Page 66 of Love Arranged
If Lily’s the people’s princess, then I’m the petty prince, living in a house I dislike strictly because it pisses the designer off.
It was so much more satisfying to outsmart him by purchasing the lakefront property through a trust before transferring the title over to myself—even if I loathe everything about the mid-centurymodern mansion.
All the clean lines, warm wood tones, and floor-to-ceiling windows remind me too much of my uncle’s home in Vegas, but I didn’t have the luxury of being picky. If I did, I would’ve chosen my parents’ older but modest home.
But oh, wait, Julian tore it down before I had a chance.
I’m annoyed when Lily doesn’t text me when she gets home. I don’t have a real reason to be, other than her not listening to me, so I try to rationalize what could’ve happened.
She probably thought I was joking or putting on a show for the crowd, which technically is true.
Or maybe something bad happened to her. That same oily voice comes back, although this time it’s concerned about Lily’s safety, not my own.
Fuck. No.
This is your OCD talking. Lily is fine.
I screw my eyes shut and push the image of her being crushed to death inside Dahlia’s car out of my mind, but once it pops up, I can’t get it out.
Text her to check in. It’s a common courtesy after tonight’s events.
Me
Are you home?
There. Was that so hard?
When she doesn’t answer immediately, the image of her being injured returns, the details far sharper than before. Bloodoozes from a head wound, and her breathing is labored, as if her lung has collapsed.
I nearly rip my hair from the roots with how hard I tug on the strands, but no amount of pain will block me from sending Lily another message.
Me
If this is going to work between us, I expect you to answer me when I text you.
Shit. I sound way too controlling, but I can’t send a third text without looking like I care too much, so I sit around and wait for her to answer.
Time passes by slowly, like I’m standing in the middle of an hourglass, counting each individual grain of sand.
Two minutes feel like ten by the time a new text pops up.
Lily
Yes. I’m home.
I want to throw my phone across the room because how can three words have the same effect over me as an emergency Xanax?
Me
Next time do what I say and text me when you get home.
Lily
Sure, baby.
Me
I hate the nickname,by the way.
