Page 110 of Savage Daddies

“Shoot.”

“What are you wearing?”

Here comes tonight’s sponsor. “The dress”—I smooth my hands down the silk—“is Dolce and Gabbana. Red too, as you can see.”

“And isn’t it a beautiful shade?”

“Isn’t it!” For this next part, I grab her wrist. “Do you know what it reminds me of?”

“Wine?”

“No! Blood. I thought I’d pay tribute to all of the people my husband has killed over the years.”

I feel the interviewer’s temperature drop. She tenses her body. Awkwardly turns around to the camera crew, who, still rolling, prompt her to continue. “Uh.” After trialing different shapes with her mouth, she settles with a smile. “Oh, Zoe, you’re funny.”

This isn’t her fault, and my intention wasn’t to make her feel uncomfortable, but my mouth keeps going.

“You know, Paul Royal. Isla Juniper?—”

“Zoe,” says Felix, “is a bit of a conspiracist, aren’t you, honey?” He strokes my head.

So I toss it in the other direction.

“We recently increased Zoe’s sertraline dose.” He elbows me in the side. “She’s not been doing too well, and the sleepwalking has been worsening.”

“Actually,” starts the young French woman in pink, “for sleepwalking, sertraline isn’t the right?—”

“I’m sure you have all been keeping up to date with the media,” continues Felix.

This draws in a crowd, and the general public, like caged animals behind the barriers, move to where we’re standing to hold up their iPhones.

“It’s a private matter, but one that needs to be addressed. As some of you may know, Zoe doesn’t have the best mental health record—sleepwalking, running away, etcetera, but I’m doing my best to get her on a good healthcare plan. It hasn’t been pleasant to see the photographs and rumors online, but those can’t be helped when you are in the public eye. Zoe and I have not been on the best terms, so I can understand why she feels the need to proclaim false information. She tests my patience sometimes.” A chuckle. “But she has my heart, and always will.”

If I loved you less I might be able to talk about it more.

The entire crowd hushes.

A tear threatens to fall, and I do my best to blink it away.

Words, weapons…he always wins.

But that’s why the boys and I developed a backup.

“Anyway,” continues Felix. “To move on to lighter news, I want to say how honored I am to be taking over Cash Pot Palace.” He places a hand on his heart—even though there’s no organ there. “Warren and I were both fond of Paul and his work. He was my confidant and friend, and the money-laundering scandal doesn’t make me love him any less.”

He slides a cold hand onto my shoulder. “The same goes for you, Zoe. Together, we can weather any storm, so I’d appreciate you guys letting us work out our differences in peace.” The hands drop to his sides. “Now, enough of that. This talking is making me thirsty. I think it’s about time we go and test out some wines!”

Applause fills the red carpet.

Felix tightens his grip around my arm and tugs me forward as we head indoors.

The Caesar’s Palace lobby is embellished in gold to give the place a warm and inviting feel, but currently I feel cold to the bone. Goose bumps pepper my skin. I want to wrap my arms around my stomach and generate warmth, but doing that signals a closed-off posture, and I can’t afford to piss off Felix even more by “slouching.”

He tenses his jaw as we walk into the building.

Now, the strip of red carpet looks even more red, and the glasses of wine on the tables we’re about to gather around glow like blood.

Red.

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