"Now what?" She says.

  "Now you stay here, and I go out there," I say. My voice still doesn't quiver, though my heart is shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. It does this a lot lately; every day that my graduation gets closer, every day that my wedding becomes more of a frightening, fully realized nightmare, my shaking strengthens. It sickens me. When I was a young girl, caught up in those silly stories that portrayed romance as some fairy tale fantasy, I thought your heart could only quiver out of love, that it was some near-divine sensation that told you that you'd found your true match. Alexander’s vile lessons have taught me that there are other things that can make your heart quiver, like revulsion, hatred, terror. And the emotion that is currently quaking the mass of muscle and veins that sits in my chest is the exact opposite of love—negative love, to put it in math terms.

  It is fear; it is loathing; it is a powerful push to run away, to drop my name, to wantonly abandon my family's needs in order to live free. Yes, I'd be poor and alone, and I would be unable to work in the field that I want—finance—but I'd be free.

  I flirt with those desires nightly.

  I'm flirting with them right now, as I step out of the car with Elena's frantic protests ringing in my ears. Run.

  I face the man with the gun, smile at him.

  He won't hurt me.

  That's something that only Alexander does, and only when we’re out of sight of everyone else. It's something I let happen because, in a girlish, immature way, I once thought I loved that handsome, intelligent, and black-souled man. I once thought I could change him. How naive I was.

  "Hey, Carl," I say.

  "Madison," he responds. “He needs you.”

  We say little more than that. We both know the drill. It's a script that's developed between us over multiple nights like tonight. Thankfully, this is the first time my friends have seen it, so it should be easier to explain away as some emergency.

  Which it is. Because who else has a fiance that will send armed thugs to retrieve them?

  Yet I can't allow it to be seen by Elena and Ashley as an actual emergency, as something to get worried about, because then they'd try to break up my upcoming marriage and that would throw my family into financial hell.

  So I put on a smile that I've practiced many times before, one that says everything is okay, and I beam it at Elena, who looks a little less frightened, now.

  Then I look back at Carl.

  "Where is he?"

  "His car. Waiting for you."

  "What is it this time?"

  "An important meeting. That's why we came to pick you up. Something that he needs you there for."

  To humanize him, probably. No, definitely. An impossible task.

  "My fiance wants me at a meeting? With who?" I say.

  "Sally Graham. Covington Corporation business, mostly. But he’s also feeling her out for that later political stuff he wants to get into. He says it’s essential you be there."

  I nod.

  That’s why he needs me—he's meeting with a woman. Which means I'm definitely there just to humanize him; to smile, to hold his arm, to laugh at the right times, to talk about how supportive Alexander has been about my pursuit of higher education—despite the fact that I had to kick, scream, and claw to be allowed to delay our marriage until after my graduation just so I could actually get my degree—and make him look like anything other than the power-sucking and soulless creep that he is.

  "Lead the way," I say. "Just give me one second to say goodbye to my friends."

  "Hurry."

  I put extra brightness into my smile, enough that I hope it'll overwhelm any doubts that Elena or Ashley might have about my state of safety, and then I open the door.

  "Hey, so there's this thing that I actually forgot about… so I can't go out tonight," I say.

  "What does he want from you now?" Elena says, voice like an icy razor.

  "Seriously, Maddy? You don't want to meet my guy about that internship? What the hell? I thought you were all over getting the hookup so you can actually have a career after college," Ashley says.

  "This is my mistake, guys. I'm really sorry. I promised Alexander I'd go to this dinner thing with him. But it's going to be good. I'll make some connections there. Also, I promise if it gets out early enough, I'll text you and we can still meet up, okay?"

  I want them both to smile and nod; I want them both to accept my lies.

  They do.

  Without smiling.

  They're my friends. They know me well enough to know when I'm lying. They also know me well enough to know when I don't want to be called out on my lies. When I can't be, because I just can't take the truth.

  "Good night, Maddy," Elena says.

  "Take care, girl," Ashley says.

  I shut the door on them and turn to Carl. "Take me to him."

  Our steps clatter together over the hard pavement of the parking lot toward Alexander's waiting car. With every step, I think about what I really want as I get closer to that time—graduation—where so many people head off, degrees in hand, to chase their deepest needs and highest dreams. All I have is a nightmare waiting once that degree hits my hand.

  A nightmare.

  The door to Alexander’s car swings open.

  Through the dark maw, I see the shadowy outline of my future husband waiting for me.

  “Get in, Madison.”

  Chapter Six

  Madison

  Weeks later

  Graduation is so close I can taste it.

  Only a couple weeks and a thesis paper stand between me and my diploma. It's knowledge that sits sweet on my tongue, something that I've yearned for an achingly long time, and yet laced with bitterness and bile because of what must come after.

  "Are you ready? The car will be here in three minutes and we can not afford to be late. We absolutely must be there in time for makeup, for my speech preparation, and I will not allow anything to not go to plan tonight. You included. I know how you like to play your little games, and I've been exceptionally tolerant of them, but nothing is going to prevent me from getting up on that stage, as scheduled, and giving my TED Talk."

  I suppress a sigh, smooth my dress, and disguise an eye-roll by checking my mascara.

  "No games, dear," I say, using the word and hoping for the millionth time that maybe the magic of self-deception will take effect and I'll actually recapture some of that spark I first felt for Alexander, back when I was young, before I knew better. "We'll make sure you're there to meet Chad just in time."

  "It is not 'Chad,' Madison. It is Chadwick Wexler. Knowing his name is important. His Futurism Freedom Foundation is one of the key Silicon Valley political activist groups, and having this connection and his influence behind me could be key when I eventually launch my political career."

  "Yes, dear."

  I check my eye makeup again to protect myself against the consequences of a noticed eye-roll.

  "Are you ready? Your eyes look fine. Stop messing with them. It's time to go."

  "Ready."

  "Finally. The car is here. Any more makeup you need to do, you can do it on the road. Let's go."

  With that, he grabs me by the wrist and I'm dragged out of our bedroom, down a winding, carved wooden spiral staircase, beneath a crystal chandelier, through a foyer as expansive and expensive as many people's entire houses, and out into a driveway so long you'd need binoculars to see the end of it. Birds, elegant seabirds that nest on part of the beach front property that abuts a nature preserve here in Costa Oscura—a preserve that miraculously shrunk by a few acres when the Covington family decided they wanted to build an addition to their property—caw and soar above us.

  Secretly, I hope one of them will shit on Alexander. I'd love to see a thick, gloopy chunk of bird shit dribble down his face.

  Maybe even get in his mouth.

  I can only imagine how he'd scrunch his handsome, disgusting face in revulsion. He’d probably vomit, too. Oh, and the tantrum he would throw, all while cursing the heavens for having the temerity to dump feces in his mouth.

  Don't laugh, Maddy. Don't laugh.

  Alexander opens the car door for himself and slips in the back. An expectant look tells me to hurry. He doesn't scoot over, just stares at me impatiently, so I go around the car and open the door for myself. This is something I only have to do when we're alone. When we're in public, when people and cameras are watching, he'll be the perfect, loving gentleman.

  "Let's go, driver," he says. "How long until we reach the theater?"

  I stare out the tinted windows as we pull away from the house and exit the long driveway onto the quiet country road that leads into Costa Oscura. Ocean waves crash against the pristine black beach beneath the bluffs on the other side of the road. Trees, gnarled oaks, mostly, line the road as we head toward town, and then the freeway. As we pass one oak tree, I see a man on a motorcycle, with his face obscured by his helmet and tinted visor, his form concealed beneath leather riding gear. He’s holding his cell phone in two hands. He must be photographing the vista. I feel a pang of jealousy as we pass him by; what I wouldn't give to be free like that—to be able to spend my day just enjoying nature, taking pictures, even though I don’t really care much for nature or photography, but to be able to do it simply because I might want to is so immeasurably tempting. I’ll never have that freedom.

  "Traffic on the freeway is clear. We should be at The Herbst Theatre within an hour, sir," says the driver. His name is Leonard, though I'm certain that Alexander doesn't know that. To Alexander Covington, unless you're perceived as an equal, you don't have a name, only a job title that describes your usefulness to him. The only reason he even knows my name, much less uses it, is because he needs my last name for his own purposes. My family's reputation in Costa Oscura, even though we no longer have the money that we once did, is more than worth its weight in gold. The Covington name, on the other hand, is appreciated by the public about as much as a getting your identity stolen.

  "Good. See that we make it there in forty-five minutes. Anything less is failure, driver."

  "Yes, sir," Leonard says as he takes the turn onto the freeway.

  I roll my eyes at the tinted window.

  Something catches my eye, makes me blink.

  It's the same motorcyclist as before. With the same dark helmet, same dark leather, riding at the same speed as our car, just one lane over and half-a-car behind us.

  I frown, straighten in my seat. That’s odd.

  "There will be press at this event, Madison," Alexander says, his tone icy. "You need to be on your best behavior. You'll need to be present, too, for the entirety. No trying to sneak out, no other incidents like that little escapade a while ago at your graduation practice. It is important we are photographed together at all times except, of course, when I am giving my talk on the Evolution of the Modern Business Leader. Madison, are you listening?"

  "Yes, dear," I answer. I turn my head to look at Alexander and see something curious over his shoulder, through the tinted window glass.

  Another motorcycle.

  Same dark leathers, same dark helmet, riding at the same speed as our car.

  My frown deepens, but I keep my thoughts to myself. If I say anything, I know Alexander will just tell me I'm being hysterical. That, and he'll accuse me of trying to detract from his ascendant moment with my ridiculous observations.

  But when a third motorcycle joins the other two, swooping in from traffic to match our speed, and all three of the riders reach into their leather jackets to draw out guns, then I point and raise my voice, "Look out."

  "Madison, if this is another one of your stupid—"

  "Oh fuck," the driver says, his eyes following my finger, and he spins the wheel in alarm, sending us swerving into another lane and forcing one motorcycle to careen out of our way.

  "Driver, get us out of here this instant," Alexander demands. "I have an important TED Talk to give tonight and I refuse to accept this delay."

  The other two motorcyclists pull in line with the front of the car and both lower their guns, taking aim at the hood. One of them is huge, looking like a monster underneath his leather, and the other is leaner, still muscled, powerful, but he looks less like Bigfoot in a leather jacket. The leaner one gestures, points at a spot on the hood, and both of them take aim and fire. Bullets puncture the hood and smoke and fire erupt from the engine.

  The car shudders.

  I scream.

  Alexander glowers, smashing his fist into the window. “This is intolerable. Fix it now, or I will fire you.”

  "Fuck, sir, I'm sorry, but they've fucked the engine," the driver says. A steely, screeching whine breaks out and the car begins to shudder and shake. "We have to pull over."

  Alexander's face contorts with rage and frustration. He turns to me, grabbing my arm forcefully. "This is all your fault! If you weren't so damn insolent, we wouldn't be in this mess!"

  I try to pull my arm away, but his grip is too tight.

  "How is this my fault?" I shout back at him.

  "You must have done something to anger someone. Your little antics always come back to haunt us."

  I roll my eyes, trying to ignore his accusations.

  The driver pulls over to the side of the road, and the three motorcyclists come to a stop behind us.

  They dismount their bikes, guns still in hand, and advance towards our car.

  “Fuck this. Fire me if you want, but I’m out.” The driver opens his door and takes off running, leaving us alone and vulnerable.

  "Stay here," Alexander orders me as he opens the car door. "I'll handle this."

  I watch from the safety of the car as Alexander approaches the three men, trying to reason with them. That he would find bravery in this moment of all moments leaves me speechless. Or maybe it's not bravery, maybe Alexander just believes everyone—these gun-toting bikers included—is so far beneath him they have no choice but to obey. But they don't seem interested in talking. The huge one takes a step forward and punches Alexander in the face. He stumbles back, clutching his nose, as the other two men circle him.

  Then the leaner one throws a punch that catches Alexander right on the chin and sends him flat on his ass. A second punch follows, then a kick to the chest. This looks almost… personal. But why?

  My heart races as I contemplate what to do. I could try to run, but where would I go? I'm stranded on the side of the freeway with no idea how to defend myself. Then I remember something someone taught me years ago.

  His name was Jackson. We met when I was eighteen, right after a dinner party that my parents threw to tell me about our family's looming financial failure and how they needed my help in saving everything they'd squandered. I'd been so shaken by their proposal—shaken, and ridden with guilt that I knew would overpower me and make me accept their proposal, because guilt and love are so strongly intertwined and such a lethal combination—that I'd taken off on an aimless drive, and I drove and drove and drove until I ran over something and caught a flat tire in a bad neighborhood. A really bad neighborhood. I was scared, alone in the dark, and seeing threats in every shadow.

  Until he rode by.

  Jackson Reid.

  My brief summer fling with true love, with freedom, with a life of reckless potential, with a man so below my social station that even the mere mention of our flirtation would give my father a stroke.

  Jackson saved me that night. Fixed my car, gave me a ride to a bar where the bartender overlooked the fact that I was obviously underage, bought me a drink, and actually listened to my plight. Listened. For once in my life, I felt heard.

  Felt heard, felt appreciated, and I fell hard.

  He taught me a lot that summer. Including how to use a gun.

  I put that knowledge to work. I reach under the seat and retrieve the small pistol that Alexander keeps there for protection. I've never needed to use it before, but now seems like a good time to start.

  I step out of the car, gun in hand, and approach the three men with my weapon raised.

  "Leave us alone," I shout. "I know how to use this."

  My heart is in my throat, choking me, choking my words, but my intent is clear—I’ll fire if I have to.

  The leaner one looks at me long, with focus. His helmet is still on. It's impossible to judge what he's thinking, but I'm pretty sure I know every thought running through his criminal mind and I want no part in whatever business he's got planned.

  After a moment, he turns and levels a hard kick at Alexander's midsection, making him grab his ribs and moan in deep pain.

  Then he advances toward me.

  First one step, slow, then a second. His arms held out wide, his gun in a loose grip in his right hand.

  "Don't," I warn him, the gun shaking in my hands. "Don't do it. You stop right there. I will shoot."

  He doesn't stop.

  In that moment, all the possibilities race through my mind. I see what happens if I pull the trigger. I see what will happen if I stay here with Alexander—the endless public events until our wedding, followed by a lifetime of being nothing more than a name, a line item on his resume, locked away in a gilded cage.

  Can I really shoot someone?

  Maybe.

  If I have to.

  Because these three men clearly have nothing good in mind for me. They just ambushed and shot at a car on the highway. They're clearly violent, evil. Do I really want to know what they plan to do to me?

  The approaching biker is just steps away.

  My hands are shaking.

  My heart is racing.

  My time is up.

  Screaming, I shut my eyes and pull the trigger.

  Chapter Seven

  Bullet

  With a scream and a flash from the muzzle, she fires.

  The bullet grazes my shoulder, leaving a stinging, bloody line behind. In front of me, Madison stands still, her hands shaking, the gun still pointed in my general direction. She's holding it just like I taught her. Though I taught her to have her emerald green eyes open when she shoots, this time I'm grateful that she forgot that part of our lesson.