I want to yell at him. To tell him my name is Sylvia. And that he’s nobody. Just some slimy photographer from the Valley who’s playing at making movies. But the words won’t come.

“You don’t have anything at all,” he continues in that singsong voice. “Not even Jackson.”

“No,” I say. “That’s not true.”

“Do you think he’ll still want you when he knows your secrets? My little Elle said she told him the truth, but you didn’t tell him all of it, did you? Still got your secrets, don’t you?”

I pull the blanket up all the way to my chin. I am so cold, and I’m scared. I don’t want him to touch me. I don’t want him to look at me. And I don’t want to be here.

“But you have to stay,” my father says. He is standing right in front of me, and he reaches down and takes the mug from me. It is full of hot chocolate topped with marshmallows. My favorite. I didn’t realize I was holding it. I haven’t even had one sip.

He lifts it to his lips and drinks it all up, then sets the empty cup on my coffee table. “You know why you have to stay. And you’re a good girl, Elle. You’re my good girl. You need to stand up now. It’s time for Bob to take your picture. He has a lot of things to take.”

“No,” I say, but it doesn’t matter. Because I see another me across the room. I’m leaning against the door frame, my back arched to accentuate my breasts, small and firm beneath a thin cotton T-shirt.

“Perfect,” Bob says. He picks up the camera and starts to click. “Just needs a little bit more. Gotta look like you’re enjoying it. Gotta look like you want it.”

“No,” I whisper, but I’m all the way on the couch and he doesn’t hear me. The other me—the one he’s touching, the one whose nipples he’s squeezing and stroking—she just stands still, her eyes closed tight as if she wants to cry.

She doesn’t. She can’t.

“That’s my girl,” my father says.

“Your slut, you mean,” Bob says. “Your whore.”

“No.” My father’s voice is sharp, and he picks the mug back up, then slams it down against the table. Bam! “No!” he repeats, then slams again. Bam!

Then again and again and again until my head is full of nothing but the sound of the ceramic against the wood and I am certain that any minute the mug is going to shatter and I will—

“Sylvia!”

Jackson’s voice.

I bolt upright, my heart pounding, unsure if I am still trapped in a dream.

“Sylvia!” he repeats, and the word is underscored with pounding.

My door! He is at my door.

I toss the blanket off, then hurry to my front door. I tear through the locks, then yank the door open.

He stands there, his slacks wrinkled and his shirt untucked. The wound on his cheek that had been healing so nicely is open again, red and angry and swollen. And though it doesn’t look broken, his nose is caked with dried blood.

“In,” I say, and hold out my hand.

He takes it, and as soon as he is inside my condo, he pulls me into his arms, his head bent so that his face is pressed against my hair. I cling to him, so overcome with relief that I’m afraid I’ll fall if I let go of him, and I loosen my grip only when I hear him draw in a sharp breath of air.

I release him, then step back, finally taking the time to truly inspect him. “You’re hurt.”

“Trust me,” he says. “I hurt a lot less now.”

I wince, but don’t say anything. I know what he means—how can I not? He’s pounded it away—the pain of dealing with Damien. The wounds inflicted by me.

I force the thoughts from my head. He’s here now, and that is all that matters. “Let me see,” I say as my fingers reach for the buttons on his shirt. I undress him slowly, then carefully peel the white cotton away from his tanned body. His chest is lean and muscled, with broad shoulders and just enough chest hair to give a woman something to tease with her fingers. He is perfection, but right now, his skin is marred by bruises rising in various shades of purple and yellow.

My stomach twists, but I don’t look away. Instead, I hold tight to his hand and pull him farther into the apartment. “Come on,” I say. “We’re going to fix you up.”

“Sylvia, wait. I shouldn’t have—”

I press a finger gently to his lips. “No. Please. We can talk later. Right now I just—” I draw a breath. “Right now I just need to take care of you.”