Page 12 of So Close

It’s all a damn game to him, the sadistic bastard. The world is filled with people who are just tools or toys, things to be used when it suits him. Physically, he’s a big man, but his body isn’t his weapon. He doesn’t raise his voice or swing his fists. No, his chosen implement of destruction is more insidious – he prefers to mindfuck.

Fine. I like games. I built my business off gaming algorithms and perceptions to my clients’ advantage. If I can’t fuck Kane in bed, I’ll fuck up his life. I was going to do the latter anyway; I just got distracted remembering how good the former was.

If only I understood what Lily is to him, what she means to him. Is she a vulnerability? If not, can I turn her into one? His obsession with her is his weakness, but in what way? I don’t care if she can break his heart or just drag his public image through the mud. I don’t care if his personal life falls apart or Baharan takes a hit. One way or the other, he’s going to suffer. It’ll be a bonus if I can make Lily suffer. And I fucking deserve one.

My mouth curves at the thought of Kane pushed off his pedestal and broken.

I head toward the hallway leading to the room where Lily lies, oblivious.

“Amy,” he calls after me, halting my exit.

Glancing over my shoulder, I catch his eye. Anticipation bubbles up as if I hadn’t just corked it and swore it’d be the last time I did so. My brow wings up, questioning.

“Thank you.” He looks and sounds sincere.

I don’t buy it. Not at all.

9

AMY

Lily Black liesin a luxurious bed big enough to make her tall frame seem childlike. The room is so spacious that even the bulky medical equipment can’t make the space feel cramped. The walls and headboard share the same cobalt velvet damask, leaving the bed and the pale woman unconscious in it as the only bright spots in the hushed gloom.

Against ice-blue silk pillows, Lily’s coiffed hair is inky black. A clear, thin oxygen tube bisects her face, but her lips are painted a lush red, as are her perfectly manicured nails.

It’s creepy, the beautician said to me when I’d arrived in time to catch her working.Like working on a cadaver.

Yeah, creepy. And crazy. The whole room looks like a mausoleum for her carcass. The sky has darkened outside, giving the impression that it’s dusk instead of noon. The floor and table lamps are all on, the slender silver bases topped with indigo drum shades and chandelier crystals that throw prisms of light against the dark walls.

I’ve wondered if Kane fucks her while she’s unconscious, but when I mentioned it to Darius, he told me I’m insane even to think that. Whatever. The entire family is delusional, and I refuse to be gaslighted.

Sheer curtains hang from brushed nickel rods. Heavy velvet drapes the same hue as the walls flank the windows and pool on the polished sodalite floor. In a navy armchair with silver tacks, Frank – the nurse – sits quietly with a tablet. He glances up with a smile when I step deeper into the room, then stands, knowing the drill. When I show up, he gets to take a break.

The moment he leaves the room, I dig out my flask and unscrew the cap with shaky fingers. I’m still so pissed at Kane; I want to break something. I study Lily as I lift the cool aluminum to my lips, but my eyes close when I toss my head back, and the welcome warmth spreads through my stomach. My tote slides off my shoulder and hits the royal blue rug with a thud. The other flask is still full. Thank God.

Kicking off the towering heels I wore to approximate Lily’s height, I walk toward the bed as I take another drink, my fingers gliding over the various pieces of furniture as I pass them. While the depth of color aligns with the rest of the penthouse, there are textures in this room and patterns within the textures. It almost feels like swimming deep underwater, at the point where sunlight is a faraway shimmer. Bouquets of stargazer and black lilies fragrance the air, clearly defining the space from the rest of the condo, which smells of Kane.

The decor could easily be termed masculine, yet the result is sensual bohemian femininity. The room is opulent. Expensive. Faux animal hides draped on chairs and crystal obelisks on marbled tabletops. On the vanity in front of one of the windows, a set comprised of a silver hand mirror and two brushes withLRBetched into the backs waits for its owner to wake the fuck up and use them. The pen and notepad on the nightstand bear the same initials.

Someone put thought into this room. It doesn’t seem possible that it was created overnight or even within a week, filling me with questions. Was it Kane who styled this for her or Witte? Maybe the decorating was hired out to a professional. I hope that’s the case, and Kane didn’t care enough to design it himself.

Distantly, the darkening sky rumbles a warning.

Looking toward the lifeless figure in the bed, I eye the jewelry she wears on her left hand, safely below the intravenous line providing her with liquid and nutrients. At first, I’d scoffed at the wedding ring Kane had given his precious Lily.

A ruby. Really?

I don’t care how big a gemstone is; a wife should get a diamond, for fuck’s sake. And not a halo of small ones but a big fat “love of my life” statement stone. Even Darius had known that.

It wasn’t until I’d tried the ring on myself that I realized the stone changed color with the light.

An alexandrite, I’d discovered after research. Far rarer than diamonds, especially in the size Kane had given her. And far more expensive per carat than pretty much every other stone on the planet.

“You’re an asshole, Kane,” I mutter, licking vodka off my lips. “And you’re a bitch,” I tellher.

I return to my bag, shove the flask away and pull out a magazine. I take the chance of checking the nightstand drawer and grin when I find a bottle of the polish used on her nails. I laugh when I recognize it as one of Rosana’s new ECRA+ shades. “Blood Lily.”

Of course.