I think, in this strange world of beautiful things, there may be some humanity after all.

Before I can process what’s happening, Deirdre has opened her hands and Linden has taken the ring from her and slipped it onto my finger. “Rhine Ashby,” he says. “My wife.

She’s a commodity in a sea of broken girls.

The months fall to shards at my feet.

She would do anything, anything to belong to his son after a lifetime of belonging to no one at all.

When I am writing anything in general, I just want to tell the story that exists in my head; I don't try to write a parable or make a point.

I don't know if it was love or an illusion. I don't know if there's ever a way to be certain.