Read Uncovering You 5: Confessions for Free Online Page A

considerate of him,” I mumble.
    “Mr. Stonehart can be a considerate man,” Rose beams proudly. She touches my shoulder. “He just has to have the right people around to bring it out.”

    ***

    Half an hour later, I’m seated in the back of a white limousine, about to leave Stonehart’s property for the first time.
    A nervous excitement fills me as the engine starts up and the car rolls off. I wave goodbye to Rose through the back window, and, when the mansion is out of sight, stick my face to the glass to look at the winding road we’re taking through the trees.
    The gates rise in front of us soon after. They are large and heavy and black. Very, very black.
    Seeing those gates makes my hand twitch up to touch the collar around my neck.
    It’s still there, of course. But I’ve become so accustomed to its presence that I rarely notice it any more. And right now, in some strange yet undeniable way, it feels… almost soothing.
    It lets me know that I am not dreaming. It tells me that I really am about to leave Stonehart’s property, having earned the promised TGBs or not.
    The gate slides open. My breath hitches as we drive through. And then, when nothing happens… I let out a strangled laugh of relief.
    The driver glances at me through the rearview mirror as my laughter becomes near-hysterical. I don’t care. I am off the property. I am actually off the property.
    There was no shock. There was no pain. The collar remained deactivated, true to Stonehart’s word.
    I couldn’t be happier.
    Two days ago, I was trapped in the dark, unsure of whether or not I’d ever see the light of day again. And now, here I am, in the back of a limousine, about to enter the busy California traffic, as close to a free woman as I’ve ever dared hope.
    Half an hour later, we arrive at a private airfield. There’s a small jet waiting nearby. A stewardess takes my bags from the trunk and carries them on board with the driver’s help. I climb the protruding steps to the cabin and look around.
    It’s as luxurious as I imagined. More so. The seats bolted to the floor are a rich, creamy red. A bar made of dark oak is installed near the back. There’s a second stewardess behind the counter. She smiles at me when our eyes meet.
    “Good morning, Miss Ryder,” she announces in a crisp, upbeat voice. “Would you like anything to drink?”
    She knows my name? Then again, of course she would. Stonehart would have ensured that.
    I eye the fancy bottles behind her. My head throbs a little from the wine last night. Besides, I want to be fully sober when I see Stonehart in a few hours.
    “Just water, thank you,” I say, and pick a seat at random to perch on. She brings me my glass and I take it with a grateful smile, but don’t bring it to my lips.
    Being all alone—that is, without Stonehart—in this place feels surreal. More than that, it feels like I’m intruding . I don’t belong in places usually reserved for the rich and famous. I don’t belong in the cabin of a magnificent private jet.
    The stewardess from outside climbs the stairs and seals the door. The plane taxis to the runway, and we’re lifting off a few minutes later.
    I’m not afraid of heights, but I’ve never been a big fan of flying. My body tenses as the elevation changes. I relax only when we’re level high in the air.
    The flight to Portland passes in the blink of an eye. I spend most my time staring out the little circular window. I don’t see anything but white clouds. Yet, something about what they represent—the promise of real, genuine freedom—appeals to the deepest part of me.
    “The wind is in our favor,” one of the attendants tells me. “We’re going to arrive half an hour early.” She smiles, as if it’s the greatest news in the world.
    We land. The touchdown is a little bumpy, but, on the whole, better than lift off. The doors open and I’m hit by a frigid blast of air.
    Now, I’m thankful for the coat Rose stuffed in my hands before I