CHAPTER 41
Riven
Wrong – Chris Grey
The buzzing of my tattoo machine is deafening in the studio. Charlie’s at the reception desk, flirting with a client.
I really need to buy one of those little robots that sprays water on dogs and cats and program it to do it to her every time she starts flirting.
The bruises around my throat are fading. They’re no longer purple, just an ugly mix of green and yellow, so I cover them with foundation.
Especially when I go out, whether it’s for work or a party.
Every client I had to cancel while I was in the garage, got a small tattoo for free as an apology.
I dip the needle in the recipient, the red reminds me of blood.
My mind flashes to Kyle and then switches so fast to that night—Liam’s wrist half severed, there was so much blood.
I shake my head and focus on the magnificent piece of work I’m tattooing.
I traced the design with my eyes.
The butterfly's body would become an ornate spine, each delicate vertebra unfolding into sharp, rib-like flourishes that flowed seamlessly into the wings.
Fine ornamental lines and subtle celestial accents framed the piece, giving it perfect symmetry—as if the butterfly had grown from bone rather than carrying it.
Two weeks.
Two weeks with no Liam, no Evren, just me and my girls.
But it’s also been two weeks of waking up drenched in sweat, coughing like someone’s strangling me.
I don’t know why, but every time I open my eyes, I expect those glowing eyes to be there, watching me.
I even started touching myself in the shower, on the couch, imagining he’d show up and take me right there.
That’s too fucked up, so I threw myself into work instead.
I can’t stop thinking about what he said to me.
That I was real to him, that he couldn’t go back to the silence.
He left because I told him to.
That’s what I wanted but he also left me with a fucking enigma my brain refuses to let go of.
Why was I real to him? Why the silence, specifically?
Was he deaf at some point in his life?
Probably when he was a kid, because he can hear me perfectly today.
If he had been, I bet he'd have been breaking people's jaws just because the sight of them chewing annoyed him.
That fucking psycho.
I finish the tattoo, wipe away the excess ink, and apply a second skin.
It adapts to the client's natural skin tone the moment it touches the pigment, protecting the tattoo while helping it heal.
I stretch and smile at the client as he leaves me a hefty tip.
“Charlie, want that tip? It’s a thousand credits.”
Her head snaps toward me instantly, the probably-university kid whose eyebrow Jules had just pierced completely forgotten.
“Oh my God, yes!” She practically launches herself at me. “Yes! Yes! That’ll pay for my new nails and shoes!”
“Get off!” I laugh, shoving her away. “I’m transferring it to you.”
I pull up my comm and send the credits over.
“You sure, Riv? Because it was your tip.”
She does her big eyes thing, swaying her shoulders from side to side.
“Yes.” I roll my eyes. “It’s not like I need the money anyway.”
I start cleaning my station for the next client.
The little chime Charlie and Jules insisted on adding to the studio’s front door a week ago sings through the studio.
Every time a client enters or leaves, it sings.
I can’t stand it anymore, not because the melody is annoying.
It’s because I’ve been hearing the damn thing at least fifty times a day for the past week.
“I swear I’m going to rip that thing out!” I shout, spinning around in my chair while I clean my tattoo station.
I freeze mid-turn.
A tall man stands in the doorway, dressed in a dark tuxedo, a matte black box in his hands, wrapped with an ivory ribbon.
I know exactly who it’s from.
“Put the box down and get the fuck out.”
“Miss Laordie, I’m afraid I cannot.” He takes a step forward, his voice perfectly measured, as polished as everything else about him. “Your parents instructed me to place this box directly into your hands... and to escort you back with me.”
My expression hardens instantly.
I abandon what I’m doing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Charlie shift uncomfortably, while Jules pauses, gloves still on, a needle poised against the teeth of the man sitting in her chair.
“What did you just say?”
“You heard me.” His expression doesn't change. “I was instructed to personally deliver the box into your hands, ensure you open it, and then escort you to a fitting boutique, where a dress is already waiting for you.”
I snatch the box out of his hands and rip the ribbon off.
The moment I lift the lid, a mechanical butterfly flutters into the air.
A familiar scent fills my nostrils.
My mother's perfume, my nose wrinkles in disgust.
My hand shoots up, catches the butterfly mid-flight, and crushes it in my fist.
That kind of thing is expensive, fragile.
“I sneezed. My bad,” I say, my voice completely flat.
I uncurl my fingers and let the twisted remains clatter to the floor at my feet.
Inside, I find a letter—No, a note, really.
Riven Laordie, heiress to the Laordie empire, daughter of Adrien and Celine Laordie, are hereby invited to attend a business dinner this evening with the members of the Central Authority, the governing body of our magnificent city, Kairo-9.
The clatter of silverware echoes through the opulent, utterly ridiculous dining room.
Everything is marble and gold, completely devoid of humanity or any personal touch. Every inch of the place was designed to look perfect.
The waiters aren’t even human.
They’re those humanoid robots with those creepy, almost like faces that I saw once in the restaurant where Liam wanted bring me to.
I can never look at one without feeling like I either want to offer it my heart on a silver platter—or piss myself.
Now I don’t even have a choice, and I’m trapped in a dress that covers my entire neck with some ridiculous stand-up collar, all silk, sleeves reaching my wrists, the skirt so long I can’t even see my feet.
I feel suffocated.
If I don’t get a flute of champagne or a shot of tequila in the next minute, I might rip this damn thing open right in front of half the members of the government.
The conversation drifts from one work topic to another. I have no idea what they’re talking about, and I couldn’t care less.
When I throw back a shot of tequila—either my brain manifested it or one of those creepy robots actually listened when I told it to bring me something strong—I catch my mother glaring at me from across the table.
I wink back.
When I got to that stupid fitting, there wasn't a chance in hell I was wearing that dress, but the woman didn't have a single other option.
Nothing else.
Then again, my mother probably made sure of that.
Dinner drags on.
I absently toy with my fork, trying to bend the damn thing.
Dessert arrives just as I'm about to stab someone with an unbendable fork simply because it's starting to piss me off.
Maybe I'm not that different from him.
“So, Miss Laordie,” one of the governors—or whoever the hell he is—begins, “your father tells me you'll be his heiress. His successor.”
I freeze, my fork halfway bent.
Did he—? What?
I recompose myself.
“Oh, he did?” I crack my neck. “Well, that's quite the shocking announcement, considering they never cared enough to know how I was doing.”
The silence that follows is heavier than the collar around my neck.
The man clears his throat and lets out a nervous laugh.
“Well, that's...”
“A joke,” my father cuts in with a laugh, patting the governor on the shoulder. “A child's little tantrum at the dinner table, really. My daughter has always loved making them.”
He shoots me a look that says, Quiet and behave or you're done.
I roll my eyes and stab into my chocolate-lemon-strawberry cake—Who the fuck even eats a cake like that anyway?
A few minutes later, I watch my father leave with several of the men, heading toward his private office.
This fucking penthouse is a mansion spread across three floors, bigger than an entire building in the Lower Layers.
My mother is about to open her mouth when I stand.
“Don’t bother, Mother.” I held up a hand silencing her.
I turn and head toward the bathroom. I need to pee... and I need to get out of this dress.
As I round the corner, I hear laughter. I don't pay it any mind, probably cigars and politics.
Everything I hate.
“You know, Adrien,” one of the men says, “they reopened the case of your son.”
I freeze.
A shiver tears through my body, my heart stops beating completely.
What the fuck? Why would they reopen Kyle’s death? It doesn’t make any sense after eleven years.
“They found the car which hit him, instead of your daughter...” The voice trails off.
“Speak or get out.” My father's voice cuts through the room, completely devoid of emotion, assuming he ever had any to begin with.
“It wasn't an accident,” A brief pause, intense, and way too long “From the Lower Layers.”