Page 4 of Dark Promise

As I walk away, I know she’ll remember this moment.

I know I will.

But when I see her again, she won’t recognize me. I won’t be the masked stranger who kissed her.

I will be her enemy.

2

Sabina

New York,NY

“Merry Christmas.”

I place the small red box with the big white satin ribbon on the glossy, dark wood table between me and my best friend, Nadia Taylor. We’re atLumen, a new restaurant in New York’s Meat Packing District. It’s busy and lively, but we’re seated in a quiet booth rather than one of the long, communal tables. We’ve already eaten our appetizer—we shared burrata with basil oil and roasted cherry tomatoes—and our main course—I had the seared scallops and Nadia had the Miso-glazed black cod. We’re currently waiting for dessert. Matcha tiramisu.

Nadia studies me, her brown eyes shifting between my face and the box. “What’s this, Sabina?”

“It’s a little something sparkly,” I say. “I won’t be seeing you again until New Year’s Eve, so…just open it, would you?”

“So impatient,” she teases.

“You know me so well.”

“I do. I really do,” Nadia says as she picks up the box. Her nails are long, painted matte black.

Other than the fact that we’re both short, we’re opposites in looks. My dark hair is straight and sleek to my shoulders, my makeup natural, my clothing choices understated and elegant, neutrals for day wear, jewel tones for evening events. Nadia has long, platinum blond hair that’s parted in the middle and falls in loose waves down her back. She’s wearing smoky, dark eyeshadow, smudgy black eyeliner and, as always, she’s opted for a pinkish-nude shade on her full lips. The luxe/grunge look suits her to perfection. She’s all of five-foot-two, her body slim and athletic, but there’s something about her that screams,Don’t mess with me.

She smiles a little as she slowly unties the ribbon on the box. “I know I’m going to love it, whatever it is. You have utterly flawless taste.”

I grin. “This is true.”

She opens the gift and lets out a very uncharacteristic squeal, one in complete opposition to her edgy-elegance vibe. “It’s the bracelet.”

“Yes,” I agree. “It is a bracelet.”

“No, not just a bracelet.Thebracelet.”

The CartierJuste un Cloubracelet. It’s designed to resemble a bent nail, a perfect balance of luxury and rebellion, and that’s why I love it. Why Nadia loves it. Though, lately, I’ve been feeling like my rebellion’s been locked in a cage.

“It’s just like yours,” she says.

I hold up my wrist to prove her point. “We’re twinsies.”

Almost. Both bracelets glitter with diamonds, but mine is rose gold while hers is white gold, to complement the cool undertones of her porcelain skin.

Her eyes are literally shining with happy tears as she takes it from the box and fastens it onto her wrist. “You know how much I love this thing.”

“Not half as much as I love you, Nads.”

“Ditto, you jerk.” She stands up and grabs me in a tight hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“You’re so very welcome.” I’m beaming as she takes a seat again.

The espressos arrive and I take a sip as she gazes down at her new bracelet with admiration.

I’m glad she’s not questioning the price tag. Nadia paid her own way through college to get her art degree. Her parents didn’t give her a dime. She never let me help, not with cash, anyway. But neither of us ever mentioned the groceries that would appear on her shelves, or the clothes I bought that somehow ended up being the wrong vibe or the wrong color for me once I got them home. I insisted she was doing me a favor by taking them off my hands.

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