Page 131 of Sinful Desires
Mon étoile est éteinte.
I stared until something inside me gave out. A low, quiet crack somewhere behind my ribs.
“We saw her yesterday. Jade and I. She’s fine. Pissed though, and just a bit tired.”
I looked up. “Bring me to her.”
Three hours later, after a silent flight on his private jet and a five-minute drive through snow-laced forest, we arrived.
Jasper Rehabilitation Hospital, Minnesota.
The building rose out of the trees like a polished grave. Pale limestone walls. Tall black windows that reflected nothing. A driveway too smooth, lined with dormant fountains and manicured hedges.
Luxury on the surface. A cage underneath.
I stepped out of the car, boots hitting the stone as Lazzio followed, his coat unbuttoned, wind tugging at his sleeves.
“She asked for no visitors, LeRoy. Might be best if you waited until?—”
“No.”
He sighed, flicking imaginary dust from his cuff. “You’re even more stubborn than she is.”
We moved through the front entrance. The air smelled of eucalyptus and money. Floor-to-ceiling glass stretched around a white lobby. Three nurses sat at the desk.
Lazzio handed me a white badge with my name already printed on it.
The sun had started to fall outside, bleeding gold across the marble. We stopped at a black door with thin gold lettering etched into the glass:The path to healing is straight ahead.
I looked at it like it had just spit in my face.Healing.They had drugged her, locked her away, and called it fucking recovery.
Lazzio checked his phone, the screen lighting up his face with dull urgency. “I need to take a call. Her room’s on the third floor. Number thirty-six. I’ll wait outside.” He walked off without looking back.
I stood there with the badge heavy in my hand.
Room thirty-six.
I took one step forward. Then another. Each step felt like dragging guilt from a chain hooked through my spine.
I took the elevator to the third floor. The air got heavier with every second. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows that twitched against the mirrored walls.
My pulse climbed up my throat and stayed there, thick and hot like it was trying to choke me. The doors opened.
Room thirty-six.
I stopped in front of it. The door was glass, clean and clear. A view into her new life.
Controlled. Contained. Decorated like a hotel for the dead.
I stared through it. A vanity sat in the corner, lined in gold, untouched. The walls were covered in framed art, each piece spaced with precision. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows stretched a private tennis court, a pool cut into pale stone, horses penned near the edge of the grounds, and a garden trimmed down to bare symmetry.
But none of it fucking mattered, because there she was—asleep.
L’amour de ma vie.
In the center of the room, she lay in the bed, arms tucked under the blanket, an IV jabbed into her wrist, fluid dripping slowly into the clear bag hanging beside her. Probably some shit to keep her sedated. Easier to manage that way.
She looked small. Fragile. Skin so pale it felt wrong to look at. For a second, I thought they’d already fucking buried her.
