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desires as a way of getting my hands on your fortune.
    “You accused me of enlisting my sister to storm Hartwell Castle and deliver the manuscript of Unraveled, the erotic novel I wrote. When, of course, I knew full well that it would excite you immeasurably. And once you had it, I faked a burning desire to get it back from you as an excuse for gaining admittance to Hartwell Castle, to meet you and to steal your heart.
    “After that, you flat-out accused me of pretending to be a submissive in order to get a financial hold over you. Moreover, you accused me of inventing my BDSM relationship with Warren Courtney, my first lover, and of inventing my night at the Carlyle with the Master whose face I never saw and whose real name I never knew. And that my grand plan was to lure you into my ‘spider’s web,’ as you called it.”
    I’m writing so fast, yet so carefully, that initially the words don’t really sink into my brain. And when they do, the horror of what Georgiana is forcing me to convey to Robert strikes me as hard as if Tamara had hit me over the head with her Glock, which I’ll bet she’d love to do.
    “Continue writing, please,” Georgiana says. “ ‘The reality, Robert, is that you were right. Everything you accused me of was the truth. I was faking submission in order to get a financial hold over you. I did make up the story about Warren Courtney, about my night at the Carlyle with the Master. I made it all up. Every single word of it.’ ”
    “But that’s a dreadful lie!” I burst out. “Robert will never believe that I’m not a real submissive. How could he, when I sailed through those five tests of my submission?” The blood throbs so hard in my veins that I’m afraid they’ll burst.
    “By the time he’s read your letter, he will, mark my words,” she says darkly, and then carries on dictating in her queenly voice.
    “Start a new paragraph: ‘But I took you in, Robert. How? Perhaps because, like Georgiana, I was always an actress. Most of all, because the mile-high dollar signs I saw whenever I looked at you made everything—the pain, the punishment—easier to bear.’ ”
    “ ‘The mile-high dollar signs I saw whenever I looked at you’ is exactly the way in which Robert described that greedy man Murray, the owner of Le Château, who introduced him to Pamela—or rather, you—looking at him whenever he went to Le Château!” I say.
    “Most perceptive of you!” she says, with a light laugh.
    “But Robert will know I didn’t write that letter! He’ll know!” I say, exultant.
    “The only thing he’ll know, Miranda, is that you cleverly recalled the exact phrase he used when he described Murray to you. Whereupon you craftily appropriated the identical sentiments for yourself and repeated them in this letter. And, knowing Robert as I do, I can assure you he will take that as yet further evidence of your innate cunning, your perfidy.”
    She’s right. Of course he will. He’ll think that about me and a million worse other things as well.
    “Not much more to go now, so let’s finish and be done with it. Next paragraph: ‘I bore it all, the punishment, the pain and the humiliation, Robert, because I knew that if I did, you would immediately hire me to ghost your autobiography and that I’d make millions from it. More than that, I knew that if you believed that I was the submissive of your dreams, you would trust, love, and marry me, and I would become Lady Miranda Hartwell, with all the fame and fortune that entailed.’ ”
    Robert will never believe a word of this. He can’t.
    “Don’t stop, cupcake, time waits for no woman,” Georgiana says, and if my chain were long enough to reach her face, I’d punch her. But it isn’t, so I clench my right fist, and with my other hand write the words she orders me to.
    “That’s what I planned, Robert, that’s what I intended. But then I became enthralled by you, with everything you are, your godlike body, your handsome