Tribute to the Fallen

Felicity pressed her face against the cold glass of the limousine window. The condensation cooled her cheek, but it did nothing to stop the burning in her lungs. She tried to make herself small, to disappear into the black leather upholstery, but there was nowhere to go. The partition was up. The driver couldn't hear a thing. Or maybe he just didn't want to.

Barnett's hand clamped around her ankle. His grip was wet and hot. He yanked her back toward the center of the seat. Her heels scraped uselessly against the floor mats.

"You look beautiful when you struggle," he said. His voice was a low rumble that vibrated through the seat. It made her stomach turn over.

"Please, Barnett." Felicity's voice was barely a whisper. She didn't recognize it. It sounded thin. Broken.

He laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. It was the sound of a man who owned something expensive and liked breaking it. He reached up and grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her jawline. He squeezed until her teeth ground together.

"Don't forget who owns you, Felicity. Remember Article 12 of the Image Rehabilitation Agreement? You signed it. You agreed to do whatever is necessary to restore your market value."

Felicity stared at the dark partition. She focused on a small scratch in the leather. If she looked at him, she would vomit. If she fought him, he would make the call. Her father was sitting in a federal penitentiary in upstate New York. One call from Barnett to his connections on the inside, and her father wouldn't survive the night.

She bit her lip. She bit it until she tasted copper.

Barnett didn't like her silence. He wanted her to beg. He wanted the old Felicity, the one who threw champagne in people's faces, to cry for him. When she didn't make a sound, his face twisted.

He backhanded her.

The sound was loud in the enclosed space. A sharp crack. Felicity's head snapped to the side. Her ear rang. A dull throb started in her cheekbone and radiated down her neck.

She didn't cry. She slowly turned her head back to face him. Her eyes were dry. They felt like sand. She looked at him with nothing. No fear. No anger. Just nothing.

That look was a mistake.

Barnett growled. He reached for the strap of her gown. It was vintage silk, worth more than most people's cars. He tore it like it was paper. The sound of ripping fabric filled the car.