The silence that followed Arnulfo's departure was short-lived.

Mrs. Higgins appeared in the doorway of the dining room. She wasn't wearing her mask of servitude anymore. Her face was twisted in ugly triumph.

"Since the Master is gone," Higgins said, her voice grating, "as the mistress of the house, you have duties. The wine cellar needs inventory."

She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and marched toward the basement door.

Erline wiped her mouth with a napkin and followed. She knew this was a power play, but she had to learn the layout of the house anyway.

The wine cellar was two levels down. The air grew colder with every step, smelling of damp earth and old cork. It was dimly lit by flickering bulbs in wire cages.

Rows of dust-covered bottles stretched into the darkness. Hundreds of thousands of dollars in alcohol.

"Count them," Higgins ordered, pointing to a wall of crates. "If one bottle is missing, I will tell Mr. Bond you drank it."

Erline looked at the wall. It would take hours. She didn't argue. She stepped forward and began to count, her finger hovering over the bottles.

Higgins didn't leave. She stood on the bottom step, watching.

"Don't think wearing Chanel makes you anything other than what you are," Higgins spat. "You're just a whore he bought to breed with. A mute whore."

Erline's hand paused over a bottle of 1982 Bordeaux. She took a breath and continued.

Higgins, emboldened by the lack of reaction, stepped down. She walked up behind Erline and shoved her hard between the shoulder blades.

"Are you listening to me?"

Erline stumbled forward. She crashed into the wooden rack. A bottle wobbled and tipped over.

Reflex took over. Erline lunged, catching the bottle by the neck just before it hit the stone floor.

But as she caught it, the back of her hand scraped violently against the rough, unfinished wood of the rack. A splinter tore through her skin. Blood welled up instantly, bright red against her pale skin.

Higgins saw the blood and smiled. She reached out and grabbed Erline's injured arm, digging her nails into the wound.

"Does that hurt?" Higgins whispered. "I can make it hurt more."

Pain shot up Erline's arm. Her eyes went cold.

She shifted her weight. She knew Krav Maga. She knew exactly how to grab Higgins' thumb and snap it backward to break the joint. It would take one second.

She tensed her muscles, ready to strike.

Step. Step. Step.

Heavy footsteps echoed from the stairs above. Leather on stone.

Erline released her tension instantly. She let her body go limp. She allowed herself to fall to the floor, curling in on herself, clutching the bottle to her chest like a shield.

Arnulfo appeared at the top of the stairs. He had come back.

He stopped. He took in the scene. Erline on the floor, bleeding. Higgins standing over her, face twisted in malice, hand still raised.

The temperature in the cellar seemed to drop ten degrees.

"Sir!" Higgins gasped, jumping back. "She... she fell! She's clumsy!"

Arnulfo walked down the stairs. He moved slowly. The sound of his shoes was the only sound in the room.

He walked past Higgins as if she were furniture. He knelt beside Erline. He took her hand, the one dripping blood onto the dusty floor.

He looked at the cut. Then he looked at the bottle she was still clutching. It was unbroken.

He stood up and turned to Higgins. His expression was terrifyingly blank.

"Are you deaf, Mrs. Higgins?"

Higgins was trembling now. "Sir?"

"I said she is my asset," Arnulfo said softly. "You damaged my property."

"I..."

"Can you afford to pay for her?" Arnulfo asked. "Can you afford the repairs?"

Higgins fell to her knees. "Please, Mr. Bond."

Arnulfo looked toward the stairs. "Security."

Two guards came down.

"Throw her out," Arnulfo said, boring. "Ensure she is blacklisted from every agency in the state. If she finds work walking a dog, I will be disappointed."

Higgins screamed as they dragged her up the stairs. Her nails scraped against the stone.

Arnulfo looked down at Erline. He didn't offer her a hand.

"Clumsy," he muttered. "Get upstairs. You're bleeding on my vintage."

Arnulfo marched her into the master bedroom and pointed to the edge of the bed.

"Sit."

Erline sat. She cradled her bleeding hand.

Arnulfo pulled out his phone. "Sterling. Bring the trauma kit. And a sedative. Now."

He hung up and walked to the window. Outside, the sky had turned a bruised purple. A storm was breaking.

BOOM.

Thunder shook the house. A flash of lightning illuminated the room in stark white.

Erline flinched. Her body convulsed, a violent, involuntary jerk.

The sound triggered it. The memory of the basement. Her father. The noise of the belt cracking.

Her breath hitched. She started to hyperventilate. She pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms around her head, rocking back and forth.

Arnulfo turned. He frowned. "Playing the victim?"

He walked over. He saw her eyes. Her pupils were blown wide, swallowing the iris. Sweat beaded on her forehead. She wasn't looking at him; she was looking at something that wasn't there.

The door opened. A man in a grey suit carrying a leather bag rushed in. Dr. Sterling.

"What happened?" Sterling asked, setting the bag on the bed.

"Thunder," Arnulfo said, sounding annoyed. "Or Higgins. Who knows."

Sterling approached her. "Mrs. Bond? I need to check your vitals. Your breathing is too fast."

Erline didn't respond. She was gasping for air.

"I need to listen to her heart," Sterling said. "Please, unzip her dress."

Erline heard the words. Panic flared. No. Not the skin. Don't look at the skin.

She grabbed the collar of her dress, shaking her head frantically.

Arnulfo sighed. "Don't be a child."

He stepped forward, brushed her hands away with effortless strength, and spun her around.

ZZZZZT.

The sound of the zipper going down was loud in the quiet room.

Arnulfo pulled the grey fabric down to her waist.

Erline squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the reaction.

Silence.

Dr. Sterling held the stethoscope, but he didn't move. He was staring at her back.

Arnulfo stared too.

Her skin was a map of pain.

Below her right shoulder blade, a thick, white keloid scar snaked across her ribs. It was old, jagged-the mark of a belt buckle or a whip.

Lower down, near her waist, were three circular burns. Cigarette burns. Faded, but unmistakable.

These weren't accidents. This was torture. Systematic, long-term abuse.

Sterling looked at Arnulfo. Arnulfo's eyes narrowed. He traced the line of the whip scar with his eyes.

"Sedative," Arnulfo said. His voice was different. Tighter.

Sterling nodded. He prepared a syringe. "Just a small pinch, Mrs. Bond."

He injected her arm.

The world went soft at the edges. Erline's panic receded, replaced by a heavy, warm fog. She slumped sideways onto the pillows.

Sterling quickly cleaned and bandaged her hand.

"Arnulfo," Sterling said, standing up and packing his bag. "A word."

He jerked his head toward the hallway.

Arnulfo followed him out, pulling the door almost shut.

Erline lay on the bed. The drug was strong, but she fought it. She bit the tip of her tongue hard. The sharp pain gave her a second of clarity.

She strained her ears.

"Something is wrong," Sterling's voice drifted through the crack in the door. It was a hushed whisper.

"Speak," Arnulfo replied. Then came the sound of a lighter flicking.

"I reviewed Verity Guy's medical files before the marriage," Sterling said. "Routine check. She has a clean history. A broken arm from skiing when she was twelve. Some cosmetic work on her nose. That's it."

A pause. Smoke exhaled.

"But that woman in there..." Sterling continued. "Those scars on her back are at least ten years old. The burns? Those are from childhood. That body has been through a war, Arnulfo. That is not the skin of a pampered socialite."

Erline's heart hammered against her ribs. He knows.

"Are you saying I married a fake?" Arnulfo's voice was dangerous, low and vibrating with threat.

"Or the Guy family has secrets," Sterling said. "You know these old money families. Their closets are full of skeletons. Maybe Verity was the punching bag."

"Interesting," Arnulfo said. "Dig deeper. I want to know everything about her past twenty years. Every doctor visit. Every school report."

"I'm on it."

Footsteps faded. Then, the door pushed open.

Arnulfo walked back in. He smelled of tobacco.

Erline kept her eyes closed, regulating her breathing. In. Out. Slow.

He didn't say anything. He walked to the bed. She felt the mattress dip as he sat down. He was close.

"Stop pretending to be asleep," he said.

Erline stiffened. She opened her eyes slowly.

Arnulfo was holding a tube of ointment. He tossed a white dress shirt onto the bed. It was his.

"Doctor says you need to rest. Put that on."

Erline sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest. She grabbed the shirt. She turned away to pull it on, her fingers fumbling with the buttons. It was huge on her, hitting mid-thigh. It smelled like him-clean, sharp, masculine.

She turned back. Arnulfo was watching her.

"Did you like playing with fire when you were a child?" he asked suddenly.

It was a trap. The cigarette burns.

Erline looked at him, keeping her face blank. She tilted her head, confusion knitting her brows. She pointed to her throat, then her ear, and shrugged. I don't understand.

She was playing the fool.

Arnulfo stood up. He loomed over her, planting a hand on the mattress on either side of her hips, trapping her.

"I don't care who you are," he whispered, his face inches from hers. "You walked through my door. Your life is mine."

He grabbed the ointment and tossed it into her lap.

"Apply the rest yourself. I'm not your nurse."

He straightened up and walked into the bathroom.

Erline let out a breath she had been holding for five minutes. He suspected, but he didn't know. Not yet.

She looked at the bathroom door. She had to move fast. Tonight. While he slept. She had to get into his study.