For 100 Reasons (100 3)

I try to ignore the shudder that rakes me at the thought of being the focus of so much curiosity. I spent most of my life hiding from my past and the monsters who inhabited it, so I can’t imagine a time when I’ll ever be comfortable standing in the spotlight. Thankfully, none of these people here tonight can see inside me to the terrified, damaged child I once was or the many ugly secrets I had to keep in order to survive.

Only one person glimpsed deep enough to really see me, and for the past year I’ve been doing my damnedest to forget him. Not that it’s been easy.

For the short handful of months we were together, Dominic Baine had consumed me. He had been my everything—or so I’d foolishly believed. In reality, Nick had been playing me for a fool from the moment I first met him.

No, I remind myself harshly. He had been playing me even longer than that.

From the time he saw one of my paintings hanging in his gallery, Dominion, nearly two years ago now and decided he had to have me. But the joke was on him, wasn’t it?

He didn’t realize I was damaged goods.

He didn’t know about the secrets I had been keeping all my life. The abuse and the shame, the obfuscation.

The blood and the death.

I wish I could take some satisfaction in how I deceived him too. When I think about how I hid my past from him, how I allowed him to risk his own life to protect me when that horrid past eventually came to collect on my debts, all I taste is regret.

I wish I could take it back. I wish I could reset the clock and start over.

That was the reason Nick had taken me to Paris—to reset the clock. Or so he claimed.

With my sins all bared to him and no more secrets to stand in our way, I thought Paris would be a new beginning. And it was. I just had no idea we’d be starting over apart.

I didn’t want to believe it was over, but I couldn’t stay.

Not after what he did, systematically manipulating me, controlling every detail of my life as if I were nothing but a pawn being moved around on his chessboard, until he had me right where he wanted me.

Conquered.

Owned.

His.

Worst of all, Nick played me so masterfully, I fell completely, helplessly—stupidly—in love with him.

When it all fell apart in Paris last summer, I thought the pain would kill me. How it didn’t, I have no idea.

Throwing myself into my work has helped.

Moving out of Manhattan has helped too. The 1940s townhouse I bought in the Forest Hills neighborhood of Queens two months ago could not be more different from the towering glamour of the Park Place building where I spent so much time with Nick.

It’s hard to go anywhere in the city and not think of him, not be bombarded with unwanted memories of all the places we explored together. All of the dark, erotic pleasures we shared.

Ancient history.

I push thoughts of him to the back of my mind as Rachel leads me over to the waiting photographer from the art magazine and the woman who interviewed me earlier tonight. They position me in front of my painting and as the camera clicks away I do my best to look like the confident, coolly unaffected artist they all seem to expect.

“Thank you again for your time, Avery.” The reporter walks over and shakes my hand after the photos are taken. “We’re planning a series of artist spotlights later this year. In addition to featuring your work, we’d like to talk to you more in depth about some of your influences, your early life, things that have shaped your remarkable work. If you’re interested, we’d love to add you to the program.”

“Oh. Um . . .”

“Of course,” Rachel interje

cts. “She’d be happy to participate.”

The two women exchange contact information and make arrangements to talk next week about scheduling for the article.

“That really wasn’t necessary,” I tell Rachel once we’re alone.