Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
My throat is closing. "What guy."
"I don't know his name." Marty's rambling now, words spilling out in a panicked rush. "He wouldn't tell me. He just calls himself—"
He stops.
Swallows.
"The Masked Man."
Everything inside me shrivels.
Dies.
Turns to ash.
The Masked Man.
Caleb.
Of course it's Caleb.
Of course he's still watching. Still manipulating. Still pulling strings like I'm his fucking puppet.
I can't breathe.
Marty is still talking. "He gave me a script. Like, literally word-for-word what to say. The BookTok thing, the throat-fucking thing, all of it. He said you'd respond to it. That you'd get turned on if I said it right. And I—god, I'm such an asshole. I actually practiced in the mirror."
My vision is blurring at the edges.
"He told me to come on strong. Said he knew exactly what would make you wet. Those were his literal words. My god, what the fuck is wrong with me? But I was like, how hard could it be? Ya know?"
Stop talking.
Please stop talking.
"But then, I was sitting here watching you react—watching your face when I said those things—" Marty's voice breaks again. "You actually believed it. You thought I meant it. And that's so fucked up. That's so—"
He stands abruptly.
I don't look up.
Marty pulls out his wallet. Bills hit the table. I count them in my peripheral vision. Five hundred-dollar bills.
"That's his money," Marty says. "The Masked Man's. You can keep the change or whatever. I don't—I can't—"
He's backing away. "I'm sorry. I know that doesn't mean anything but I'm really, really sorry."
And then he's gone.
Walking away.
Leaving me sitting here alone.
The restaurant noise floods back in. Conversations. Silverware clinking. Someone laughing at a nearby table.
I'm still frozen.
Still not breathing right.
Five hundred dollars is sitting in front of me.
The Masked Man's money.
Caleb's money.
He scripted Marty.
He gave him lines about throat-fucking, and control, and demure women who need to be taken care of.
He knew exactly what would make me wet after six months of no contact.
He knew exactly how to break me down.
And I fell for it.
I actually fell for it.
My hands are shaking.
I look down at them spread flat on the table and I don't recognize them as mine.
The pizza sits half-eaten on my plate.
Marty's salad is still there across from me, abandoned.
Five hundred dollars in cash.
You can keep the change.
Like I'm a waitress.
Like I'm something he can tip on his way out.
I don't move.
Can't move.
I just sit here.
Staring at the money.
Feeling the wetness between my thighs start to cool.
Feeling my arousal drain away and leave nothing but hollow shame in its place.
He knew exactly what would make you wet.
And he was right.
Chapter 4
Caleb
It was predictable, this reaction—entirely, completely, boringly predictable.
I didn't choose Marty on accident. Every decision I make is calculated. Weighed and measured against a dozen variables until I know exactly what outcome to expect.
I didn't miscalculate how he would react to his assignment, didn't misjudge his character or overestimate his spine.
He's a twenty-two-year-old Jackson Hole trust-fund brat who spent every single formative year of his privileged little life learning how to roll over and show his belly.
The kind of kid who inherited more money than sense when he turned eighteen and immediately proved he had no idea what to do with either.
What kind of eighteen-year-old buys a pottery business with their trust fund? What kind of kid looks at millions of dollars in liquid assets and thinks, "You know what Idaho Falls needs? Another artisanal ceramics studio."
Marty, that's who. Marty with his expensive fleece vests, and his earnest expressions, and his complete inability to say no to anyone with even a whisper of authority in their voice.
He was absolutely perfect for this assignment.
Immediately after he leaves the pizzeria, my phone starts blowing up with texts.
Srry man
coulnt do it
im out
I'm not even annoyed that he told Scarletta the truth—though I admit I wasn't entirely certain that would be how this played out. There was always the possibility he'd follow through, that his need for my approval would outweigh whatever nascent moral compass he pretends to navigate by.
But no. He cracked. Folded like wet cardboard under the slightest pressure of her direct, unflinching stare.
Now she knows.
Now. She knows.
I'm sitting in my Tahoe across the street from the pizzeria, engine off, windows tinted dark enough that no one walking past would even register my presence. But I'm not watching the street. I'm watching Scarletta on the dash display—a custom setup I had installed last month, three high-definition screens mounted seamlessly into the console, each one capable of cycling through every camera feed I currently have access to in Idaho Falls.
Right now, all three screens are locked on her.
I watch her sit perfectly still for forty-three seconds.
Not frozen—there's a distinction I've learned to recognize through almost a year of surveillance footage. Frozen means the body locks while the mind scrambles. This is different.
She's choosing to remain motionless.
Her chest rises and falls in slow, measured breaths. Her hands rest flat on the table on either side of the abandoned pizza. Her gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance, not tracking Marty's retreating form, not examining the five hundred-dollar bills he left behind like an apology he couldn't voice.