“I always have an ace in the hole, darling. A pressure lever. If there’s one thing I know about my wife, it’s that she would do anything to avoid prison—”

Lightning flashed outside my apartment, thunder rattling the window. I was jolted back to the present before I got to the confrontation about his ace in the hole, before I recalled too vividly the feel of blood coating my face and body.

Maybe that was a good thing. I didn’t want to spur even more crimson-drenched nightmares.

The storm intensified, rain pouring. My roof would soon leak like a colander. Depending on the duration of the storm, I could be up all night emptying the pots. If I didn’t, my apartment would flood.

I pinched my temples. Edward had been right about me—I would do anything to avoid prison; even live in this shithole.

CHAPTER 7

“Listen up, folks, the final is next Monday at seven sharp,” Ms. Gillespie, my econ instructor, told the class. She was a tall, graying brunette, with a no-nonsense demeanor. “And yes, I know it’s cutting into your holiday break. Take it up with the active hurricane season.”

Three classes this fall had been cancelled due to tropical storms; with each storm, my apartment had taken on water like a sinking ship—just as it had last night.

After no sleep, an early morning run, and a hard day of work, I’d had to drag myself to class. Despite my windfall, I’d been coerced by Mrs. Abernathy to clean her mansion. When I’d tried to quit, she’d told me she would report me to Immigration if I wasn’t there. My no-undue-attention rule forced me to show.

“We’ll spend tonight and Friday reviewing,” Ms. Gillespie said. “So let’s get started. I’m going to give you terms that might be on the exam. Define them and imagine real-world scenarios.”

Luckily this was a lower-level econ course. I’d done all the heavy lifting for my degree in my first two years; all that remained was this last straggler class.

I took out my notebook and pen, determined to focus on this—and not on the Russian. For the past two days, I’d tried to put him from my mind, as he’d so easily done with me.

Ms. Gillespie started writing on the board, and I dutifully scribbled my definitions.

Final goods: products that end up in the hands of consumers. (Like my breasts. If I continued as an escort.)

I stifled a chuckle, earning a look from a few of my classmates, among them two guys who’d asked me out. Unfortunately, I’d had to turn them down, but their interest had puzzled me; I always showed up to class in to-the-knee cutoffs, old 5K T-shirts, no makeup, and my hair plaited into two braids. I wore clunky running shoes and usually reeked of Pine-Sol. A far cry from a glamorous escort.

Deflation: a sustained and continuous decrease in the general price level. (Or what would happen to an escort’s rates with age.)

Economic mobility: the ability of an individual, family, or entity to improve or lower their economic status.

Edward had targeted me to improve his. I’d signed any document my lawyer husband had put in front of me, unknowingly transferring my home and my inheritance of millions to him. But he couldn’t get my family’s beach, the prize he’d truly been after.

As long as I remained alive, his mobility had flat-lined.

Human capital: a measure of the economic value of an employee’s skill set.

I was increasing mine by continuing my education at this community college. Heart in throat, I’d enrolled, using the fake ID I’d bought from a source near the Texas border. If I ever reclaimed my life, maybe I could figure out a way to transfer all my stray credits back to my ritzy private college in Jacksonville.

Completing my coursework had become the holy grail to me. On her deathbed, my mother had begged me for two vows: to break up with Edward and to finish college.

I’d only given her one vow. She’d used her last breaths to say, “Run from that evil man!” Phase one of my life plan was to complete my credits to atone for not listening to her. I was one exam away.

So why was I thinking about Sevastyan more than my class? At least he hadn’t blown the whistle about my theft. Hey, he’d specified no amount for my tip! And how valuable could that money clip be?

I’d been nervous about him ratting me out, which pissed me off. I was a closer; if something went unresolved, that meant I didn’t have the power to settle it and could assign no endpoint.

This unsettled feeling sucked. I already had enough loose ends in my life.

I’d talked to Ivanna several times since that night. She went way back with Anthony, the owner of Elite Escorts, so she would have heard if Sevastyan complained. So far, the Russian hadn’t contacted Anthony about my heist—nor had he booked me.

Ivanna had told me, “Don’t take it personally, Cat! It happens to the best of us.”

I didn’t even want to see Sevastyan again. At all. Not whatsoever.

“You need to get back out there. Come in and talk to Anthony. Sign on officially. He’s a schmuck, but they all are.”

“I was thinking about heading out of town for a while.”

“Nonsense! I’ll let you take a break, but then we’ll get you back in the saddle. You can’t let yourself get down about Sevastyan. He wasn’t even in the realm of possibility.”

Then she’d related all the gossip she’d learned about his dating life from her friends at sister agencies. He only booked one escort at a time, and he always overpaid. He was never cruel to his dates—though he wasn’t particularly kind either. He hired a new girl every other night, but never for parties or events. Then he just took a famous actress or model.