“I told you, Zach—my tricks are anything but cheap.” She heard the iciness in her voice and Zach gave her a dark look.

“You lied to me,” he said with cold, quiet anger.

Nora took a deep breath and forced herself to stay calm.

“Zach, I know you’re upset. I know this is a huge shock to you—”

“Are you sick?”

Nora blinked at him.

“Some might say so. I can’t say I disagree.”

Zach tore from the living room and came back seconds later with a pill bottle in his hand.

“These,” he said, shoving her beta-blockers nearly in her face. “My father takes these for his heart trouble that could kill him at any moment. And your M.D. appointments in your date book—are you ill?”

“First of all, you had no right to dig through my medicine cabinet or my date book, but considering I broke into your apartment, we’ll let that slide. And no, I’m perfectly healthy. M.D. just means ‘My Dungeon’ which you’ve seen. And these are the same pills that a lot of performers take for stage fright and performance anxiety. They reduce hand tremors. My work isn’t easy sometimes. They help me get through some of the rougher scenes.”

Zach collapsed into a chair and buried his head in his hands. He sat back and threw the bottle of pills across the room. They hit the wall and clattered to the floor.

“I’ve been quietly terrified for weeks that there was something wrong with you. I thought that was the secret you were keeping from me. I never dreamed you…”

Nora bent down in front of him and reached out to touch his knee. He stood up and brushed past her.

“I can’t believe the first woman I allow near me since Grace…” Zach paused and shook his head in disgust. “I thought you were a writer.”

“I am a writer,” she said, more hurt and angry than she’d been in years. “You know that better than anyone.”

“You have sex—”

“I only fuck the women,” she admitted. “The men I just beat the shit out of.”

“For money,” Zach said.

“No, Zach. Not for money,” she said and stood toe to toe with him. “For a lot of fucking money,” she said, biting down on every word. “You get your paycheck in an envelope. I get mine in a fucking briefcase.”

Nora grabbed the black briefcase off her couch and grabbed a fistful of one hundred dollar bills and tossed them in Zach’s face. They fluttered to the floor like falling angels.

“I had nothing,” she said. “Nothing when I left Søren. I was twenty-eight years old and living with my mother. I could barely eat or sleep or move for months. She finally got so sick of me she kicked me out. I went to Kingsley Edge—”

“Your pimp,” Zach said.

“Kingsley Edge, my friend,” Nora countered. “And he helped me. I’d been a slave and he turned me into a master.”