the moment the screen cracks, the light dimming, black spreading. It comes to a stop, still vibrating in the silence between us.

My breath comes out shallow and thin, the realization that this is escalating dangerously weighing on me like a lead weight in my stomach. It winds me. It paralyzes me.

The look James gives me is derisive, his face inches from my own.

"I said, get over there and strip."

Fear beads in my chest, the dread intensifying.

"Fine," I tell him, my voice catching. "But I need help."

James doesn't allow me space as I slowly turn around, facing a blank magnolia wall.

"Help me undo it," I ask, backing into him, letting his hand come to my hip as I sway my ass into his crotch. He grunts a little at the friction, pausing as I slowly undulate my hips once more. He presses me tighter to him, his cock hard.

"Is that all for me?" I ask feigning breathlessness.

"Yes," he rasps. I glance down quickly, impulse taking over as I stamp down on his foot hard with my heel before he realizes what's happening.

Howling a string of curse words, James stumbles away, giving me just enough time to hurtle toward the door and open it, before I'm being yanked backwards by my hair, a strangled cry falling from my lips.

Somehow we end up on the floor, a tangle of limbs as he tries to get on top of me, to pin me there and contain my flayling fists.

"Stupid bitch. I'm not trying to hurt you. I'm not—"

"Get off me—" I scream as he carries on protesting.

"SHUT UP," he roars, trying to cover my mouth with his hand, while his other holds my own to the floor. "I'm not trying to fucking hurt you, you crazy who—"

I bite his hand. He cusses before he backhands me across the face, his knuckles connecting with my cheekbone. My head whips to the side, eyes rolling, the force of it rattling my brain. And then he's clawing at my dress, trying to pull it upwards.

"Stupid fucking bitch. Stupid little slut—"

Furiously I kick and squirm beneath his weight, begging and pleading as his nails tear at my skin.

If James was any bigger, perhaps I wouldn't have stood a chance, but his thin frame allows me to fight him. I wriggle a leg free and then I stamp my stiletto viciously into his crotch, his chest, and his face. I don't hear him howl in pain because my heart is beating so abnormally fast in my ears, the screams in my head echoing loudly.

His weight is gone.

Adrenaline carries me back to my feet; to my bag and my cell phone. Out of the apartment and down the stairwell.

I ditch my heels.

Stairs after stairs after stairs I flee down, lungs burning, pulse soaring until there's finally a fire escape that leads me out onto the street... and freedom.