Page 105 of The Dollhouse

Nowhere. I wouldn’t be anywhere without her. I needed her.

The Dolores family had hired a valet, someone to park the cars of the incoming attendants. I assumed this was normal for any type of event in Hillcrest or Midpark. Once we got out of my car and handed the valet the keys, I offered Zoey my arm, which she graciously took.

I eyed her up. “You do look ravishing tonight, Zoey.” I bent my head toward her and whispered, “You looked even better when Carter had you bent over the sink.” I knew my words would cause her stomach to burn and her thighs to squeeze together, and the expression that crossed Zoey’s face after I told her that was delicious.

She shook it off, gave me a playful slap on the chest with the hand that was not hooked around my arm. “Shh. Roman, behave.” Her reaction caused a smirk to grow on my face, and as we strolled inside the estate, I couldn’t help but feel like I had the entire world on my arm.

Zoey Marbella was the only girl that mattered here. No amount of money, no amount of jewels or expensive clothes would change that. She was on a pedestal, high above everyone else here—even me.

The house was full, which I could’ve assumed since the estate was full of cars as we rolled up. Waiters and waitresses weaved through the crowds in every room, holding onto trays with various drinks or finger foods. They wore all black, save for their gloves, which were a pristine white. Every single person who wasn’t of the help wore their best: dresses and suits that probably cost well into the thousands. Diamonds and jewels lined most of the women’s necks, while thick watches and golden cufflinks sat on the men.

They were all very boring to look at, really. Though their clothes might change, each and every one of these people was the same. I knew enough to know you couldn’t trust any of them. Money tended to corrupt; just look at me. Although, I might argue, I killed far before I ever started making a name for myself with the Lucianos.

These people? They might not be murderers, but they all had their own secrets, dark skeletons they would do anything to see kept in their closets. None of them were sparkling or innocent, and if they claimed they were, they were nothing but liars.

We made a lap around a room full of statues that honestly looked like they belonged in a museum and not in someone’s house. We stopped in the corner, and I asked Zoey as I surveyed the room, “Have you seen them yet?”

No one else in the place seemed to have unnaturally-colored hair, so eyes flicked to us more often than not. I could tell everyone whispered about us, but no one dared to approach us, whether that was due to Zoey’s hair color choice or my glower remained to be seen. They all probably wondered who the girl with pink hair was, if they should know who she was, if she had a big name.

She did. The Marbellas were an apparently social family who went to any event or party or fundraiser they could. Keeping up appearances to people like them was one of the most important things in their lives. I know, how sad and pathetic.

“Not yet,” Zoey said. “They might be outside. They always loved admiring the gardens and saying theirs was better.” She angled her head up at me. “We could check out there, I suppose, or wait until they show their faces here. I don’t care either way. One way or another we’ll see them.”

Since she was in no rush to find them, I commented on her hair, “I think your choice of hair color has automatically made you the talk of the night, rather than the new art here.” Let’s be honest, anyway: no one was here to admire new acquisitions the Dolores family had made. They were here to gossip, to spy on their neighbors and community.

She laughed softly, reaching up and touching the tips of her hair. She’d put on her white gloves, and the fabric on her arms made them seem more petite, more slender and feminine. Minus the hair, she looked like she belonged here. Who knew Zoey could wear a mask just as easily as the next person?

I’d known there was something inside her the moment we met, a darkness waiting to emerge, a coldness. I didn’t know at the time it was due to her family and the wrongs they’d committed, but now I understood. The resentment she held toward them would only fade when she put them behind her, and in order to do that, she had to fuck shit up for them and leave them with a mess that they might never clean up.

“Yeah, I figured that would happen.” Zoey surveyed the room, and as she did so, all the eyes on her quickly looked away as the people here pretended to gossip about something else. “My parents will hear there’s someone here with pink hair, and they’ll get curious and want to see for themselves. They’ll come to me.” She grinned at me, adding, “You should get us drinks.”

With a smile like that, I would give her anything she asked for. Drinks, food aplenty, her parents’ heads on a platter—the last of which she’d already passed on, because death would be too good for them or some other poetic shit. I, myself, believed death was the be-all, end-all of everything; I’d never understand why we couldn’t just end it all and move on, but I supposed that was because Zoey was bred to become one of these people.

I left her side, searching for one of the waiters or waitresses with the trays of champagne, but what would you know, it was like they’d all decided, simultaneously, to go to other rooms in the house. Champagne wasn’t even a favorite drink of mine; I much preferred harder stuff like whiskey or vodka, but I could choke it down tonight, for Zoey.

It took me far too long to find a waiter and grab two of the sparkling glasses off his tray, and by the time I returned to the room where I’d left Zoey, I found she had gathered a small group of people around her. I did not rush to her side, walking up slowly, eavesdropping on what they were saying.

Two women, along with the two men they’d come here with. All four of them seemed as conceited as a group of people could be. The women, unsurprisingly, were the chatty ones.

“You do seem rather familiar,” the woman on the right spoke, her head tilted just a bit as she studied Zoey. “Are you sure we’ve never met before? I could swear we have—the, uh, lovely choice of shade for your hair is throwing me off. How long has it been pink, dear?”

“She’s right,” the other woman said, stepping forward and circling Zoey like a vulture. “You are familiar, somehow. What’s your last name, dear?” The two women wanted to know who Zoey was, whose family she’d come from, so they could add to the gossip mill of the night.

Zoey was not nervous in the face of these women and their questions, and she met them with smiles, even the one who’d circled her. “I don’t think we’ve met before, no. Maybe you’re thinking of someone else.” Her eyes spotted me, and she extended an arm, causing the crowd around her to part. “There you are.”

I walked through the curious crowd, handing Zoey a drink, which she took from me with another smile. With her other hand, she lightly touched my arm, standing beside me. I said, “And who are you?” I tried to sound amiable, but friendliness was not something I had aplenty.

The women’s eyes nearly bugged out of their heads when they saw me. Compared to what must be their husbands, I was much more impressive all around. Taller, wider, and I wore my suit a hell of a lot better than either sap beside them.

It was the man on the left who spoke, his eyes beady as they studied me, “I’m Nicholas Holt, and this is my wife, Gabrielle. This—” He talked about the other couple nearby. “—is Rupert and Olivia Reinbrant.” He offered me his hand. “To whom do we make a new acquaintance tonight?” Though he smiled at me, I could tell he felt threatened by my mere presence. Most weaker men did.

“Roman,” I said, not offering my last name. He’d look into me, I knew he would. Best not give any of these people a way to do that. I didn’t want any of them following us back once we were done here. I’d already taken care of Zoey’s ex and the private investigator who’d tracked her down; if I had to, I would gladly end more of these pathetic lives.

“Roman,” one of the women echoed, causing her husband to narrow his stare at her, “I don’t believe I know a Roman.” She turned her attention back to Zoey, though she kept tossing me glances, like she couldn’t keep her eyes off me. “Though you, on the other hand, are still strikingly familiar. Have you been to the Dolores’ other parties, perhaps without the pink hair?”

Zoey laughed. “I have not, actually. This is my first. Say, you don’t know Alexander and Joyce, do you? I was hoping to see them here tonight.” She took a small sip from her drink, her lips painted in a nude color. Her eyes flicked toward me, and I could tell she was testing the waters.

“I do think I saw them out back,” the other woman muttered, her eyebrows creasing. I didn’t know if she was in the process of putting it together or not, but in the end, it didn’t matter, because Zoey excused herself, grabbed my arm, and pulled me along. We left the wondering crowd in the dust, leaving the room they were in.

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