"Miss, I just want to let you know that your call is being recorded as evidence," the officer says. "Now, can you please describe the incident to me?"

"I'm not sure what time it happened," Gabrielle says. "Actually, I don't even know what time it is now. I-I think I'm in the private clubhouse above The Palm House restaurant."

The officer sighs into the other end of the phone. Gabrielle tries to control her breathing, but her entire body is shaking. She looks nervously at Jackson, but he's still sound asleep. She presses the phone even more firmly against her ear.

"Can you tell me the name of the person who did this to you?" the officer asks.

"I-I don't know that either," Gabrielle said, fighting back tears.

"Well, what about your name?" the officer asks.

"Gabrielle Peters," she says.

"Are you sure?" the officer asks rudely.

Gabrielle closes her eyes and tries to remember what happened, but she has no idea how she got to this room. The last thing she remembers is Jackson pouring her a glass of wine. Did he drug me? She wonders. Why didn't I notice? Why can't I remember?

"I don't remember anything about the event," she whispered into the phone.

"Miss Peters, have you been drinking?" the officer asks. "If you have, you're going to need more evidence than normal to prove that this was a rape."

"I can provide evidence," Gabrielle says. "The man is still here next to me. Can you send some officers here to look at the scene? Quickly? I don't know how much longer he'll stay asleep."

The officer is silent for a long time. She can hear his heavy breathing on the other end of the line. Before she can ask him if the officers are on the way, she feels a painful pressure on her wrist. She drops the phone, and it falls onto a fluffy white pillow.

Jackson twists her arm and presses his body against hers, forcing her onto the mattress. She screams, but he covers her mouth. She licks his palm and tries to bite his fingers, but he forces her jaw shut. He's still wrapped in a sheet, and the thin fabric keeps his bare skin from touching hers, but she can feel every part of his body against hers.

He presses his lips into the soft skin under her ear. The heat of his breath makes her skin crawl. The harder she struggles, the harder he presses himself against her. Finally, she goes limp, and she closes her eyes. She wonders if he's going to kill her.

"Evidence is helpful, but do you know what's better?" Jackson asks. His lips curl into a cruel smile. "It's better if they walk in on the crime."

"It's no joke," Gabrielle says. "The police are on their way, and I swear to God, I'm going to take you down. For rape, for theft, for fraud, for everything my lawyers and I can think of."

"I understand the situation perfectly," Jackson says. "In fact, I understand it much better than you."

"Get off me, and I'll ask them to reduce your sentence," Gabrielle says.

"I'm not interested in your mercy," Jackson says, curling his lip.

"You should be," Gabrielle says. "It's all you've got left."

"I doubt that," Jackson says. He looks down at Gabrielle's bare chest and smirks. "Sorry about your boobs; they look terrible. So small, too."

"Just let me go, you bastard," Gabrielle says. She wants the words to sound strong and confident, and she hates that they sound like a plea instead.

Jackson eases off of her and gets out of the bed. He walks across the room, collecting his clothes. His wine-stained shirt is crumpled on a chair, his pants are on the floor, and his underwear is under the bed. He looks up at the chandelier and laughs—Gabrielle's pink bra is dangling from a crystal.

"I've paid for your services," Jackson says. He reaches into his pants pockets and pulls out two credit cards. He tosses them at her. "Really, you should think of this as payment for the accident. Because what happened was an accident, you know."

The door flew open, and two uniformed policemen rushed in with their guns raised. One man points his pistol at Jackson and the other points at Gabrielle. Gabrielle freezes, but Jackson remains calm. He wraps a sheet around his waist and lifts his hands in the air.

"We got a call that someone was raped," an officer says. "We tracked the location, and it led us here. Did one of you make that call?"

"I did," Gabrielle says, slowly raising her hand.

"What's that in your hand?" the officer asked suspiciously.

Gabrielle looks at her hand and realizes she's still holding one of the cards Jackson tossed at her.

"Oh, um, he gave this to me," she said.

"As payment?" the officer asks. "Are you a prostitute?"

"What? No! No, no, no," Gabrielle says, feeling her face darken. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Jackson shaking with silent laughter.

A burning smell fills the Howel kitchen. A servant stands next to the open windows and waves a dishtowel through the smoky air. Evan pours half a bottle of oil into a pan on the sofa. The oil sizzles and pops, splattering the entire stovetop.

"Why did you add so much oil?" Avery asks Evan. "It'll make it too greasy."

Evan scowls at her and grabs a large knife from the block on the counter. The sharp blade glints in the bright kitchen light. He slams it into the red streak on the wooden cutting board. The meat is tender, but Evan struggles to cut it—he's using the wrong knife. He raises the blade in the air and smashes it down onto the steak.

"You're cutting that beef like you hated the cow," Avery teases.

Evan ignores her and grabs a jar of sea salt. He begins to pour it into a pot of boiling water on the stove, and Avery tries to snatch it from him. Her fingers brush the glass jar, and Evan jerks his arm away. The jar tilts, and all of the salt spills into the water.

"Evan, you may have many talents, but I don't think cooking is one of them," Avery says. "Why don't you let me do this before dinner is completely ruined?"

Evan glares at the dishes. Then he sweeps everything—including the burnt pans—into the trash can. A servant runs over and hands him a fresh pan. Avery wants to roll her eyes.

"This is really wasteful," Avery says. "Just let me do it."

"I told you I'd cook us dinner, and I'm going to do it," Evan says with a sour expression. "If you want to stay in the kitchen and watch, that's fine, but keep your opinions to yourself."

Avery pretends to zip her lips shut. She hops up on one of the counters and dangles her legs. Evan grabs a cookbook and opens it to a noodle dish. He squints in concentration as he reads the instructions. Then he lifts a knife and begins to chop vegetables. The pieces are a little uneven and weirdly shaped, but it's not bad for a beginner.

He continues to prepare the meal, stopping awkwardly every few minutes to check the instructions. Avery presses her hand over her mouth to silence her laughter when he gets confused by the garlic press. Eventually, the kitchen fills with savory smelling steam.

"Okay, it's finished," Evan says.

He scoops Avery off the counter and carries her to the dining room. Robert follows, carrying the noodles on a tray. He looks worried—as if the noodles are too precious to drop. Evan takes a plate and serves Avery some noodles, making sure to give her lots of vegetables.

"How is it?" Evan asks.

Avery twirls some noodles on her fork and stabs a vegetable. Nervously she takes a bite. The vegetables are flavorful and crisp, and the noodles are cooked well. The sauce is smooth but not at all greasy.

"It's pretty good," Avery says.

Evan slides into the chair next to hers and serves himself some noodles. They eat in comfortable silence. Avery slurps one of her noodles, and some sauce splashes on her lip. Before she can wipe it with a napkin, Evan leans in and licks the sauce away.

"Do you want to go for a walk after dinner?" he asks.

Avery shakes her head. She's full and tired, and all she wants to do is lie on the sofa. Evan walks with her to the study, and she lies down on the sofa. She thinks about all the strange things that have happened and suddenly remembers the recording pen.

"Please don't forget to take the pen to Nanny," Avery reminds Robert.

She rubs her stomach and closes her eyes, humming happily to herself. She can't believe that the baby is really in there. In the expectant parent class, the doctor said that the baby is about the size of a raspberry.

"Do you like the dinner your daddy made for you, little one?" she asks her stomach.

She looks around the room, and her eyes fall on a stack of books on the coffee table. She reaches for one curiously, but Robert grabs them away.

"I'm sorry, but these books belong to Mr. Howel," Robert says.

Before Avery can complain, Robert rushes out into the hall with the stack of books. Avery wonders why he's so nervous—they're just books, aren't they? She gets up and pulls the envelope from Sophie out of her purse. She pulls the papers out and flips through them.

Most of the papers are sketches and jewelry designs, and most of them are only half-finished. Almost every single design shows a wedding ring. Some of the details vary, but the design is mostly the same. Though her mother made the drawings over ten years ago, the rings are timelessly elegant and beautiful.

Avery traces a finger over the hand-drawn lines on one ring. She looks at the metal band and squints. Something seems to be written on the ring, but she can't tell what it is. She rings the bell and asks Robert to bring a magnifying glass. When he arrives, she holds it up to the drawing and gasps. It's a name: Howel.