Chapter 1

The day I finally beat my anorexia, Dean Barnes handed me a room key.

"Yvonne Harding, you're the rose I spent three years bringing back to life."

"Tonight, I want to truly have you."

I went to meet him full of hope.

I pushed the door open, and a man who had to weigh two hundred and fifty pounds slammed me straight to the floor.

"Quit acting so innocent. Three months of chatting online, and you said the second we met in person we'd go to bed. Remember?"

I fought with everything I had, groped the ashtray off the corner of the table, and smashed it into his shoulder, then scrambled up, tripping over my own feet.

The next second, the door swung open.

Dean's childhood sweetheart stood in the doorway, doubled over laughing.

"Yvonne, honey, I took your photos and catfished this guy for three whole months. Called him big brother, called him my husband, the whole thing. Do you have any idea how hard I worked to land him for you?"

I was shaking all over. I looked past her, at Dean.

He only said, careless as anything:

"Don't look at me like that."

"I just lost a bet. They insisted on seeing whether you'd actually show up."

"Nothing even happened, did it? Yvonne, don't be a sore loser."

And then I finally understood. This love I'd taken for salvation had been filthy from the very first day, too vile to look at.

...

The man dragged himself off the floor, rubbing his shoulder, cursing.

"Catfish! You cheap little liar! Weren't you the one bragging about how thin and pretty you were, how eager you'd be?"

Martha Matthews was laughing so hard she was nearly crying.

"The photos are pretty, of course."

"After all, Dean took every single one."

She unlocked her phone and opened a dating app.

On the screen were photos of my life.

Me cooking in the kitchen.

Me curled up on the couch holding my cat.

And one of me sick, pale-faced, leaning against Dean's chest.

Every one of them, taken by Dean.

He'd said he wanted to document me getting better, little by little.

Except every moment he'd captured, he'd turned around and handed straight to Martha.

I pointed at the phone, shaking.

"So you took my photos, catfished him, and lured me to a hotel?"

"Yep."

Martha admitted it without a flicker of hesitation.

"That was the bet between me and Dean."

She turned to look at him, like she was reporting a job well done.

"I told him, give me three months and I'll reel a man in using your photos, and make you watch him throw himself at you in person."

"Dean, see? Didn't I win?"

The man turned on me, furious and humiliated.

"The chat logs, the photos, they're all right here. You said yourself that once we met I could do whatever I—"

"Shut up!"

It came out of me almost as a scream.

"That wasn't me!"

The man didn't believe a word of it.

"Talking that filthy online and playing innocent in person. You make me sick."

Listening to the vile things pouring out of him, I went cold all over, like I'd fallen into a pit of ice.

I staggered to my feet and reached for my phone.

"I'm calling the police!"

But before my hand even touched it, Dean had already taken it away.

"Stop this. Calm down."

I looked at him, the tears just kept falling.

"I was almost assaulted, and you're telling me to calm down?"

Dean leaned down close to me, his eyes going cold.

"Nothing happened, did it? Do you really have to blow this out of proportion?"

"Or do you actually want everyone to know how cheap you are?"

My breath stopped short.

He stared at my bloodless face and went on:

"The photos are yours. The account is yours. You call the police, and everyone will know what you did."

"Your coworkers. Your friends. Your mother."

"You want them all to know that behind closed doors you're the kind of woman who propositions men?"

I looked at him, and it felt like my heart was being crushed, inch by inch.

He knew exactly how to hurt me.

He knew my mother's health was bad.

He knew that what I feared most was people looking at me with that filthy stare.

So every sentence cut deeper than the last.

Deep enough that I didn't even have the courage left to cry for help.

I bit down hard on my lip and tasted blood.

Martha walked over.

"Come on, Dean's only doing this for your own good."

"If you don't call the police, worst case, everyone treats it as a joke."

"But the moment you do, you become the slut who chases men down, then backs out once they show up."

Every ounce of strength drained out of me.

I was the victim.

And they'd cornered me until I didn't dare cry for help.

The most laughable part was that the man who once held me when I was in the deepest pain, whispering don't be afraid, was now covering my mouth with his own hands, pressing every cry for help back down my throat, bit by bit.

"Yvonne, Martha only chatted with him. She didn't actually hurt you."

"It's already done. Why can't you be a little more gracious about it?"

I laughed, out of nowhere.

"I'm the one whose photos got stolen, who got lured to a hotel, who was almost assaulted!"

Dean's brow furrowed.

"You're too worked up right now."

"I spent three years treating you. Not so you could turn into a lunatic who only knows how to scream."

The word lunatic hit, and the world went black at the edges.

Three years ago, everyone said I was fat, said I was ugly, said I didn't deserve to be loved.

Dean was the only one who stepped up and told me, "You're wonderful."

And now it was still this same man.

Shoving me back into the mud with his own hands, and sneering that I looked ugly while I struggled.

I lifted my hand and slapped Dean hard across the face.

Before he could react, I swung back and struck Martha too.

"You two make me sick."

The words done, I turned and ran out of the hotel.

My stomach heaved without warning.

I braced myself against a trash can on the roadside and threw up, my whole body shaking and shaking.

Everything blurred in front of me.

The next second, I went down hard on the side of the road.