“Answer me, Giselle,” I say, softer now, but still refusing to let her go.

“That’s none of your business.”

“The hell it isn’t. Tell me it was that bastard Oliver who did this to you,” I snap, my anger flaring just thinking about those photos.

“H-how do you know that? Who told you? Who told you?!” she yells, pounding her fists against my chest, sobbing so painfully that guilt punches me in the gut. “Did you see those photos of me like that? So helpless?” she cries, still ...