Page 36 of The Tower

Then I sit on the polished bench and soak up the damp heat as I take stock of my situation. I’m in Liam Grimm’s apartment. And I’ve agreed to help him destroy my father in exchange for a price I’m not sure I fully understand.

A price I’m both desperately nervous about and shamefully eager to pay.

His.

I’m to be his from here on out. And he’s entitled to everything.

And while last night gives me some clue as to what to expect, I’m well-aware that I didn’t see the real man yesterday. Or, at least, not all of him. Not the man who holds in so much anger. Who is fueled by the hatred of his father, which is something I understand all too well.

Liam Grimm is a broken man. I know, because I’m broken, too.

What I fear now is that he’ll break me more when I’m forced to pay his price.

Once I’m out of the shower, I stare at my reflection, noting how different I look without the layers of make-up my father insists upon. Younger. Rawer. Maybe even stronger.

When I go back into the bedroom, I slip on the leggings and oversized shirt, relishing the way it smells faintly of laundry detergent and something else I can’t quite identify. Something him. Then I tie my hair back in a simple ponytail that falls just past my waist.

With nothing left to keep me in the bedroom, I take a deep breath and open the door.

The apartment beyond is flooded with morning light from those damn floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond them, a dizzying view of Manhattan stretches out in all directions. Instinctively, I step back, panic rising. But then I force myself forward, determined not to be ruled by the fear my father so carefully cultivated.

I walk slowly, careful to make sure one foot is flat on the ground before lifting the other. Intellectually, I know that’s absurd. But I can’t evade the fear that I’ll be sucked into the void if some part of me isn’t fully grounded.

Grimm stands in the kitchen area, his back to me as he prepares something at the counter. He’s traded last night’s formal wear for a simple button-down and dark slacks, the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms. Even in this casual moment, power radiates from him—controlled, but unmistakable.

I clear my throat, and he turns. For a moment, his expression is unguarded, and I glimpse something that looks almost like relief. Then his mask slides back into place, all cool assessment and calculation.

“You’re awake,” he says, his voice neutral. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve made a deal with the devil.”

A hint of amusement flickers in his eyes. “Not the first time I’ve been called that.”

“No surprise there.” I move further into the room, drawn despite myself, then take a seat at the counter. “About last⁠—”

“Coffee first,” he interrupts, sliding a mug toward me. “You look like you need it.”

He’s not wrong. I take the first sip, then sigh. Heaven.

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” he adds, with a nod toward the living area behind me.

I swivel the stool, and only then do I notice the woman seated in the far corner of the room, petite and poised in a simple black pantsuit. She rises, then strides toward us as I stand.

“Sasha Reed, this is Dr. Margaret Chen.”

“Doctor?” I take a step back, wary. Another physician to diagnose me, to prescribe medications, to tell me how fragile I am?

“Dr. Chen is a biochemist and an MD who specializes in neuropsychopharmacology,” Grimm says, as if he’d heard my unspoken fear.

“Neuropsychopharmacology.” I say the word slowly, enunciating each syllable. “So that means your focus is on brains and drugs?”

“Something like that.” Her soft voice sings with both comfort and competence.

“She’s here to help us understand—and prove—what your father’s been doing to you.”

A chill runs through me as I remember what I learned last night. All the things my father did to make me scared and fragile.

To make me need him.