Lies. Truth. Distortions. Facts.
It all twists like smoke from an extinguished candle blown by a breath. Mixes, shifts, shapes contorting.
I’m up, out of the booth, tripping over my feet. I’m outside, and it’s morning now. Sun streams from between the canyon walls of the buildings, casting a broad path of golden light onto the street, onto the sidewalk, washing over me. I walk, trip, stumble, run.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t see. This isn’t a panic attack, this is . . . something worse. My heart is crashing and frantic and I am collapsing. Am I dying? Perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad.
I catch up against a sign pole, the metal cold against my cheek.
I realize I’m crying and chanting, “Isabel . . . Isabel . . . Isabel . . .”
Warm strong hands pull me back against a broad chest. A voice like sunlight murmurs in my ear. “You’re okay. Breathe, baby. Take a deep breath and let it out.”
That’s not what he’s supposed to say. It won’t help. Telling me to breathe won’t make me breathe. He’s not saying the right words.
“I’m Madame X,” I whisper, hoping maybe if I say the words, it’ll work the magic just the same, it’ll force oxygen into my lungs and slow my frantic heartbeat. “I’m Madame X. You’re Caleb Indigo. You saved me from a bad man. I am safe with you. It was just a dream. Just a dream.”
I repeat this several times, and it doesn’t help.
I hear a strangled breath behind me, feel lips brush my earlobe. His arms are crossed over my chest, like iron bands. “God, he’s got you fucking brainwashed.” The sound of Logan’s voice as he says this is feral, rage-infused. Bitter.
“It—it calms me down when I have a panic attack,” I manage.
“Well, let’s try something new, okay? You’re Isabel. You are strong. You are safe. You don’t need anyone.”
I can’t. I can’t say those words. I try, though. I try. “I—I’m . . . Isabel. I am Isabel. I am Isabel.” I shake my head. “I’m not. I’m not Isabel. I’m not. That’s not me anymore. I can’t be her, she died. I died. On the operating table, I died. They brought me back, but I died. My heart stopped for almost a minute. I died. Isabel de la Vega died.”
“Then be someone else.”
“Who?” I cry; it is a sob. “Who else can I be? I am Madame X.”
“Is that who you want to be?”
“I don’t know!” I twist in his arms, press my cheek to his chest. “I don’t know, Logan. No, I don’t want to be Madame X anymore. I want to be someone new, but I don’t know who. I don’t know who, or how to decide.”
“You are strong. You are safe. You don’t need anyone.”
“That isn’t true.”
“Maybe not yet. But it can be.” He touches my chin with a fingertip. “Look at me, honey. Have you ever heard the phrase ‘fake it till you make it’?”
I shake my head. “No, I haven’t.”
“Sometimes it’s all you can do. Pretend you’re okay. Pretend you’re strong. Pretend you don’t need anyone. Fake it. Fake it for yourself, for those around you. When you wake up, when you go to bed, keep faking it. And eventually, one day . . . it’ll be true.”
I have no answer. I’m spared from having to find one by the arrival of the Maybach. The long, low vehicle slides to a stop beside us.
You are on the far side, behind Len, the driver.
The window slides down, and your dark eyes fix on me. “Get in, X. Now.”
“How about you let her decide what she wants, Caleb?” Logan asks, not relinquishing his hold on me.
“This is none of your business,” you say. “And get your hands off her.”
“I will if she tells me to.”
“Would you like to go back to prison, Mr. Ryder?” you ask, your voice far too quiet. “I can arrange that, if you wish.”
Logan tenses. Clearly that threat holds weight.
I feel like a bone being fought over by two dogs. I dislike it intensely. “Stop. Both of you. Just . . . stop.” I turn to you. “How did you find me, Caleb?” I ask.
“You are mine. I will always be able to find you.”
“She’s not yours, asshole,” Logan growls. “She’s hers.”
And then Len is out of the car, tall, wide, eyes soulless and roiling with death. A pistol emerges from beneath Len’s blazer, black and big and frightening. The barrel touches Logan’s head.
“Back away. Now.” Len’s voice is colder than ice, flat, emotionless.
“Fuck you. You won’t shoot me in broad daylight.” His hands tighten on my arms to the point of pain.
“Think again,” Len says. He pulls back the top portion of the pistol, snick-click. “I sure as shit will. I haven’t forgotten, Ryder.”
I remember the penthouse, my bath, Len being bound and gagged at gunpoint. I see murder in Len’s eyes, and I know Logan could die in a split second. Between one breath and the next.
“Let go, Logan,” I whisper. “Don’t do this. I will not see you hurt over me.”
“You have a choice,” he says. His eyes find mine, pleading. “You have a choice. In this, in your name. In your future.”