Adrian didn’t realize that I had no intentions of ever stepping back into those sparkly shoes. Or, he realized it, but didn’t really care. His greed far outweighed any sort of loyalty to me or my stubborn convictions. In his mind, I was throwing away a golden opportunity to make some cold, hard cash. Wasting my god-given talents when, instead, I should be milking every possible penny out of them.
Don’t you see, doll? It’ll be great. Your name in lights again, more money than we can count…His voice had been thick with excitement, his dark eyes gleaming like a cartoon villain with dollar signs in place of irises.I’ve got it all set up with some guys I know. A six-month residence at The Palace! I’ll manage everything, you just have to show up and do what you do best…
I pressed my eyes closed again, trying not to remember the outcome of that conversation. Even after almost a month, I couldn’t forget how he’d advanced on me, backing me into the wall. How his handsome face contorted into a mask of rage I’d never seen before as I adamantly derailed his grand plans for fame and fortune. Those memories were scored into my mind, sharp as the shattered glass from the lamp he chucked clear across the room.
Don’t walk away from me, Imogen! I’m talking to you. Why are you shaking your head? No? What do you mean,no? Do you have any idea how hard I worked, pulling this deal together for us? Do you have any idea how fucked I’ll be if you don’t agree? This is happening. You’ll do this. And you’ll thank me when we’re sitting on a mountain of millions…
I’d known, of course. Even before that night, I’d known I had to leave him. We’d been dying for months, a steady decline with a terminal prognosis, but his announcement about the six-month gig he’d arranged for me was the final tug that yanked our life support plug from the wall.
Beep, beep,beeeeeeeep.
Flat line.
Call it.
Time of death, 2:32AM.
A certifiable goner.
Get the morgue on the phone, pronto.
After that, nothing he did was going to change my mind. Not sweet-talking me, not threatening me, not physically trying to shake some sense into me. Not flipping furniture or smashing light fixtures. Not even a necklace of bruises, courtesy of his fine-boned fingers.
I wasn’t going back to that life. It had taken me years to climb out of that pit of despair I’d been raised in. I’d fought hard for my anonymity after show business stripped it away. I’d fought even harder to rediscover my identity after so long letting other people tell me who I was.
No more.
No goddamned more.
His snores were a steady metronome as I slid out of the bed, my feet moving soundlessly across the carpeted floor toward the chair in the corner where a small pile of clothes sat waiting. I put my gloves on first, like always. If I’d had it my way I would've slept in them, but doing so pissed Adrian off even more than usual.
I’m not sleeping next to a fucking freak.
You look like a serial killer with those on.
I didn’t — please, Dahmer and Bundy weren’t half so stylish — but Adrian never missed an opportunity to take a shot at my confidence, especially when it came to things I was already self-conscious about.
I was fully aware how odd I appeared to outside observers, always wearing gloves, even in the heat of summer. I compensated by purchasing the most beautifully crafted ones I could find. This pair was thin, calfskin leather in a crisp linen color. Buttery smooth against my skin. Once they were on, covering me fingertips to wrists, I felt instantly calmer. More in control of myself and my surroundings.
I let out a long, low exhale.
Breathe, Imogen.
I stripped off my pajamas as quietly as possible, staring out the window as I tugged on the pair of frayed denim cut-off shorts and an oversized Baltimore Ravens sweatshirt. Through the plate glass penthouse windows, I could see the lights of the city spread out far below. It was late, but this place never seemed to shut down completely. The casino names emblazoned on rooftop signs glowed like constellations no matter the hour. The boardwalk was brightly illuminated, a rainbow ribbon of neon threading along the shoreline. The world-famous Steel Pier amusement park jutted proudly out into the Atlantic, its Ferris Wheel flashing a patriotic medley of red, white, and blue.
It was the Fourth of July in just a few days. The city was already in the throes of celebration — but I’d be long gone by the time the fireworks began.
Staring down at the world as I freed my hair from beneath the heavy hood of the sweatshirt, I felt oddly removed from it all. It was like peering into a snow globe; no matter how close I brought my nose to the glass, I’d never be part of that kaleidoscopic tableau of sound and color. I was a perpetual outsider, set ever-so-slightly apart from everyone else on the planet. Always had been, always would be.
It didn’t take long to gather my things. I’d packed days ago. There was a duffle of spare clothes stashed in the trunk of the car waiting for me across town. Everything else that mattered — my driver’s license, an emergency debit card, a small supply of cash, and the few sentimental items I cared about — were tucked away in a nondescript shoebox in the hallway closet. Ready to go at a moment’s notice.
The moment wasnow.
The closet door hinges creaked a bit as I retrieved the box, a flinch-inducing screech in the otherwise silent penthouse. I went still, terrified Adrian might awaken, but all I heard was the distant rumble of his snoring from the bedroom. With the shoebox tucked under my arm, I shoved my feet into a pair of leather flip-flops and headed for the door.
I did not spare a single glance at the framed photograph sitting on the entryway table as I passed by. I didn’t have to. I knew the image by heart: the two of us standing in front of the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree last December, back when we were just starting out. Before Adrian turned cold and cruel, before it all went bad. He was still trying to impress me, then. Sweeping me off my feet, promising me a lifetime of weekend getaways and fancy hotels, room service and nights on the town.
What a laugh.