Of course it’s none of those people.

Instead, the voice on the other end of the line belongs to my father.

“Sylvia. Honey, we need to talk.”

I cringe, his use of the endearment grating on me as much as his tone. Like he cares. Like he actually gives a shit about me.

I know better.

I know he’s only calling me because Jackson forced my dad to confront a truth that he’d avoided since I was fourteen—that Robert Cabot Reed had sucked the marrow out of me, and my father had handed me to the bastard on a platter and then looked the other way.

“Sylvia,” he prompts. “Sylvia, talk to me.”

“This isn’t a good time.” My voice is tight, and I can barely squeeze the words out.

“I’ve left at least a dozen messages. You haven’t called me back.”

“And so you thought you would trick me by calling from an unfamiliar number?”

“What choice do I have? I need to talk to you.”

“You need?” The words hang in the air, dark and twisted. Two simple syllables, and yet they seem to sum up my entire, horrible childhood.

“We need,” he corrects immediately. “We need to talk. About Reed. About what happened. About those photographs he threatened you with.”

“I can’t.” I’m shaking my head, wishing I could block out everything he is saying. Trying to push back the memories he is invoking. But it’s no use. The floor is shifting beneath me, and I reach for the counter to steady myself.

“You can’t keep ignoring me.”

Yes. I can. But I can’t manage the words. Not then. Not with the way my throat is closing up and the room is turning gray and the floor is starting to angle sideways, as if to let those horrible memories roll more easily toward me.

“We have to talk, Sylvia. We have to.” His voice sounds miles away, as if it is just a noise and has nothing to do with me. And I don’t want to hear it anymore.

I can’t. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

I’m not sure if I’m actually speaking those words or if I’m just screaming them in my head. Somehow, though, I manage to jam my finger hard against the proper button to end the call before the phone tumbles from my hand. My knees give out, and suddenly I’m on the ground, my legs pulled right up against my chest. I close my eyes and squeeze them tight and rock back and forth as I fight the panic and the memories that are rising fast to consume me.

I hate this—the terror. This sense of being lost. Of being out of control.

Of being thrust back into pain and memories without any warning at all.

If I’d known it was him, I could have prepared. Could have steeled myself.

Could you? Would you? Or would you have just hid from his words? From his voice?

My chest is tight with the weight of the truth. Because I would have hid. If I had my way, I’d hide from my father for the rest of eternity.

I take deep breaths and I tell myself to get a grip. He’s gone. It’s over. And I can handle this.

More than that, I have to handle this.

It hasn’t yet been a week since Jackson told my father what Robert Cabot Reed did to me. Not that my dad didn’t already have some idea. He was the one who’d set me up with Reed as a teen, after all. Who’d accepted exorbitant amounts of money from Reed in exchange for my services, supposedly as a model, but that damn sure wasn’t the extent of it.

And it was my father who’d ignored my pleas to stop the photo sessions.

So, yeah, my dad knew what went on in Reed’s studio, but he’d never really faced it. Not until Jackson forced him to not only acknowledge the past, but to look at the present. A present in which Reed was blackmailing me, threatening to release those horrible, ugly, intimate photos to the press if I didn’t convince Jackson to quit blocking his movie.

Since that night, my father has repeatedly called me, and I’ve repeatedly ignored him. And that’s not going to stop now. As far as I’m concerned, that man stopped being my father when he drove me to Reed’s studio the first time. And if he’s calling to apologize, I really don’t give a damn. And if he’s calling to ask for forgiveness, that’s not something I’m willing to grant.

I shake out my arms, then slap my cheeks lightly as if I’m a trauma victim who needs to be revived. Because when you get right down to it, that’s exactly what I am.

I have to get my shit together, because I cannot, cannot, cannot let Jackson see me like this. Not because I’m afraid that he won’t comfort me, but because I am certain that he will. He might be pushing me away from his problems and fears, but he won’t ignore mine. On the contrary, my pain would slide in and mingle with his own, and I can’t put this on him. Not now. Not today.

But even though I know that keeping silent about this call is absolutely the right decision, I can’t help but feel as if my silence is the first step on a dark path leading me away from Jackson. And if I don’t fight to keep him by my side, I’m going to lose him to the shadows.

two

“Ms. Brooks?”

Grayson’s voice breaks through the cotton that seems to fill my head and I sit bolt upright, my heart pounding in my chest as panic crashes over me. “What?” I demand. “Are we okay? Why are you here? Aren’t you supposed to be flying this thing?”

I don’t like air travel—it makes me queasy and nervous and unsettled. About the only thing I do like, in fact, is the moment after landing when I realize that I’ve miraculously survived being hurtled through the air in a giant steel canister. So when Grayson told us that there were storms over New Mexico and Arizona, I’d succumbed to pressure from him and Jackson and taken a couple of motion sickness pills. Normally, that would just make me a little bit sleepy. But at lunch Stella had brought out a pitcher of sangria, and since I was already hot and sweaty from playing in the yard with Jackson and Ronnie, I’d gulped down more than I should have.

Which meant that I was already drowsy when we’d climbed on board. Once the pills hit my system, I was a goner. And being startled awake only fed my phobia.

“It’s okay. Everything is fine.” Jackson’s voice is soft and soothing, and I force myself to relax. We’re in the jet, and I’d been sound asleep. Now Jackson eases me against him, and I gratefully comply, thinking that maybe air travel isn’t such a bad thing if it means that Jackson will hold me close and safe, his arm tight around my shoulders.

I sigh, cherishing the comfort that he’s offering. I have said nothing to him about the grayness that seems to fill the space between us. Instead, I am clinging like a beggar to each and every subtle connection. Every brush of his fingers against mine. Every press of his hand upon my back as he guides me. Every soft glance, every gentle smile.

It’s not enough, though. We have always fit together, Jackson and I, like pieces in a puzzle. But now it feels as if someone has bent the pieces and the fit is awkward and slightly off, and that disconnect is making me crazy. I don’t think I can stand it much longer, and soon I’m going to have to confront him. To grab him hard and pull him back, and then demand to know why the hell he’s so far away from me—and then hope that he doesn’t run even further.

Not now, though. Right now, I just need to know why the pilot is crouched in front of me instead of in the cockpit where he belongs.

“Seriously,” I demand as I narrow my eyes at Grayson, “why aren’t you at the wheel or the stick or whatever they call it?”

“Darryl has it under control,” Grayson assures me. “And I’m sorry to wake you, but there’s a satellite call.”

“Damien?”

“Trent,” Jackson says. “I offered to handle it, but he insisted he needs to speak to you.”

That’s odd, and I force down the rising worry and tell myself that this isn’t necessarily a big deal. After all, I call Damien all the time when he’s flying. It’s just one more method of communication. He probably needs a contact that Rachel can’t find. Or wants me to run interference for him on one of his projects if he ended up double-booked. Something mundane and easily handled.