The next time I saw him, I didn’t bother pretending I still had control.
I stood there, inside the secured therapy room — door locked, cameras rolling — and for once, the weight of the surveillance didn’t comfort me. It felt like another pair of invisible hands around my throat.
Asher Beaumont sat across from me, his shackled wrists resting on the table like they were nothing more than jewelry. He watched me the way predators watched prey that had stopped struggling — with lazy anticipation, knowing it was only a matter of time.
I swallowed hard. My throat burned.
“You win,” I said hoarsely. “Is that what you want to hear?”
His smile was slow. Cruel. “Almost.”
I looked away, shame coiling hot in my gut.
“Look at me, Ava.” His voice was soft but edged with steel. It snapped my head u
