Release Me

much longer hair. Some of the tension leaves me. I already know that Giselle is married.
    There are also a number of pictures that show Damien with a wide-eyed blonde identified as Sara Padgett. Several of the captions reveal that Sara was found asphyxiated. And though none come out and claim that Damien was involved, there are enough hints that I have to wonder if these photos and captions are Sara Padgett’s brother’s doing, and if this is the kind of stuff that Damien is pushing Mr. Maynard to fight.
    I press my finger to my monitor and touch Damien’s face, but my eyes are on Sara. Did she kill herself on purpose? Or was she really trying to get off and died accidentally? Either way makes me sad. I’ve felt so lost and helpless that I hurt myself in order to feel real, but I never crossed that line into desiring death. On the contrary, I was trying to find that pulse of life inside me.
    I close out the website. I’m already melancholy, and this is not the way to feel better. Instead, I go to YouTube and watch old Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire dance clips. I start with “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.”
    Fred is just dipping Ginger when there’s a knock at my door. I shut my laptop, grab my purse, and head for the front of the apartment. Already my pulse has quickened and my body is more aware of the space it’s occupying, as if readying itself to share that space with another human being.
    I pause, take a deep breath, and reach for the doorknob.
    I tug the door open expecting to see Damien, and am surprised to find Edward. “Oh,” I say. “I thought—”
    “Mr. Stark apologizes,” Edward says. “He got held up.”
    “I see.” I follow him to the car, each of my steps weighed down with disappointment—and with a rising anger. Not at Damien, but at myself. I’ve been letting myself get lost in girlish fantasies, and I’ve lost sight of the larger picture. I’m something Damien bought, like his hotel or his jet or his car. I’m not his girlfriend or his lover. Not really. I’m simply
his
, and that’s okay because I agreed to it and I’m getting paid for it. But I can’t start thinking that a tantalizing arrangement has some semblance to reality. This is a game to him, and I came in as a willing player, negotiating hard for the terms I wanted.
    I got them, too. And I remind myself of that important fact. It may feel as though Damien has all the power, but he doesn’t. I kept a little bit of control—and I’ll walk away with a million.
    The grounds are dotted with workmen when we arrive. They’re hauling dirt, planting flowers, clearing rocks. Another crew works on the stone facade on the eastern-facing wall. At least I assume it faces the east. As far as I’m concerned, anything that looks out on the California ocean is west and the opposite is east.
    For a moment I fear that there are workmen inside, too, because I never added privacy to my conditions. I assumed that only Damien and the artist would be there. But now, seeing these men …
    Surely Damien wouldn’t ask me to stand naked in front of the world?
    Don’t be so sure
.
    But when Edward opens the door for me and leads me in, I see that my fears are unfounded. The place is silent except for the soft strains of music coming from somewhere in the back.
    The house is not yet finished, but the shell is firmly in place. The walls still need painting, the wood needs to be finished. Light fixtures are missing, with only a few dangling wires indicating where they will go. But the grandeur of the home is obvious. The ceilings soar. The floors are stunning, even though I can see only bits and pieces under the protective brown paper. And the marble staircase and twisted iron handrail look like something out of a five-star hotel.
    I follow Edward up that staircase, and the change when we step onto the third floor landing is astonishing. There is nothing raw or half-complete about
this
area. The wood floors are polished to a shine, and accented by thick, expensive area rugs. The walls are painted in a pale rose, and I imagine that the space glows at sunset.
    The entire room is stunning and inviting. It’s obviously meant for entertaining, despite the fact that the focal point is a giant bed. It’s been put there for my benefit, I’m certain, and I squeeze my thighs together in an attempt to stall the blood that is rushing to my sex.
    The room appears to be missing a wall, but I quickly realize that the wall is made of glass partitions