“Not doing it,” he says adamantly, and I sigh in frustration.

“I can force a buyout,” I threaten.

“Go ahead,” he says, calling my bluff. “You know our agreement’s loaded with protective clauses for me. You’ll never get the company, but tell you what…you want out, I’ll buy you out. Programmers like you are a dime a dozen.”

I grit my teeth so violently, I’m afraid the enamel will crack. JT turns his chair back to his desk and proceeds to cut another line. I’ve been dismissed.

“What happened to you, man?” I ask softly, searching for a hint of the good I know is inside of him.

His head snaps up and he blinks those bloodshot eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean what in the fuck happened to you? You were a brilliant businessman, the world was your oyster. Now you’re partying with a terrible crowd, scaring women, and you’re making some piss-poor financial decisions. You’re on a spiral, JT, and you’re bringing everything down with you.”

He stares at me a moment, taking in the hard set to my jaw, the worry in my eyes…the defeat in my shoulders. His own eyes soften, relaxing the fine lines and giving him a more youthful look. Almost like the JT of old.

“Listen,” he says in a conciliatory tone as he stands from his desk. He walks around it, throws an arm over my shoulder. “We’re like brothers. Buds for life and then after. I appreciate your concern, but I’ve got things under control. I swear it.”

Truth and lies.

Yes, we’re like brothers and actually are fraternity brothers. We were friends even before that, having attended the same prep school. Our families are intertwined through money and social status. As far as being buds for life, not sure about that one. It’s a lie he’s got things under control, but I hold my peace. It won’t do any good to argue with him.

No, I think my next conversation needs to be with an attorney to figure out if there’s a way for me to get out of this clusterfuck and cut JT cleanly out of my life. I think it’s time to let him go.

With The Sugar Bowl firmly in my sole possession.

Chapter 3

Sela

I look in the mirror, still shocked with my new appearance.

Six months ago, I ditched every bit of metal in my face and ears except a hole in each lobe that now sports tiny gold hoops. I’m lucky everything closed up nicely with barely perceptible scarring. I cut friendship ties with Mark and the handful of others, making my life more solitary than normal. I joined a gym, spent my precious money on a trainer, and got rid of twenty pounds that were seemingly welded onto my lower stomach, ass, and hips. I spent even more precious money by coloring my golden blond hair a rich, chocolate brown—eyebrows too—and now my blue eyes sizzle like electric orbs. The dusting of freckles across my nose and cheeks also stands out against the dark hair, and I find I like the look. I’m like a slightly younger version of Jennifer Garner but without the bangs.

Innocent and fresh. Two words that should never be used to describe the dark and damaged woman I’ve become.

My last step to transformation included a full wax, because I didn’t want blond pubes giving away my disguise. It was painful but necessary, should I find myself in a position to take my disguise that far.

I am ready.

I wash my hands and look into the bathroom mirror.

“You can do this,” I murmur to myself, remembering a time ten years ago that I stared into a mirror just before slicing open my wrist. “You can totally do this, Sela.”

Infiltrate.

Murder.

Repeat.

It’s a simple plan, really.

I give a quick scan of my makeup and deem it perfect. I had to have someone teach me, because I never wore this crap before. Never cared about my looks or catching a man’s attention.

Until now.

Now I’m getting ready to step out into the ballroom of the Four Seasons hotel and put myself on display. My dark hair falling in lustrous waves over bare shoulders, my skimpy dress and ridiculous heels I spent weeks practicing in, and a sexy attitude I also practiced, all in the hopes of catching Jonathon Townsend’s eye.

Six months ago, I hurled on my living room carpet.

Within minutes of that, I developed a plan for justice.

It’s taken me a long time to get here, but now today is the first day of the rest of my new life. It’s where I’m going to make things right for poor Sela Halstead.

I’m going to make him suffer and then I’m going to end him.

My nefarious plan is quite easy, at least to my way of thinking that admittedly might be colored by an overabundance of rage and an overwhelming need for retribution. After only a few hours of Internet research, I had all I needed to know about my rapist.

Jonathon Townsend, age thirty-two.

Attended Hillcrest Preparatory. Bachelor’s and MBA from Stanford.

Wealthy by birth. Spoiled by circumstance.

Launched The Sugar Bowl three years ago and made millions upon millions.

Playboy. Bachelor. Rapist.

Those are the basics, and I find it hilariously ironic that his own business is going to be my way in to him. My research on The Sugar Bowl was fastidious and there were dozens of articles about it. CNN even did a documentary about the revolutionary and unconventional website platform that hooked up Sugar Daddies with Sugar Babies.

Quite brilliant, actually.

Sugar Daddies are wealthy men, usually in their fifties and sixties, who are looking to regain their youth by dating much younger women. Beautiful women too. Now there are some more youthful Sugar Daddies, but they are few and far between and obviously in high demand. I wondered why the vast majority of Sugar Daddies were old enough to be grandfathers, but according to the CNN film, most wealthy men in their thirties and forties were trying out the family life with cute suburban wives and a passel of kids. It’s usually not until divorce hits and the resulting fat belly sets in that these guys start scrambling to prove their manhood. Statistically speaking, that most often happens in a man’s late forties after the kids are grown and the wife doesn’t give it up anymore.

The Sugar Bowl makes all of this easy for these poor, ignored men by providing a database of willing Sugar Babies.

Sugar Babies are young women, usually between eighteen and twenty-six, although some can be a bit older. CNN says the average age is actually twenty-two, and that’s because most Sugar Babies are joining as a means to get their college tuition paid. At twenty-six, I’m stretching the outer limit of the normal range, but my face is very youthful and I could pass for twenty if I wanted.