My Body Feels No Pain

"Miss Connolly, Mr. Larsen sent me to take you to the hospital."

My broken fingers were already swelling to an unnatural size.

The news was on the car's television—the same broadcast playing across the giant screens of Times Square. Preston had reportedly poured tens of millions into funding Martha's personal art gallery. On screen, his smile was full of adoration.

"Compared to Martha's happiness, money is nothing."

My heart seized.

I glanced down at the latest message on my phone.

"An annual salary of two million dollars. What do you say? Come work for me?"

Using my uninjured right hand, I slowly typed my reply.

"Okay."

"How's your hand? Does it still hurt?"

His concern was unexpected, and for a fleeting moment, I was touched.

Just as I was about to answer, Preston noticed the splint on my left hand and his shoulders visibly relaxed.

"I almost forgot. You don't feel pain."

"I have a charity gala later. You're coming with me."

I paused, swallowing the words I wanted to say, and gave a calm nod.

Martha, clinging to Preston's arm, sized me up, her eyes dripping with contempt.

"She looks like a thug in a suit. Some bodyguard. I bet she’s just another social climber trying to sleep her way to the top."

Before she could slap me, I caught her wrist. "Miss Astor," I said evenly, "don't assume everyone is like you."

Martha’s face flushed, shocked that I would dare talk back.

"That's enough. She's just staff, Martha. An artist of your caliber shouldn't waste her energy on the help."

Preston wrapped an arm around her waist, his expression indulgent as he soothed her.

It was a cruel reminder of how things used to be. He was going to a gala, and he'd tell Martha he'd be home soon.

Preston was always busy, with urgent meetings that ran late into the night.

In the past, I would groggily tug on his sleeve and ask where he was going.

He would always push me away.

"Briar, that's not for you to ask."

His sharp tone was like a slap, leaving me pale and stung.

I realized then that I would never be the one he answered to.

In contrast, he willingly reported his every move to Martha.

"You'd better come home early. Don't let some little tramp snare you!"

Martha shot me a triumphant look before making a show of straightening Preston's already perfect tie.