Page 37 of Cruel Heir

His hand brushes against my cheek, his lips still ghosting over mine, and for a moment, I forget how angry I am. I forget that I hate him. The way he’s touching me feels good—the closeness feels good, and it feels almost like a loss when he pulls away, stepping back into the hot spray of the shower.

The anger is gone from his face. There’s an odd pensiveness on his handsome face, and he can’t quite meet my eyes. He turns around, facing away from me, and I’m struck with the sudden urge to touch him—to run my hands over his shoulders and down his back, to caress him in a way that I’ve never done with anyone. I don’t understand it, and I wrap my arms around myself, staying pressed against the tiles as I shove the urge down.

I hate this man,I remind myself.He’s taken everything away from me.But something has shifted in the air between us, something that I don’t entirely understand. Andre stays facing away from me for a long moment, and then he suddenly pushes the door open, stepping out of the shower. I see him snatch a towel off of the hook, wrapping it around himself, and then a moment later, he storms out, shutting the door hard behind him.

I stay there in the shower until the water runs cold, wondering what’s going to happen. All I know is that I need help to come for me, and soon.

Before either Andre or I cross a line that we can’t return from.

12

LUCIA

Idon’t know what I expect in the morning. The fact that I got my period should feel like a reprieve from having Andre show up in my bed, but a part of me feels a strange flicker of disappointment when I wake up alone—a feeling that I know I shouldn’t have. And that disappointment turns to confusion when I sit up and see a massive vase of roses—probably two dozen—interspersed with pink peonies and white daisies sitting on my vanity, with a thick cream-colored envelope propped up against it.

I throw back the covers, rubbing my eyes as I stand up and pad across the floor to the vanity. I reach for the envelope, slipping a piece of heavy paper out, and when I open it, I see a slanting scrawl of handwriting.

Lucia,

I’m sorry for how I behaved last night. You were right that I did not treat you the way I should treat my wife in front of other men whom I respect. And you are also right that it will take time to achieve what I hope. Time that, I expect, will be infinitely pleasurable for us both.

Your husband,

Andre

I stare down at the note, re-reading it twice, wondering if I’m stilldreaming. I find it hard to believe that Andre would apologize for anything—but here it is, in black and white, in front of me, accompanied by flowers that can only be meant to be part of the apology.

The last line sounds almost like a threat, true, but the rest of it can’t be read as anything but what it is. I sink down onto the edge of the bed just as I hear Celeste’s light knock on the door, unable to decide what to make of it.

“Lucia?” Celeste steps inside, looking at me. Her gaze flicks to my throat, and I can only imagine what she sees—definitely the mark left by Andre’s mouth, and possibly other marks, too. “Are you alright?” Her gaze flicks to the roses, and her eyes widen. “What the—”

“I know.” I hand her the note, and she reads it, her expression turning to one that probably mirrors what my own face looks like. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

“It doesn’t make sense.” Celeste looks at the flowers again, and back at the note. “It almost seems—sincere.”

“Which doesn’t seem at all like Andre.”

Celeste raises an eyebrow. “Do you want me to throw them out?”

“No.” I shake my head, taking the note back from her. “If he sees that they’re gone, he’ll be upset.”

It’s not the only reason, although I can’t admit it to her. Looking at the flowers, re-reading the note, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve missed something about Andre. I remember last night in the shower, the way his anger tipped over into something that felt like genuine passion, the way he couldn’t look at me afterward. The way he stormed off.

Whatever else it means, there seems to be a tentative truce between us. For a few days, although we still share meals together, he leaves me alone at night. Meals are nothing but small talk, and he avoids me during the day, leaving me to wander through the library and do yoga in the gym, or sip tea in the smaller dining room while I look out at the gardens. I catch myself thinking, one afternoon, what I might do with them in the spring—and I feel a flash of panic as soon as the thought registers.You won’t be here in the spring,I tell myself firmly, turning away from the window and taking my tea upstairswith me.Don’t even think about making plans for the future. There is no future here.

Every morning, fresh flowers show up in my bedroom. There are no more notes, but I see the way Celeste looks at the vases of flowers, as if she’s as perplexed as I am. The day before my period ends, she slips into my bedroom a little earlier than usual, the sound of her footsteps waking me up.

“Lucia.” She almost hisses my name, her expression fearful. “Wakeup.”

“I’m awake.” I rub a hand over my face, sitting up in bed. “Is something wrong?’

“No. Although it will be, if Andre catches us. I have what you wanted.”

I’m instantly awake at that. I look at her, eyes widening. “The—”

“Shh.” She almost hisses it at me, more fervently than I’ve ever heard her address me before. She slips a packet out of her pocket, handing it to me. “I’ll try to get more before next month. I can’t promise anything. But this should buy you some time.”

A sharp pain clenches in my chest—not only because Celeste went to the trouble to do this for me, but also because what she said is a reminder that I might be here for more than another month. That this might continue on, because my father might not manage to get me out. A reminder that, if someone doesn’t come for me, I can’t stave off the inevitable forever.

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