Page 2 of Twisted Control

“We don’t have to take any pictures,” I say gently. “No one will even know I’m there. I’ll stay out of the frame.”

“Sweetie, you’re being filmed as we speak. Lia’s showing me the livestream right now.” She pauses. “I love that dress on you.”

I glance down the line. At least three phones are pointed at me. I turn away and lower my voice even more.

“I’ve been locked in a hotel room for a week, and then yesterday…” My throat tightens. “It’s been a lot. I just want a drink. I just need to feel normal for a minute. I need my friends⁠—”

“Let’s just wait and see how this all shakes out. Okay? We’ll catch up after.”

The line goes dead.

I tuck my phone into my clutch and swallow hard. I paste on the expression I’ve spent years honing—the one that says everything is fine. My father always told me never to let people see you sweat. Only, that’s getting harder and harder lately.

I force my head high and walk down the street, past the phones and the staring faces. Only when I round the corner and the club is finally out of sight do I let my shoulders drop.

I’ve watched this happen to other people—the sudden freeze-out, the cold shoulder, the way the whole world turns its back. They usually deserve it. They get caught saying something awful or, in my brother’s case, sleeping with the wrong person’s mom.

But what did I do wrong?

I was the one who got blindsided and publicly dumped. And none of it was my fault.

I never even wanted to be on that stupid dating show. But the moment I turned thirty, my dad started acting like I’d expire if I wasn’t married off, and he only approves of men with eight figures and one foot in the grave.

So when a producer called and said Max Carter was looking for a wife—and promised I’d win—I said yes. He was close to my age, wealthy, and every girl in Alton Hills had a crush on one of the Carter brothers. It felt like the perfect solution.

For eight weeks, I played the part. Then, at the proposal ceremony, Max looked me in the eye and said he was in love with the producer—Heidi. They’d been sleeping together the entire time.

I had been nothing but kind to her. I helped her, trusted her, confided in her. And all along, she’d been sleeping with the man who was supposed to propose to me.

So maybe I didn’t take it well.

I close my eyes, but it’s already there. The memory of what I did. It hits all over again. My hands start to shake.

I really need a drink.

I scan the street for anything familiar. This is real downtown Alton Hills. Not the part my friends and I go to when we say “downtown.” I’ve been to a few clubs here, but I’ve always been dropped off right at the door. I’ve never actually walked these streets before.

The buildings are grimy, the streetlights weak and flickering. The longer I walk, the more uneasy I feel. A group of men outside a liquor store watch me pass a little too closely. Further down, a man shouts at a closed metal shutter.

And somehow, this is still less frightening than being at home with my father. Even when he won’t look at me or speak to me.

I spot a flickering neon sign ahead: The Patriot. The ‘R’ is burned out, leaving only “Patiot” glowing in a red buzz.

It looks exactly like the kind of place I’d never set foot in normally.

Which makes it perfect right now.

I swallow my pride and push the door open.

The bar is almost empty. Dim lighting, sticky floors, and a row of colorful bras hanging from the ceiling like cheap trophies. It smells like stale beer and damp wood.

It’s disgusting.

But I walk straight to the bar and slide onto a worn leather stool that creaks under my weight. Once I’m sure no one is staring and no one recognizes me, I wave the bartender over. He’s a grizzled older man with a faded tattoo running down his forearm.

“Three shots of vodka,” I say. “Top shelf…if you have it.”

He lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. A minute later, three shot glasses land in front of me.