Page 60 of The Silent War
“Gross,” Charlotte said. “I like it.”
“Are you two warning me,” I asked, “or advertising?”
“Yes,” they said together, and we laughed in a way that felt like breathing.
When the cases were full, Vivienne locked them with her thumb, then pressed a secondary key sequence only she knew. She stacked them like treasure and slid the whole thing into a matte travel trunk.
“Delivery?” I asked.
“Dispersal,” she corrected. “One to the south warehouse. One to the docks.”
“Now as for the yacht. You don’t have to go,” Charlotte said.
“Yes, she does. If she doesn’t, the story writes itself without her.”
“I hate when you’re right,” Charlotte told Vivienne.
“You love it,”
I moved my hand over the travel trunk’s lid. “It’s just a reunion.”
“It’s never just a reunion,” Vivienne said. “Not on that boat.”
“Stop being ominous,” Charlotte told her. “She knows.”
“She doesn’t know everything,” Vivienne said, and the way she said it made me lift my eyes.
“What?”
Vivienne weighed the moment. “They’ll be there,” she said that as if she hadn’t warned me about that a few moments ago. “Luca. Bastion.”
“Translation: don’t be alone on any balcony.”
“Or do,” Vivienne corrected, “if you can live with what happens after.”
“You think I can’t?” I asked. Because a part of me needed them to tell me if I could.
“I think you already decided to drown once,” Viviennetouched my hand, “And you survived. That makes you dangerous.”
And perhaps it made me stupid to go back knowing how this ends.
We stood there a long moment, three dynasty daughters, surrounded by lip balm that could kiss a man into compliance.
“I have to go back to the penthouse after this,” I reached for my phone to check if Alexander had messaged. My car accident had been an inconvenience.
“Take a case,” Vivienne said.
“Leave a case,” Charlotte countered. “At my place. Or his.” She said his in a way that could have meant the twins or my brother; that was the problem with girls like us—we knew too many pronouns and not enough safe nouns.
I slipped the extra balm into my pocket and pretended not to feel its weight.
“Text us from the elevator,” Charlotte said. “Lie and say you’re fine.”
“Send a picture,” Vivienne already tucking her hair behind one ear. Most likely planning which dress she was going to wear to the yacht.
“Of what?” I asked.
“Of you,” Vivienne said. “Alive.”
