Page 32 of The Obedient Lie
Grapes she’d bought.
Because we sure as hell never had any before she moved in.
She walked through the dorm like it washers, bowl in hand, plucking the fruit between her fingers like it was nothing.
And then — finally — she turned and came back upstairs.
Back intoourroom.
And I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
Relief.
Relief that she wasn’t still downstairs.
Relief that she was back in here,where we could see her.
Where we couldwatch.
She sat on her bed like it was normal — as if sitting across from two Crow heirs in a string bikini wasn’t completely deranged — and continued eating.
I swear I’d never seen such a perfect mouth.
“Grapes?” she asked, holding the bowl up toward me.
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’ttrustmy voice.
Same as I hadn’t trusted it when she’d started having food platters delivered to the house like we were royalty and not a couple of broken heirs with a liquor shelf and a half-stocked fridge.
She’d started small, fruit, cut perfectly, packed in cold trays with handwritten notes.
Then came the bread platters. Still warm.
Sourdough. Rye. Herb loaves.
Croissants, soft and sweet and dusted in sugar.
She got pastry platters, mini cakes, chocolate-dipped strawberries, cheese boards, even tiny jars of imported honey.
We never asked her to.
She justdidit. With that same smile. That same quiet pride.
And the worst part?
We fuckinglovedit.
Not that we’d ever say it out loud.
But the boxes were always empty by morning.
Now she sat there, curled up on her bed in barely anything, humming under her breath, a single grape between her fingers like she hadno ideashe was turning the air inside this room into something violent.
I didn’t move.
But I watched.
