SCANDALOUS

THE FIRST THING I DID when Trent left his apartment, taking Luna and Camila with him since it was Office Tuesday, was run into his bathroom and vomit.

My head was swimming, white dots blurring my vision. Bracing myself with the seat, I slowly got up and limped my way to the sink like an old dog. I washed my hands and face, avoiding the mirror in front of me at all costs. I couldn’t look at myself without throwing up again.

Traitor. Impostor. Judas. Backstabber. Bitch.

Stumbling down the hallway, I leaned against the walls for support. Super dramatic, but I couldn’t help the way I felt. Like the world was collapsing directly on my body, crushing me to dust. How I’d managed to live through the last twenty-four hours, I wasn’t sure.

Yesterday, when I arrived at his apartment, Camila hadn’t been there. Trent had sent her home, telling her she wasn’t needed that night. I’d cooked Luna’s food for her on autopilot, burning myself on the stove twice and making frequent trips to the bathroom to wash my face and take deep breaths.

Di

At night, I crawled into his bed, stealing what I no longer deserved. His kisses, his caresses, his body brushing against mine. I stole his heat, and the strokes of his tongue, and the thrusts of his cock. I stole his lust, for it was no longer mine. I enjoyed the pain I earned and the pleasure I didn’t. And in the morning, I asked for another round, knowing full well that this afternoon—when I’d give the flash drive to my father—it’d all be over for us.

“This time, I want us to go slow.” I’d writhed beneath him, under my dark knight with chipped armor, who’d let me crawl into the broken cracks of his shell and settle in, even though he’d known who I was. The Trojan Horse.

“Why slow?”

“So I can remember.”

“Why would you forget?”

Silence. He’d kissed away my tears, knowing exactly what I wasn’t saying, but not wanting to believe it. He’d made this sacrifice for me—that much was sure. He’d let me break him, and I had. Without blinking, or hesitating, or even stopping to think about it.

He moved on top of me like I was wave, filling my body, my core, and my soul. Stroking my cheeks, kissing my eyes. “My girl, my obsession, my Tide.”

It sounded like a goodbye, which only made me cry harder, clutching him like an anchor. Trent knew, and at six in the morning, half an hour before Luna woke up, we’d done the closest thing to making love, knowing that by the end of the day, that love would turn into hate.

My father’s office door was open.

It made everything so much more final. If I passed by, he’d call me in. He’d ask about the flash drive. I would have to give it to him, then everything would be over.

Luna.

Trent.

Seahorses.

Tide.

The ocean was stormy that day. Bane had left me a message at half past six in the morning when Trent was in the shower.

Don’t even bother coming down. Black flag.

He hadn’t known I could literally see the flag waving from my spot, at Trent’s window, in his bedroom, butt naked, my hand pressed against the glass. The waves crashed and the wind wailed. It was the weirdest weather for August in California, but as a surfer, I wasn’t surprised.

The ocean knew.

In the office, I’d loitered by reception, prolonging walking over to my desk by my father’s door and taking a seat. By eleven o’clock, I couldn’t postpone the inevitable. I was making the twelfth pot of coffee that day—for whom, no one knew—when Max walked in and leaned his arm against the door. He looked like a weasel in a suit, reeking of a pine-scented disinfectant. He always smelled like he bathed in aftershave.

“Your dad wants to see you,” he a

“Is this a trick?” I croaked. I hoped, prayed, willed for it to be part of a bigger plan that we could both share. Trent’s eyes were still on the papers. Like he hadn’t held me in his arms hours ago and breathed life into me.

Not shaking his head—not even moving—he said, “Nope.”

“So all the information is th…” I started before he shot his head up and stared at me, his face blank. Chiseled out of titanium. God-like and angry.

“Everything is there, Edie. Every single file, and plan, and contract. You made your choice. If you want to be strong, be. Now, leave.”

I wanted to argue with him. Wanted this to turn into a loud, ugly, angry, real argument after which I would be convinced there was another way to save Theo. But I also acknowledged that all those things would just serve to show that I was still an indecisive teenager, and he was the older man who’d seduced me. And we weren’t those things. We were so much more.

My legs took me to my father’s office, and I don’t remember how I got there, but I do remember the door clicking shut behind me. The sound it made was concluding and grave.

There was an ocean of space and unspoken words between us, every inch a toxic drop of bitterness. I wanted to keep it that way. With Jordan Van Der Zee, I preferred to stay dry and guarded.

“Well?” he asked, sitting back in his leather chair and arching one skeptical eyebrow. Not once had he asked me how my mother was while I was sleeping, eating, and living in the hospital by her side. This, combined with what he’d made me do, with what my life looked like, triggered my anger to overflow. My mouth was paper-dry and every muscle in my body was taut with the need to launch at him.

I wasn’t sure where the next words came from, but I was certain I couldn’t stop them from pouring out even if I tried. “Can I ask you something?”

He huffed, sitting back in his chair. He rolled one hand in a go-on motion.

“Now that you know what happened to Mom, do you wish you would have waited? Maybe not pushed her to doing what she did?”

A part of me realized I was being irrational—perhaps even pathetic—trying to reason with him. Looking to find a person with a heart. Because if he was a monster, then I could become one, too. But if there was a sliver of humanity inside him, maybe I could bargain with him and save Trent. Jordan flicked his gaze to his watch, sighed like my very presence was an inconvenience, and rubbed the tip of his chin.

“I didn’t push your mother, Edie. We’re all responsible for our own lives. Dumping the blame on someone else is for the weak.”

Again with the power games. My father didn’t care. What’s more, I was starting to suspect he actually took pleasure from this screwed-up situation. I was the one to coax Mom off the ledge time and time again, while he was the one to push and watch her fall, all the while waiting for me to let her go. This was where we danced. On the edge of her sanity. I needed to break this cycle—smash his foot in—to make sure he wasn’t going to hurt her.