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and I see the way she looks at him, as if the world is suddenly caving in around her.
    I’d braced for her to lash back at me. Instead, she looks soft and a little lost.
    And when she drops to the couch and presses her face into her hands, I know that I have stepped into Neverland.
    “Damien?”
    I steady myself, then turn in his arms so that I can see him.
He
does not look soft. On the contrary, he is angry and tight. He is an explosion waiting to happen, and in that moment I know that the only reason he’s managing to hold it together is because Carmela is in the room with us.
    His fingers are tight around my upper arm, almost to the point of hurting. I don’t object, though. I understand that this is his way of keeping me close. Of protecting me from whatever is happening—because whatever’s going on is bigger than one emailed photograph sent to Damien Stark’s new wife by his crazy childhood friend.
    “Damien,” I repeat. “What’s happened?”
    He doesn’t answer. Instead, he lets go of my arm and then says very slowly and carefully, “Why did you come here?”
    At the question, Carmela looks up at me. Her eyes are red, but the softness is fading, and as she awaits my answer, I can see her hard edges clicking back into place.
    “I got an email,” I say. I pull out my phone and hand it to him. As I was planning to do that all along, the email is already open on my screen. The note—
Mine
—and that horrible, sensual, brutally raw image.
    “I opened the email thinking it was from you,” I say.
    “Son of a bitch.”
He smacks his hand hard against the wall, and I’m grateful it’s not the one holding my phone.
    “You saw the domain name?” I ask. “When I saw Carmela, I thought she’d teamed up with Sofia.” I no longer think that. Because it’s very clear to me that Carmela isn’t calling the shots here any more than I am.
    “She didn’t,” Damien says. “And this email didn’t come from Sofia.”
    “You’re sure?” Since I know WiseApps was a domain that she set up, I thought my assumption was pretty damn reasonable.
    “She doesn’t own it anymore. Transferred it while we were on the island,” he says, referring to the island getaway he took me to for the last leg of our honeymoon.
    “Because of you.”
    “Because of me,” he confirms, and I wonder how many lawyers he’d sent swooping down on her after the fiasco in Paris and my mini-meltdown at the thought of being sued.
    “She could have transferred it to someone who’s pulling this shit for her,” I say.
    “I don’t disagree. But she’s been in tight lockdown since we left Paris. I called to confirm. Just hung up before you got here, actually.”
    I nod, taking it all in. “And the reason you called to confirm that was because you got an email, too, didn’t you?” I feel like my brain is mush, but I’m slowly catching up.
    Carmela has been silent through our conversation, but now she passes me her phone. It’s open to an email showing the same image, but her message is different.
$200,000 by 10 p.m. PST on Feb. 13 or it goes public at dawn on Valentine’s Day. And all the others, too. Wiring instructions to follow.
Like my email, this was supposedly sent from Damien.
    “I got the same email,” Damien says. “It came from you. Nikki Fairchild Stark.”
    “Fuck,” I say, then drag my fingers through my hair. “What does he mean by ‘the others’?”
    “More pictures, presumably,” Damien says, and his tone is so calm and so even that I know he is very close to losing it.
    “Our blackmailer did not send them.” Carmela finally speaks, her accent almost musical despite the horrific circumstances. “But I imagine they are …”
    “More graphic.” My hand reaches for Damien’s. “Yeah. I get that.” I glance between the two of them. “So what now?”
    “Now, I go.” Carmela eyes Damien. “You will let me know what you decide?”
    “I will.”
    With a nod, Carmela moves to a table by the window