When the store owner returns and shows me the next gown, I almost can’t believe my eyes. The gown is reminiscent of a dark sky filled with stars, like midnight in the summer along the shore. It’s all black, covered in iridescent beading that circles the turtleneck and swirls out and into the long sleeves.

I cross the small space, hardly believing a gem exists in this sea of paisley and polyester. “It’s stunning. I’d like to try it on, please.”

“No,” Mallory insists, forcing a laugh as she addresses the owner. “Forgive me, but your instructions were for more conservative and traditional attire. This is too, ah, formfitting.”

She means sensual. “I like it,” I say, quietly.

I pass the stretchy material along my hands, examining it closely. With a smile, I lift the dress from the woman’s arms and place it against me, ignoring Mallory’s warning.

“It will look gorgeous on you,” the woman says, her face beaming.

Her kindness makes me smile even more. “I hope so. May I use one of your dressing rooms to see if it fits?”

The woman motions to the right. “Of course, dear.”

My first thought is of Curran, and whether he would like it. It’s a silly thought, but if he liked me enough to kiss me in my old-lady shoes and nerdwear, maybe he’ll reconsider that kiss and a lot more if he sees me in this dress.

“Contessa, your father won’t approve,” Mallory insists.

“It has sleeves and a turtleneck. What more could he want?”

“A daughter who would be more appreciative of his efforts and grateful for his generosity,” he growls behind me.

I squeeze my lids tight. Shit.

Once again, my father arrived, unexpected and unwelcomed.

Panic replaces my shock. I don’t turn around, even when he reaches my side. “Why must you make such a simple task as picking out a dress so arduous?” he asks, his voice loud enough for the owner to hear.

Maybe it’s the humiliation, or the fact that I’m just so tired of taking his crap—whatever it is makes me snap. “Because it’s something I’m being forced to wear to an event I have no desire to attend,” I fire back.

My father hasn’t struck me in years. But if we were alone, he would have then. “Shut your filthy mouth,” he demands, seething with rage.

The sharpness to his tone causes the boutique owner to edge away. But from one blink to the next, the fury cutting ugly lines into his face dissolves, revealing the fine features of the gentleman he pretends to be. “We’ll take the blue one,” he tells the boutique owner, pointing to my left.

I make the mistake of looking, expecting the worst, and am not disappointed. There on a rack is a sexy number befitting most women in their nineties. I want to scream, but instead, there I stand, fighting the angry tears that come with being the daughter of Donald Newart.

The woman rushes away to fill Father’s order, falling all over herself to please him, as most do. It’s then that he leans in close, speaking through his teeth. “You walk a thin line with me, Contessa. Bite the hand that feeds you, and you’ll find it biting back.”

My stomach clenches tight. Fuck you.

Despite my vicious thoughts, the venom in his voice causes me to recoil, exactly like it’s done all my life, starting when I was just a little girl who simply needed her father’s love.

I lower my eyelids and take a breath when he storms off. This fear, it doesn’t come on suddenly. It’s always there, lurking beneath the surface just as he intended.

When did it start? I don’t know. If I had to guess, it likely started in infancy.

My earliest memory is of him ramming his fist between my shoulder blades and wrenching my shoulders back to “teach me” to stand straight and not slouch. I couldn’t have been more than three. But I recall that moment, and remember the feel of his knuckles against my small spine, just like I remember my heart breaking and my mother urging me not to cry, because “you’ll make your father mad.”

He’d smack my mouth if I didn’t speak clearly, or if I used words he believed were too simplistic. He’d make me wait to eat until he finished his meal to demonstrate he didn’t owe me anything, not even food. I wasn’t allowed to play around him. I wasn’t permitted to speak unless spoken to, and I couldn’t “behave like a child”—even when I was one.

This isn’t a form of abuse most read about online, or catch on the evening news. It doesn’t cause “real” bruises, but it bruises the soul.

It’s real. It controls. It hurts. And it’s effective. So for me to argue or speak to him like I did is unheard of. But, God, I’m tired, tired of taking his orders, tired of allowing him to belittle me, and tired of permitting his mistreatment.

I’m barely aware of his voice, and of the small clicking noises at the register as he completes the transaction, his words and anger leaving me as weak as if he’d beaten me with his hands.

It’s all I can do not to collapse.

He leaves then, with Mallory close at his heels. The hideous dress is my first punishment. The abandonment is my second. My third will likely be waiting for me in my apartment, but I won’t find it anytime soon.

I’m on the other side of town, miles from my apartment. My father left with the person who brought me. He intends to make me walk so I can think about my actions, and so he can occupy my thoughts. He didn’t bother leaving me money for a cab or asking if I brought my bus pass. And he knows I don’t have a phone.

He assumes I’m alone.

But I’m not alone.

Curran followed me here.

He shadowed Mallory’s car without her knowing, which is perfect. I don’t want Father to know I’m under surveillance. And if Mallory knew, she’d run and tell him.

Initially, I panicked over how Curran would react following our kiss. Now, I’m panicking over what he’ll say when he realizes Mallory left without me. I don’t want him to know I was dumped like a piece of trash.

I hurry outside, only to have the owner stop me. “Miss, you forgot your dress!”

I groan and wait for her to hand me the oversized box. “Thank you,” I say, although I don’t really mean it.

With the box tucked beneath my arm, I step outside, searching for Curran. Several stores surround the area and the lot is completely full. At first, I can’t find him, and wonder if another patrol took over. My shoulders relax when I see him step out of his dark blue F-150.

“Hi,” I say when I reach him.

He motions to the dress with his chin. “New argyles?” he asks. My expression shatters before I can stop it, erasing Curran’s grin. “Okay. Forget I asked.”

I quickly compose myself, or at least, I try. “I needed a dress. I have a social event to attend next week,” I mutter.

“You mean like a date?”

His question surprises me. “Something like that.”

“With the judge’s law clerk?”

“No.” I frown a little. “Why do you ask?”

He shrugs. “Just curious. He’s the only guy you’ve been with.”

I meet his eyes. “No. Not the only one.”

Curran works his jaw but says nothing. I glance away, trying not to focus on those soft lips. “If it’s not too much trouble, would you mind taking me home?” I ask.

“I was wondering about that, seeing how that lady you came with left you here.”

Oh, boy, here we go. “She’s my stepmother. She had a meeting to attend.”

“With your dad?” He cocks his head when he catches my surprise. “I saw him, Tess. He pulled into the lot less than a minute after you walked into the shop.”

And yet he waited before entering. Not that I’m shocked. My father likes me to think I’m always being watched.

“You okay, Tess?”

I nod, but in truth, I’m not feeling well.

“When did you eat last?” he asks.

“What?”

His frown deepens. “I asked when was the last time you ate?”

“Last night. At dinner.”

“It’s almost two o’clock now.”

I rearrange the large box in my arms. “I don’t typically eat breakfast.”