People who say “love is trust” probably didn’t grow up in a cult. My name is Daisy. I chose that name myself. As an RN in the Emergency department in one of New Zealand’s largest hospitals, there wasn’t much left in me of the sixteen-year-old girl, covered from neck to ankle and not allowed to make eye contact with a boy, who’d run away with five dollars in her pocket and terror in her heart. Or maybe there was too much left of that girl, because I was still slow to trust. Slow to share. And a whole lot slow to get intimate. Which doesn’t put men off much, right? Unless the man’s a tough Samoan ex-rugby player with sweetness and strength to spare. One who keeps fronting up to help even when you tell him you don’t need it. And what’s even harder to resist—one who wants to help your sisters, too. I was going to end up sharing. I wasn’t going to be able to help it. But when my walls came down, would he want the person behind them? Also—who WAS the person behind them?