But at least her choice of soul seemed to have been the right one. She’d been nurturing the head of XOps for the last two years and by now, she all but owned him—so when Nigel and she had conferred over the next individual in play, she’d picked Martin O’Shay Thomas, aka Matthias.

Next round was back to Nigel’s choice, and undoubtedly he’d pick someone much more difficult for her.

Matthias . . . oh, dearest, corrupt Matthias. One last immoral act and he was hers for eternity—as well as her first win.

All he had to do was take the life of Isaac Rothe and ding-ding-ding! she could do a victory lap on Jim Heron’s ass.

Although . . . given what Heron had done to her, she feared he was not just a quarterback in this game, but an entity of another sort. And that was another reason she hadn’t stuck around in Beacon Hill. The exchange between her and him down below had drained her, and she wasn’t strong enough to face a full-on confrontation with the male so soon.

Especially given that underestimating her nemesis’s powers was clearly a mistake.

Wrapping herself up, she looked at the marble counter that ran around the sinks. Part of her therapist’s assignment from two weeks before had been to clean out her makeup collection, and she’d complied, throwing away countless Chanel compacts and lipsticks and eye shadows.

Now, as she stared at the emptiness of the space, she panicked at the lack of possessions. One Gucci bag of stuff was all she had. That was it.

With fumbling hands, she grabbed the little tote and tipped it over, black tubes and squares and pots going all over the place. Breathing through her mouth, she set about ordering the dozen or so containers, arranging them by size and shape, not utility.

It wasn’t enough. She needed more—

In the dim reaches of her mind, Devina knew she was spiraling, but she couldn’t help it. The realization that Jim was far more formidable than she’d thought . . . and that she was in far greater danger of losing than she’d believed . . . rendered her a slave to her inner weakness.

Her therapist maintained that buying more shit or taking more trinkets or ordering and reordering the placement of objects wasn’t going to solve anything. But it sure made her feel better in the short run . . .

In the end, she had to all but drag herself out of the bathroom. Time was wasting and she had to make sure that all the little dominoes she’d arranged fell in the right and proper order.

To soothe her OCD, she repeated what her therapist had told her three days ago: It’s not about the things. It’s about your place in this world. It’s the space you declare as yours emotionally and spiritually.

Whatever. She had work to do.