23. Salem
TWENTY-THREE
salem
Sterling Manor’s foyer gleams with old money perfection, everything arranged at precise angles, which should soothe my need for order. Instead, each perfect surface feels like a challenge. Like a test I’m already failing.
“Right this way,” Katherine directs, leading us toward the grand living room. “The photographer’s been waiting. It’s very important we get Emma’s engagement photos done.”
Lee’s hand tightens on mine, skin against silk, as we follow his mother. He’s been quieter than usual this morning, tension radiating off him in waves I can almost count. One, two, three pulses of anxiety that match my own.
The living room is a mess of equipment and people—lighting stands disrupting the perfect symmetry of the architecture, cables snaking across Persian rugs, and a photographer who immediately zooms in on us.
“Ah, the happy couple!” The photographer approaches, hands already reaching to position us. My breath catches in my throat. He’s going to touch me. Move me. Arrange me like one of the props scattered around the room.
Suddenly, I notice all the things that are wrong. Katherine’s pearl necklace doesn’t match her shoes, and the subtle differences in sheen on her outfit make my skin crawl. The antique curtains hang unevenly, the left side exactly two inches more open than the right.
Silver frames on the mantel tilt at varying degrees, none of them parallel to the edge. Three different staff members shift furniture without measuring the space between pieces, creating dysfunction in what should be symmetry.
Freshly cut flowers are placed in crystal vases, but they’ve been cut to different lengths, making the noise in my head louder. Even the morning light streaming through those uneven curtains hits the room at angles that make the shadows irregular, unpredictable, wrong.
“Salem?” Lee’s voice echoes off in the distance like he’s a million miles away. “You okay?”
No. Nothing about this is okay.
“I-I’m okay. Just a little overwhelmed.”
“It’s going to be all right. I’m right here with you through the whole thing. Maybe count the books on the shelf over there.” He points. “Kinda sad, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a single person pick up one of those books and read it.”
His comment makes me smile, and I want to believe him, but ten minutes in, and he already isn’t here. I can already feel him slipping through the cracks, disappearing as he eyes the drink cart, no doubt to escape his parents’ judgmental gazes and the other socialites’ whispers. But I don’t say anything. I don’t want to add more pressure to what he’s already feeling. I just need to get through this photo op we’ve been roped into, and then everything will be back to normal. Back to us.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Peachy.” Lee smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. I give his hand a tight squeeze to let him know that I’m here and that I see him, feel him. That I’m trying to be suitable, even when this place and these people make me feel like I’m falling apart at the seams. Even if Katherine’s smile holds that edge of triumph as she watches me catalog every imperfection in her perfect world.
The photographer takes a step closer, and I start counting my heartbeats, lacking ceiling tiles to ground me in this perfect nightmare of asymmetry.
“Let’s position the newest addition to our family first.” Katherine’s voice drips honey-coated venom as she gestures for me to move forward. “Salem, darling, do try to look natural.”
The word is a blade designed to slice.
Natural. As if anything about this is natural. I force myself to step away from Lee, measuring each movement. The photographer circles me like a vulture, adjusting my shoulders, tilting my chin, arranging me like a doll.
Lee’s other family members, a couple I met at the gala, stand waiting, watching me, too. Emma, his sister, her fiancé, who I can’t remember his name, Lee’s grandfather, and father all stare, watching and waiting.
“Perfect!” the photographer exclaims, though nothing is perfect. My silk gloves feel too tight, the buttons not quite aligned. Thanks to his positioning, the hem of my chosen dress now sits asymmetrically. “Now, just relax those shoulders.”
Relax. Count. Breathe. I try to catch Lee’s eye, seeking our usual shared rhythm, but he’s engaged in what looks like an intense whispered conversation with his mother. His jaw clenches in that way that means he’s fighting the urge to reach for a drink.
“Arms soft,” the photographer instructs, touching my elbow without warning. I flinch, and Katherine’s slight smile tells me she noticed. “Head tilted … yes, like that. Now smile like you belong here.”
Like I belong here. In this room where nothing aligns. In this family where everything is performance. In this world where Lee is already pulling away, his fingers drumming against his thigh in a pattern that has nothing to do with my counting and everything to do with measuring minutes until his next drink.
“Lee,” Katherine interrupts whatever he was saying. “Do join Salem. Let’s show everyone what a suitable match looks like.”
The word suitable hits like a slap. Lee stiffens, then moves toward me with careful steps that tell me he’s already had at least one drink. When did that happen? How did I miss it? Fuck, I zoned out while the photographer kept adjusting.
He takes his place beside me, and for a moment, I think we’ll find our rhythm. But his hand on my waist is too tight, his smile too forced, his energy too chaotic to match my measured breaths.
“Lovely,” the photographer coos. “Now, let’s get the whole family in. Mrs. Sterling, if you’ll stand just here.”
Katherine glides into position, everything about her a study in controlled elegance. Even her weird jacket somehow looks intentional now, like she’s daring anyone to question her choices.
I start counting the camera clicks, trying to ground myself as more people join the frame. More hands adjusting positions. More voices giving directions. More chaos in what should be an ordered tableau.
And through it all, Lee’s fingers drum against my waist, measuring time until escape.
“Just a slight adjustment.” The photographer’s hands are everywhere—my shoulders, my waist, my arms. Each touch sends sparks of panic through my silk barriers. “Mrs. Sterling, perhaps behind the happy couple? And Lee, please stop fidgeting.”
Lee’s response is to shift again, his usual protective stance wavering. I feel him pulling away, creating space that shouldn’t exist between us. The careful bubble we’ve built over months starts to fracture.
“Salem, dear,” Katherine materializes on my other side. “Your gloves are creasing oddly. Perhaps if you relaxed your hands? We wouldn’t want the photos to show any … tension.”
The suggestion carries weight beyond fabric concerns. I force my fingers to uncurl, counting the movements. One finger at a time. Two seconds between each. Three attempts to look natural.
“Perfect!” the photographer exclaims again, though Lee’s now standing too far left, throwing off our careful symmetry. “Now, young Mr. Sterling, if you could just?—”
“I need a minute.” Lee’s voice carries that edge that usually precedes him reaching for a drink. “Just … give me a fucking minute.”
“Language,” Katherine scolds, but her smile suggests she expected this. Wanted this. “Perhaps a short break? The lighting needs adjusting, anyway.”
Lee’s gone before she finishes speaking, making a beeline for the drink cart in the corner. I watch him pour a bourbon with practiced ease, his hands steady with this routine in a way they weren’t with me.
“He gets like this during family events sometimes,” Katherine says softly, for my ears only. “Ever since … well. Some memories are better left in the past, wouldn’t you agree? Of course, we had to include you in the photos going up on the Sterling Banking social media. For Emma’s engagement announcements. You’re clearly committed to one another.” I can’t quite grasp the meaning in her words, but before I can analyze it, the photographer’s hands are on me again, shifting me into a new position.
“We’ll get some of just the ladies while we wait,” he announces. “Salem, try to look more comfortable. Like you do this every day.”
But I don’t do this every day. Don’t handle strange hands arranging my body. Don’t watch Lee drink before noon. Don’t stand in rooms where nothing aligns while pretending everything’s fine.
Across the room, Lee downs his second glass, and I realize I’m not the only one counting anymore. Not the only one measuring spaces and moments and breaths.
But while I count to stay present, he counts to escape.
While I measure spaces to feel safe, he measures drinks to feel numb.
“Such progress you’ve made,” Katherine murmurs as the photographer adjusts his lights. “Almost passing for normal these days. Lee must be such a steadying influence. Of course with the party coming up, well, I’m sure you’ll be fine. But do let me know if we need to get Charlotte to fill in as Lee’s plus-one. She wouldn’t mind. I know how you feel about crowds.”
The irony of her words hits as I watch Lee pour his third drink. Or is it his fourth? I’ve lost count, and that terrifies me more than the photographer’s hands or Katherine’s sharp smile.
“Charlotte’s joining us for lunch after,” Katherine continues, smoothing her skirt. “She’s so looking forward to catching up with Lee. They were quite close before his … rebellious phase.”
Close. The word carries implications that make my silk gloves feel too tight. Through the lens of the camera, I watch Charlotte herself appear in the doorway, all perfect poise and societal grace. No gloves. No counting. No measured spaces between herself and others.
“Lee, darling!” Charlotte’s voice carries across the room like expensive perfume. “You’re not drinking alone, are you?”
He turns, glass in hand, and something shifts in his posture. Something I’ve never seen before—a kind of practiced performance that speaks of years of societal training.
“Never alone when you’re around, Char.” His words are flat, but his smile is picture-perfect.
Char. Fucking Char?
I feel Katherine watching me watch them. Feel her measuring my reaction as Charlotte glides across the room to join Lee at the drink cart. Feel the weight of her satisfaction when Lee pours Charlotte a drink without checking if the glass is clean first.
“It’s quite natural, you know,” Katherine says softly. “Childhood friends finding their way back to each other. Sometimes these little … experiments help us appreciate what’s truly suitable.”
Experiments. Like me. Like whatever this is between Lee and me. Like the way he counts tiles and measures spaces and tries to understand my world.
Charlotte laughs at something Lee says, the sound practiced and proper. She touches his arm without hesitation, without counting, without checking if he needs space first. They look right together. Normal.
“Salem?” The photographer’s voice breaks through my spiral. “You’re tense again. Perhaps we should?—”
“Oh, let’s include Charlotte!” Katherine suggests with crafted spontaneity. “Lee, darling, bring her over. We should document all our close family friends.”
Close family friends.
Not experiments.
Not temporary arrangements.
Lee looks over, and for a moment, I see confusion flash across his face. Like he’s forgotten I’m here. Forgotten why he’s drinking. Forgotten everything except the familiar escape of bourbon and society masks.
The camera clicks.
Charlotte smiles.
Katherine watches.
The panic hits like a wave—sudden, overwhelming, drowning. I make it to the powder room off the main hall before my legs give out, silk gloves squeaking against the marble counter as I grip the edge.
Breathe. Count. Measure. Control.
But there’s nothing to count here. No ceiling tiles. No perfect patterns. Just expensive wallpaper with roses that blur as tears fill my eyes.
“Salem?” Lee’s voice filters through the door, rough with bourbon. “You okay?”
No. Nothing is okay. I want to scream. Not the way his words slur slightly. Not the way he’s forgotten he promised he would try for me. Not the way I can’t feel anything right now but this pain in my chest.
“I’m fine.” The lie tastes bitter. “Just need a minute.”
“Let me—” He tries the handle, but I’ve already locked it. A thud suggests he’s leaning against the door. “Salem, please.”
“Lee, darling!” Charlotte’s voice carries down the hall. “Your mother needs you for the family portraits.”
“Go,” I manage. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
His hesitation is brief—too brief—before I hear him moving away. The space between his steps is uneven, uncounted, unmeasured. Everything we’ve built together crumbling under the weight of bourbon and family expectations.
I unlock the door in case he comes back. Maybe … maybe I should give him a chance. Try to talk to him at least, or get us the hell out of here.
The door opens before I’ve fully collected myself. But it’s not Lee returning.
“Rough morning?” Aries stands in the doorway, his presence filling the small space. His wide shoulders take up the doorframe. When did he arrive? “Lee gets like this sometimes. Especially around his family.”
I try to squeeze past him, but he doesn’t move. “I should get back.”
“To what? Watch him drink himself numb while playing the perfect son?” His voice softens with practiced concern. “There’s a lot about Lee you don’t know, Salem. Things that explain why he’s …” He gestures vaguely toward the main room where crystal glasses clink and Charlotte laughs.
“I don’t?—”
“Want to know?” Aries’s smile is gentle, but his eyes are hard. “Maybe you should. Maybe you should ask him about Promised Land. About why he really started drinking. About what his family did to make him this way. I’m sure you’ve wondered about his scars.”
The words hit like physical blows, each one carrying weight I don’t understand but feel in my bones.
“Ask him yourself,” Lee’s voice cuts through the space, dangerous and dark. “Since you seem so fucking eager to tell my stories.”
I turn to find him in the hallway, glass empty, eyes stormy-dark with something that looks a lot like fear. I can feel it deep in my chest: the panic, the chaos that’s about to take place. It’s like when you watch an accident happen right before your eyes—you want to look away, but you can’t.
“Darling, is everything all right?” Katherine’s voice floats down the hallway, perfect timing as always. “The photographer’s waiting.”
Lee’s face shutters closed, that familiar mask sliding into place. He might be able to hide his feelings beneath that mask, but he can’t hide it all. His hands shake as he reaches for me, and I notice he’s no longer counting the space between us. Not measuring. Not careful.
“We should go back.” His voice is hollow, controlled in a way that speaks of years of practice. “Mother hates to be kept waiting.”
“Lee—” But what can I say? Ask about Promised Land? Ask why he’s shaking? Ask why he can’t look at me?
“Everything’s fine.” He cuts me off, the words sharp with bourbon courage. “Let’s just… get through the rest of this fucking day.”
Aries melts away, but his smile suggests he’s accomplished whatever he came to do. The air is thick with unspoken truths, with secrets I’m not sure I want to unravel or understand. Why was he even here? It’s not until he answers I realize I asked the question out loud.
“He came because I asked him for lunch. To help distract Charlotte. Great job he’s doing that, right?”
The main room is still chaos—lights and cameras and Katherine orchestrating her perfect family tableau. Charlotte stands with the group, looking like she belongs in a way I never will. The crystal glasses on the drink cart catch light in patterns I can’t predict or control.
“There you are!” the photographer beams. “Now, just a few more. Lee, perhaps between your mother and Charlotte? Salem, we’ll position you?—”
“I think we’re done.” Lee’s voice carries that dangerous edge again. “Enough fucking pictures.”
“Language,” Katherine scolds, but she’s watching me instead of Lee. Measuring my reaction. Waiting for me to break.
The room spins as everyone moves at once—Katherine reaching for Lee, Charlotte stepping closer, the photographer adjusting lights that throw shadows in all the wrong places. Nothing aligns. Nothing makes sense. And Lee …
Lee doesn’t reach for me.
Doesn’t count steps.
Doesn’t remember to check if I’m okay.
He reaches for another drink, his hands steady with this routine in a way they haven’t been with me all day.
And I’ve had enough. I’m done watching him do this to himself. To me. I step forward and gently ease the drink out of his grasp and gulp down the liquid, then set it on the bar. “I was just thinking I could use a drink, too.”
“Salem,” he whispers. His gaze drops to my lips, then rises back up to my eyes. “You just drank after me.” His tone is soft, almost with awe.
I realize that, and I’m trying really hard not to panic. And I don’t. Not with his mother looking on, waiting for me to break.
“Come with me for a second. Let’s talk, and then we can come back, finish whatever your sister needs, and get out of here.”
He nods, his dark eyes staring into me like I’m something new, something even more fascinating.
When I get to a hallway, I stop and look around. “I have no idea where I’m going.”
Lee jolts and then leads, pulling me with him by the hand up a set of stairs. Forty steps. To a door. Third from the end, and inside.
It’s a bedroom, but it smells musty, like no fresh air has swirled through here in a while. “Is this your room?”
He tugs his hand from mine and paces, looking around. It’s clean. No dust. Nothing notable but some heavy dark wood antique furniture. “It used to be.”
“Are you okay? We were barely in the door for five minutes, and you let your mother get to you.” He scrubs his hands up and down his face and faces me. “I know. It’s like the second I’m around my family—well, my parents, not so much Emma—I lose the ability to think clearly. All I see is their faces. And every time I walk through the door, I’m taken back in time. I can’t get the image of the way my mother’s face looked when she dropped me off at that place.”
“Promised Land?” I prompt. “Is it a hospital?”
He pins me with a glare and leans in. “I’m not talking about it.” Then his mouth crashes against mine with no warning, no preamble, no gentleness. He cups the back of my neck and keeps me locked in place so I can’t move.
It reminds me of the night of the ballroom when things went a little too far, and I shove at his chest until he finally releases me with the taste of bourbon on my lips. “What are you doing?”
He shrugs. “Connecting. Trying to find a way to get through the rest of this without the alcohol.”
“You think kissing me is the answer?” Then it hits me. The night at the ball, the first kiss we shared. He uses sex just as much as he uses alcohol to numb the chaos in his head.
Am I just another coping mechanism for him?
“Don’t,” he snaps, his tone sharp. “Don’t look at me like that, Salem. I don’t want your fucking pity.”
I caress his cheek, but he bats my hand away, turning his back to me. “If you don’t want to fuck, then fine, let’s return to the shit show downstairs.”
His words are a sharp slap, and I gasp. Maybe all I am to him is a coping mechanism. One stupid enough to be dragged along to his family gatherings like a walking bourbon bottle.
I tip my chin up and shake my head. “I was a fool to think we could do this. You have your secrets, yet you want mine. You won’t let me help you the same way you help me?”
He faces me again, his eyes cold, dark, dangerous. “I asked if you wanted to fuck. That’s how you can help me if I can’t drink.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, tears threatening at the corners of my eyes. “I see. For the record, you didn’t ask.”
Somehow, I manage to walk out of the room and find my way back to the door in the labyrinth of a house.
Somehow, I manage to call for an Uber and wait without falling apart for it to arrive.
Somehow, I manage to leave.
When he doesn’t follow me, I know I was right. This was all a game to him. And I’m done being a pawn on someone else’s board.