Page 18 of Deranged Imposter

“I’m aware I’m hot. My body doesn’t regulate temperature—”

She snickers excessively loudly before she remembers to stifle the laughter behind her hand as a consoling act. Her consideration of my pride is atrocious, and I want to punish her for it. But she laughs until small beads of tears line her lashes, cheeks reddening and chest shuddering.

She’s forgiven when exasperation never had the chance to fester.

“I worry about you,” she trails off, fully turning on her side while tangling our legs.

“Why?” I make a blended noise of a displeased warning and a begrudging lecture.

“You’re going to get honey-potted.” Isa cups my cheek and rubs the skin with delighted tears balancing on her lashes.

“I’m already stuck with you.” I float the confession between the moonlight glimpsing past the curtain after escaping the gray clouds.

We have an unspoken understanding. She’s mine, and I’m hers.

Chapter Five

Isabella

I’m an overthinker. It’s a flaw that started when I was young, worrying about a roof over my head while my parents were out working. Then the shortcomings cultivated with years of being compared to children with new clothes, glittery stationery, and weekend hangouts at the mall.

I was more insecure than jealous of snotty girls and crusty boys. I thought I was too puny to catch up to them in a game of tag, too stupid to understand inside jokes, and too poor to be in their social groups.

There were months when I thought I was a stinky brat because the water tank broke for two days.

Now, I still overthink, albeit about other things. Less self-pity and more attentiveness.

I think about the questions on my test, wondering what the results would be if I chose this answer or what would happen if I picked the other one. I think about the dresses displayed behind windows and contemplate if I’ll actually wear them instead of letting them collect dust in the closet.

Mikah is the one I think about the most.

Not in a creepy way, but I would call it admiration with a sprinkle of rapacity. My selfish desire for something I’m not allowed to have and don’t deserve is steadfast in my mind like a flagrant voice parading a carnival.

I like the way his long fingers curl around the blue pen, scribbling neat words onto lined papers and tightening the pen when an idea bothers him. His knuckles are rough from boxing practice, battering the beanbag with enough force to rattle the surrounding air.

His voice is a fusion of crushed velvet and power; it doesn’t stem from volume, but tone. Mikah speaks with kindness, mischievousness, and freedom when he’s with me. It’s my dignity that flings thorns into my heart, budding from self-hatred, but he never makes me feel lesser than him—a wealthy heir with heavenly privileges.

Then his hands will rest on a part of my body, usually the small of my back or the curve of my waist, when he talks with someone. While the speaker may not invite me into the conversation, Mikah wordlessly offers his attention with tactful touches during a private talk.

When women make their flirtatious intentions known, the burning green flame of envy attacks me. I guess the silver lining in that would be Mikah’s disinterest or obliviousness. I have trouble distinguishing the two.

One thing I love about Mikah is how he occupies most of my days. He relies on me, similar to a friend and something more. He helps me financially, paying for everything he thinks I like. In return, I take care of him domestically.

He was a spoiled child growing up, so it’s not surprising to see him expecting things just tobe there. I told him that food doesn’t magically cook itself, laundry doesn’t get ironed crisply on its own, and he can’t demand my attention whenever he wants.

I know many people misconstrue our dynamic as a sugar baby and sugar daddy contract.

This is where my overthinking flaw comes into play.

I think of correcting people when they hint at the lifestyle and assume the only way I could afford a lavish purse is with his money, but I’m scared they’ll believe I’m a lying gold-digger.

I’d feel bad for putting shame on Mikah’s name, especially when Mrs. Masini has been nothing but kind.

“Don’t tell me you were petting a dog,” Mikah accuses, forcing the nape of my neck to clinch.

Speak of the devil, and he shall manifest, looking like he lost a battle with his usual wardrobe.

His lips screw into a frown, his eyes cleaving the nervous defense in mine as his shadow swallows me. Prying gazes from diners in the infamous law building’s canteen lug over my body, hurried whispers echo the kitchen’s roaring flame.

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