There was an intimacy in watching him do this, and strangely enough, it was then that I realized what I had to do to make things right again.

When he was done, he gave his penis two shakes and tucked it in his boxers. After he’d flushed, he tried to move past me, but I blocked his way to the shower. Tying my arms around his waist, I pressed my cheek to his chest. But he didn’t hug me back. His body was as stiff as a pole in my arms.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know,” he said staring past me. “You can’t help it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s nothin’ I haven’t said before.” He set me away from him, tugged his underwear down, and flipped the shower on. “I used to think you were one of the bravest people I know, and you still are, to a degree. But here’s the problem. You’ll stand up to bullies, but you’re terrified of standing up to yourself.”

That went right over my head. “Huh?”

“Remember my brain box? Well, you’ve got one too. The fancy name for it is repression. I learned that from Doc. You repress your emotions and the way I figure it, you operate on some kind of…weird autopilot. Anything that feels too real, you shove it down—or you run. That’s how you stayed in denial about us for so long.”

I shook my head. “I’m glad you’ve got this all figured out.”

“I do.” He looked at me for a long while. “I spent twelve years in an iron cage with wardens, guards, sharpshooters, and psychopaths. And what were you doin’? You’ll likely say, living your life out here in freedom, right?”

Any answer I gave would probably be wrong, so I held my tongue.

He stepped into the shower and grabbed a well-used bar of Ivory soap. “You’re not ashamed of me, you’re just afraid. And I get that. I really do. But the truth is, you’re in bondage, wasting away in a platinum cage you built. Trying to live up to your own impossible standards. You talk about not being ‘enough’ for other people, but this is about you.” Steam rose as he ducked beneath the hot spray and cracked an eye open. “I may be on parole, but you’re still the warden of your own penitentiary. So, between the two of us, who’s the real prisoner, darlin’?”

He yanked the shower curtain closed.

SHANNON

____________________________

I slowed as a crossing guard led a line of middle school students across the street. Since I couldn’t stand the thought of going home, I’d picked up some toiletries at Walgreens and checked into a motel. I glanced at the dashboard clock—8:05 a.m.—fifty-eight minutes since I’d last seen Trace.

He didn’t say a word after he left the shower. Just got dressed and threw on his coat. A minute later, he was gone.

Was he right? Was I a prisoner of my own making?

Looking back, I had a long list of accomplishments. High school homecoming queen, captain of the varsity cheerleading squad, National Honor Society member, Sarah Lawrence magna cum laude graduate, successful realtor, and fiancé of a celebrated attorney.

I’d achieved all this in spite of child abuse, my father’s sudden death, as well as my mother’s murder and sleazy legacy. Yet lurking beneath all the dazzling achievements and ‘atta girl’s’ was a fear so stark and terrifying, I’d buried it as deep as I could—until Trace dug it out.

He’d spoken a hard truth. I had become my own jailer, and it was up to me to free myself. Nobody else could. All my accolades and certificates couldn’t hide the fact that I was just as flawed as everyone else…even my own mother, which meant I had a right—no, a responsibility—to make my own mistakes and not be ashamed of them.

Because I was only human.

When I rolled into the plaza, ten minutes later, I immediately saw Darien’s Mercedes. Spotting me, he climbed out, stood in front of the office, and waited.

One part of me wanted to berate him for the months he’d been lying, while the other refused to point fingers. I’d given Trace my virginity last night; had a few close calls with him even before that.

Saying Darien cheated first sounded juvenile, even to my own ears.

I cut the engine, filled my lungs, and threw the door open.

May as well get this over with now.

Darien lurked on the sidewalk, his hands shoved in the pockets of a blue trench coat. Even with a tan, he somehow seemed pale. His face looked weighted down, and his perfectly clipped chestnut hair was as windblown as the rest of him.

“Shannon….”

I sailed by, head bent, fingers sifting through my keys. “Make it quick. I’m just here for my day planner and Rolodex.”

“You weren’t home. I’ve been calling your cell all night.”

“It’s broken,” I said, my breath fogging from the cold.

“Can you at least tell me where you’ve been?”

I rammed the key into the lock. “You honestly don’t expect me to answer that, do you?”

He dragged a hand down his face. “I was worried sick.”

“As you can see, I’m fine.”

He followed when I nudged the door open. I flipped the light switch and headed straight for my office. Once there, I eased into a chair—mindful of the tenderness between my legs—and gathered my things with ruthless precision. I kept my eyes down, anywhere but on him.

Darien snagged a seat on the opposite side of my desk. “Honey, please. I need to talk to you.”

I stilled, heaved a sigh. “What is it?”

“You can’t know how sorry I am.”

Oh, I did, and strangely enough, I pitied him. The man looked miserable. Lines in his forehead, the ones I’d once thought gave him character, sliced dramatic paths across his tanned face. Shadows underscored his weary eyes.

I was hesitant, but spoke my mind anyway. “I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach yesterday. Before I left the hospital, I had to touch a tree and feel its bark…to be sure it was real…that I was real. How long have you and—”

“She’s irrelevant,” he supplied with a hint of desperation.

“Irrelevant,” I repeated, my eyes never leaving his. The male capacity for sex without love both puzzled and exasperated me. “I doubt Kate shares your lack of enthusiasm.”

His face looked tight with strain. “She was the tabloid source. I confronted her as soon as I knew.”

Swinging. Sadomasochism. The inherent malice behind the lies made sense now.

“She’s in love with you.”

“Yes,” he admitted with a solemn nod. “I didn’t want a lawsuit, so I paid her off. She’s left the firm.”

If anything, I felt sorry for Kate Sims. But one question nagged at me. “It’s obvious your…secret relationship has been going on for a while. Even before us, probably. So why did you ask me to marry you?”

“Love.” He said the word as if I should have known better. “Yes, I was seeing her before you, but it was just sex. Nothing else.”

“Well, I accepted your proposal because…you reminded me of my father.”

His head jutted back. “What?”

“I know it makes no sense, but there you have it. You’re not in love with me. You’re in love with an idea. Truth is, we used each other, Darien. I wanted something you couldn’t give—your undivided attention. I knew this, but I did it anyway, hoping this time things would be different.”

“Different how?”

I sniffed, looked away. “Hoping this time the busy, distracted, and successful older guy would pay attention me. And you….” I sighed. “You wanted a trophy wife—someone from a good family, someone naïve and malleable. But Kate wasn’t that someone.” I served him a frank look. “And neither am I.”

Darien threw up his hands. “I don’t know what you’re going on about, but here’s my truth. I was wrong to put my career first. Just let me make it up to you. I swear I’ll do better.”

I propped my forearms on the desk. “It’s not just that. I’m tired of watching my back. I can’t guarantee that I won’t screw up in the future. And when they hear about us, trust me, it’ll be my fault, regardless. I’m Lilith Bradford’s daughter.”