He puts down his drink and struts off, further into the house. For a split second, I hesitate and glance back to the front door.
Get out. Get help. Don’t do what he wants.
But the thought of leaving my son is more than I can bear.
I follow Brad into the hallway. I remember the ins and outs of this place like it was yesterday—sneaking in at night, sneakingout in the morning. A Montauk girl playing hooky with the local playboy billionaire.
He always talked of changing up the decor in the house once he took over. Warming it up a little, making it more personal.
And yet, everything is the same as it was back then: white, rich, impersonal.
So is the room he shows me.
There’s a glass wall separating it from the hallway. A studio, hurriedly converted into a guest room, a single bed shoved
