I can’t stop crying.

“Tori,” he says, and I can tell he’s running out of patience. “Tori, listen to me. You’re supposed to be an actress. How can you expect to have any kind of career if you can’t control your emotions?”

I try to tell him I don’t care about acting anymore. I just want to go home.

But I know he won’t let me. He gets frustrated and turns away, muttering angrily to himself.

I gaze at the line of razor-thin light high in the corner of the room. I don’t remember how I got here — he drugged me, after we met at the abandoned building he’d claimed was his office. But now I know the room as well as my own bedroom. I’ve been here for days, with nothing to do but sit and look around … and cry.

I should stop crying. Not because it makes me a bad actress, but because it makes him mad. Still, he can’t hate me that much, can he? He gave me a present — a necklace. It’s gold, with a little half-moon charm hanging down from it —