Page 130 of Take Me Away

‘There are photos of you.’ Her voice cracks. ‘Richard had a call from a rag newspaper asking if we had any comments to make.’

The kitchen tilts.

‘What photos?’

But I know. God, I know.

‘Did you know about them, Isla? They’re everywhere. Twitter. Instagram. The Daily Mail ran them an hour ago with the headline ‘Isla Quinn: The Truth Behind the Lies’. Marcus’s team put out a statement saying you were a willing participant in your relationship, that the photos prove it, that you’re lying about⁠—’

I stop hearing the words. There’s a roaring in my ears like the sea.

Those photos.

The ones he took when I was drunk, and possibly something else. Something dark and dirty that I’ve never owned up to, even to myself. The ones he took the night I’ve tried so hard to forget, because in the morning all I could remember were hazy recollections that made fear twist my stomach. My head had been fuzzy, the stale taste of champagne on my tongue, but also another taste, bitter, denser. All I could remember was being unable to stand, and Marcus had been laughing as I’d said no and he’d said Just one more, just for us, you look so beautiful and I’d been too tired, too scared, too fucking broken to fight anymore.

After that everything had been black. Just a dark expanse where memories should have been.

The next morning he’d shown me the photos. The ones where I look … complicit. Willing. Like I wanted it.

Like I was fucking loving it. And he’d said, There you go, Isla, everyone will know you’re mine now.

‘Isla? Isla, are you there?’

‘I’m here.’ My voice sounds far away. Flat.

‘We need to respond. Immediately. Richard is drafting a statement but…’ Piper hauls in the most unprofessional shaky breath I’ve ever heard her take. ‘What the hell do we say? These images, they undermine everything. They show you as willing.’

‘No.’ My voice is a croaked break. ‘No, they don’t. I never was.’

‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me, why didn’t you tell Richard when we brought him on board to save your career? The man who’s supposed to be spinning this story into something positive? Instead you haven’t even spoken to him. Isla Quinn, people can’t help you if you don’t let them in.’

I can’t answer. The wound is too deep, too sore. Lethal in how far the puncture wound goes.

‘Isla. You’ve got to let me help you, but you’ve got to tell me the truth. Your career has crashed because you chose to support Jemima Collins. You publicly agreed to be a witness in support of her case against Marcus Vale. This could ruin her too⁠—’

‘What do they show?’ I cut her off. ‘The photos. What do they show?’

Another silence.

‘Isla—’

‘Tell me.’

‘You’re … you’re topless in most of them. There’s one of you in his bed. One in the shower. One where you’re…’ She trails off. ‘They’re intimate. Very intimate. And you’re smiling in some of them, Isla. You look happy. You look⁠—’

‘Drugged,’ I finish. ‘I look drugged because I was drugged. But no one’s going to see that, are they? They’re going to see what he wants them to see. That I wanted it. That I’m lying.’

‘You were drugged?’ There’s a hollowness to her words.

I let silence lap between us.

‘Fuck, Isla. Why the hell haven’t you told anyone? We can prove⁠—’

‘We can’t prove anything!’ My words are loud. Bullets firing into the peace that I foolishly believed I could have here. I clap a hand over my mouth, glance at the ceiling. Listening for movement upstairs. Kit stirring.

Nothing.

‘Isla.’ Piper’s voice softens. And that makes it worse. Piper is sharp edges and game plans. If she’s softening, it makes this moment real. ‘Come back to London. We’ll handle this together. We’ll⁠—’