Page 41 of Their Arrangement
I kept my eyes on her until she disappeared around the corner, the cardboard box trembling in her arms like her grip was the only thing keeping it—and her—from breaking.
I breathed out slowly.
Tight.
Controlled.
And tasted her on the exhale.
She turned the corner at the far end of the hall. I followed. Three steps behind. Silent. Not to help. Just to watch. Just to feel what I felt whenever she was near—rage and restraint. And underneath it all… the thing I refused to name.
She didn’t used to be like this.
I remembered her in glittering dresses at our family parties, sipping cheap champagne with pink lipstick on the rim and laughter in her lungs. I remembered her with Camille—always with Camille—half-draped across each other like they were made to orbit the same gravity.
Camille.
Fuck.
Camille had loved her like a sister.
She dressed her. Fed her. Protected her. Let her into our world when no one else would’ve even glanced twice.
And Cloe?
Cloe let her go out alone that night.
Sick, she’d said. Tired. Couldn’t make it.
Camille waited.
Then didn’t.
She went.
Alone.
And she died with a knife in her side and her lipstick still perfect.
We buried her two days later.
I carried her casket with my brothers. My knuckles bled from the grip I had on the handle. Barron didn’t speak for three days. Loyal nearly drank himself blind. Royal vanished to Dubai for a month and came back with new tattoos and worse habits.
I stayed. Watched the world go cold. Watched the company keep growing. Watched the name Camille built get turned into steel and marble and quarterly reports.
And I watched Cloe—quiet little Cloe—walk out of the funeral without saying goodbye.
Not to us. Not to Camille. Not even to the girl she once swore was her whole world. She disappeared. Now here she was again.
Same wild curls. Same wide eyes. Wearing Camille’s ghost like perfume.
She stopped outside the supply closet. Readjusted the box in her arms. Fumbled for her keycard. It beeped red. She cursed under her breath and tried again.
I moved closer. Not enough for her to hear me. Just close enough to see the sweat forming at her hairline. Her neck flushed pink. Her jaw clenched.
Her thighs pressed together beneath the too-tight skirt like she was trying to hold herself together.
She swiped the card again. Green. The door opened. She stumbled inside. The box landed on the floor with a dull thud. And she exhaled. Loud. Like she’d been drowning and finally surfaced.
