6

Michael Durst’s courtship, if you could call it that, started the next night.

He picked me up at my Berlin flat in a luxurious town car. The driver opened my door with a flourish and I climbed in beside the wealthiest man I’d ever met. We drove past quaint bistros and cafes with patio seating, portable heaters burning away because it was chilly at night, even in May.

I expected we’d go somewhere posh, but I couldn’t contain my surprise when we headed west to Kurfürstendamm. When I’d stepped out of the flat, I’d felt beautiful in my black sheath dress; it was Anne Klein, simple and elegant, one of the nicest I’d ever owned. Now he wanted to Pretty Woman me because I wasn’t fine enough for wherever we were going?

“Wait here,” he instructed the driver. “We won’t be long.”

He led me into a boutique with an array of beautiful clothes and accessories, shoes embellished with real diamonds. “You look pretty, Marlena, but you should always wear the finest quality, and I will ensure that you do.”

I let him sweep me into the glamour and I relished the fact that he was dressing me in an ivory Dior gown, especially when he added a collar of diamonds, a matching tennis bracelet, and the prettiest Louboutin shoes I’d ever seen, all sheer silver and sparkles. The salesgirls whispered in German as they rang up the purchases, a mixture of awe and envy, and I liked being the girl they wanted to be.

“Should we wrap up her dress?” the tall one asked.

“No need. Donate it.” He handed over a platinum card with casual assurance while I twinged over having my best cocktail dress discarded like it was garbage.

That feeling soon rushed away when we arrived at our destination, a restaurant so exclusive that it took months to get a reservation, and even then, it helped if you knew someone. We strolled past the people trying to bribe their way in, ushered in by an unctuous host in a suit. The place was all amber lighting and polished onyx tabletops, ultramodern decor with a stunning view of the Berlin skyline.

“Getting in here means something,” he said, once we’d taken our seats.

“That you’re rich and powerful?” Probably, I shouldn’t have said that.

My candor made him smile. “Among other things.”

When the waiter came, Mr. Durst ordered for both of us, high-end steak and potatoes, as if I didn’t know how to read. After the food arrived, I watched him to see what silverware he used; a pause he noted, to my chagrin.

“You have a lot to learn,” he said. “If you’re willing, I’d like to teach you. In my hands, you can shine as you’ve never imagined.”

He saw himself as Pygmalion, creating his perfect woman from unshaped clay. The artist didn’t ask his medium how it felt about the form being forced onto it … and why would he? Clay had no thoughts or feelings; it existed to be molded. It would seem strange if I let him do it with full awareness, so I pretended to be oblivious. Durst didn’t want a clever woman, so I had to hide any hints of that.

“Can’t we just date?” I asked, eyes wide.

He laughed quietly. “If you give when you should, yes. I find you delightful, Marlena. Your eyes … your eyes are extraordinary.”

Given his intensity, he must have believed they were. I’d been counting on that, based on pictures of women who’d clung to him for a night or two. I’d get much, much more before I was through.

I said demurely, “Thank you, Michael.”

I took my first bite of the steak. In my whole life, I’d never had anything so good—tender and meaty, but somehow buttery as well. Likewise, the potatoes were the fluffiest, airy and delicate, and I almost cried over how exquisite everything was. He taught me about wine that night, an informative lecture about what types came from which regions, and I drank more than I should have, so I leaned on him when we left the restaurant hours later.

Through dizzy eyes, I caught Durst smiling, eyes bright with some emotion I couldn’t identify. His arm tightened on me as we slid into the town car. “Tonight, I’ll take you home. That won’t always be the case, but … I’ll ensure that the timing is perfect.”

As we drove, I figured out that he meant sex. Maybe it was because he was older, but he talked around things that made him seem … if not repressed, then old-fashioned. I wasn’t drowning in the desire to fuck him anyway, but if I did, I’d be richly rewarded. The diamond tennis bracelet weighed heavy on my wrist.

He saw me safely to my front door like a gentleman. “I have a question for you … and it’s important, as it will dictate what happens between us from this point on.”

“That sounds serious.”

He nodded. “Tell me the truth, Marlena. Have you ever had a boyfriend?”

My stomach lurched. I knew what he was really asking. I could’ve told him about Bobby Ray Hudgens and that asshole boyfriend of my mom’s who made sure I was never innocent like a child should be. Instead I told the technical truth, knowing what he’d make of it. “No. You’re the first.”

“I thought so,” he said, lucent with satisfaction. “I’ll call you soon, princess.”

I’d heard that before, but he meant it. He’d staked a claim on me, one he wouldn’t relinquish readily. I could have shouted in triumph, but I’d been planning this for so long that I could never break character. Not once. Not ever. The way most girls dream of the future in a general sense, I had been making notes about Michael Durst.

One of my roommates, Imani, was home when I stumbled in. Her dark eyes locked onto my new wardrobe and she gave an approving nod. “You finally saw the light. Who is it?”

“Michael Durst.”

Perfect brows shot up. “Be careful. I’ve heard some things, and you’re too green to start swimming in the deep end.”

“What things?”

“I know a girl who dated him, and he’s a real control freak. You wear what he buys, go where he wants to, and God help you if he catches you looking at another man.”

“Is he into kinky sex stuff, too?”

Imani sighed. “You just can’t be told, can you? Fine, have it your way, but don’t come running to me for help later.”

“I won’t,” I said.

She meant well, but she didn’t know. Not about Dee leaving, or the Kentucky hills I’d run from, determined I wouldn’t end up like my mother. No matter what, my story would have a different ending.

One date turned into ten, and then twenty, each more extravagant than the last. Michael convinced me to study European art history. My last night in Berlin, only Imani was around. The other two girls had dates or jobs; I didn’t really keep up.

“Are you sure this is wise?” she asked.

I’d already toured the apartment in Heidelberg, and it was bright, modern, with hardwood floors, stainless steel appliances, and clean white walls. Not large, but it didn’t need to be, and it was close enough for me to bike to campus. I had my admission letter in hand, ready to begin the next phase of my life.

“What, moving? Or college?”

“Relying on Michael Durst.”

I’d planned to attend a public university in Germany, because international students qualified for low-tuition costs, but Michael had argued in favor of the more prestigious Heidelberg University. At first I objected, but when he held my hands, gazed into my eyes, and said, “Marlena, I want to do this for you. Let me,” I yielded.

He was just so happy when I put myself in his hands, you see, trusting in his judgment. I’d have to be an idiot to reject a free, first-rate college education, so I ignored Imani’s cautionary words. “I know what I’m doing. Take care of yourself.”

The movers came the next day and hauled my stuff to the new flat. This was the first time I’d ever lived alone, and it was past time for me to invite Jenny. She’d be so impressed that I was enrolled at such a good school. I wished I was studying languages, but I did like the prospect of earning my bachelor’s degree in six semesters.

In the moving van, I wrote a quick message to Jenny. Here are some pics of my new place. Let me know when you have time off. I want you to visit if you can. Miss you! Before I could finish the message, the phone rang, so I quickly hit send.

“Hi, Michael.”

“Are you on the way?”

“Everything’s wrapped up in Berlin,” I confirmed.

“Good girl.”

That was the first time Michael steered my life the way he wanted, but it wouldn’t be the last. I set a pattern of giving in, and then he’d reward me with some glorious gift; sapphire earrings or a Chanel bag. When I wasn’t stuffing my mind with interesting facts about dead artists, we were jetting to Monaco or St. Tropez, and I let him shape me to his desired form.

Already I’d noticed the change in the way men looked at me. Before, there had been greed and desire, but now it was tempered by caution, like I’d become a treasure too dear for the common man to hope for. Their eyes skated over me, lingered in admiration, and then kept going. I loved that part, and so I wore what Michael bought, studied as he thought I should, and never questioned his decisions.