CHAPTER TWELVE
Nexum
@alymarinolovers Is our husband eating properly? #freemarino (@deisebloombastic)
The week had been intense, and I’d just left the office of the judge assigned to the case.
A real traditionalist who seemed biased toward agreeing with William on absolutely any absurdity he raised, though he was clearly aware that William was just trying to throw me off with a preposterous situation.
Joseph, my assistant, was waiting for me at the courthouse exit with a pile of documents we’d received. Among them were countless letters from Dante’s fans—they seemed to be flooding my mailbox.
“Should we release his direct contact info?” Joseph had suggested this two days ago and I’d pretended not to hear, but he’d been right when he warned me it would only get worse. I had letters here, at my house, at the office. Even Joseph was getting them at school.
“I’ll check with him about what he wants to do about his fans,” I said with a hint of disdain.
“I can check directly and”
“I’ll do it, Jo.” I smiled. “Now go rest. On Monday we need to meet at the office and figure out what direction to take with our defense.”
“Sure.” Joseph helped me load the correspondence into the car, but kept one envelope separate in his hands. “I almost forgot. This one’s yours.”
He held out an envelope toward me.
The same style as the others. My name perfectly drawn in the center of the envelope.
“Want me to file it with the others?” he offered, but I quickly took it from his hand.
“No. I’ll read it at home. Enjoy the free time.” I tucked it between my folders.
“All right.”
Joseph walked away, and I took one last look at the envelope before putting everything back in the folder and setting it on the car seat.
When I got home, I took everything to the work desk I’d recently set up in my room. I understand how problematic this is, but like it or not, this case is different from anything I’ve ever been involved with, and Dante is different from any client I’ve ever dealt with.
Since our agreement, he hadn’t called, and I hadn’t received any notes, gifts, or other extravagances he might dream up. And instead of feeling happy about the lack of contact, I spent every minute thinking my phone had rung without me noticing, or that the mailman was about to knock on my door.
My eyes went to the black rose on the desk and, near it, the pile of envelopes with different perfumes, colors, and sizes. I picked up a few—they clearly had gifts hidden inside. This would never be accepted at Braxton.
I went to the bathroom and took a hot bath. When the water had gone nearly cold, I got out and wrapped myself in comfortable clothes, tied my hair up, and put on my glasses to wait for my dinner before diving into the case.
I was going through some documents when I felt my phone vibrate on the table, even before the screen lit up with the incoming call. The instant between that and Braxton’s recorded message playing in my ear was like being trapped in a vacuum.
Dante’s breathing came through even before his voice, and that made me take a deep breath too.
“I’m sure you thought you’d be free of me for the whole weekend,” his husky, rich voice came through the phone.
“I thought about not answering.” I heard his breath catch. “What? You asked me not to lie.”
“And you’re loving it.”
“Is everything okay there?” I asked.
“It is.”
“Not many words for someone who always has a quip up his sleeve.”
“What are you doing now?”
“Did you call to find out what my Friday nights are like?”
He laughed.
“I called to hear your voice.”
I choked.
“Answer.”
“Working.”
“Shouldn’t you be resting?”
I sighed, exhausted.
“I have a lot going on right now.”
“Tell me what you’re seeing right now.”
“A pile of papers, letters from your fans, and the dome.”
“And what are you wearing?”
“Dante…” I warned.
“I just want a mental picture of life outside here,” he said.
“Is everything really okay?”
“Answer, Doctor.” He sounded more intense. “Describe it to me.”
My breath fogged the screen of my phone.
“I’m wearing a sweatshirt from my college days, sitting in front of a letter from a girl named Lucy who likes ridiculously sweet perfumes.”
Dante laughed.
“I think there’s a pair of panties inside the envelope.” I held it up to the light. There was definitely something lacy in there. “My guess is pink.”
“Hmm. I think I prefer the red ones.”
A short, heavy silence settled between us.
“Dante… why are you making me do this? What are you trying to prove?”
I heard him sigh heavily.
“You know why.”
“No. I don’t,” I said.
“You shouldn’t be lying to me. It’s against the rules.”
I swallowed hard.
“I need to go, Helena,” he said finally. “You should read my letter.”
“How do you know I haven’t read it?”
“If you had read it, you wouldn’t be lying to me right now.”
Dante didn’t wait for me to respond. He hung up abruptly.
I pulled out his envelope and opened it. What did he mean by “if you had read it, you wouldn’t be lying to me right now”?
Dante’s handwriting was neat, just like him, though the vowels seemed to lean against the consonants at times. My name at the top beckoned me into what lay ahead.
Helena.
I admit, the days here are endlessly miserable. The smell of concrete mixed with everything else this place hides from the world. Or at least that’s the lie it proudly tells. Everything is ugly, and especially bleak when you have nothing to look at.
In those hours when the walls seem grayer, I close my eyes and replay the scene of you bursting into that room like lightning.
Your firm voice, your gaze charged with emotion, with adrenaline—none of it made you waver for even a minute.
You had the coldness of a sniper, but your weapons are the almost insolent words of someone who seems to have spent a long time proving to others and to herself that she belongs in a place that was always hers.
The scene repeats, and I pause to look into your eyes. Your eyes color the gray walls of this place. You walk in here as if every room had your name on the door. Even when you doubt me, there’s an underlying calm about you that intrigues me, and I think that’s what keeps me holding on.
Sometimes I think of things I can’t put into words. And other times I’m certain you think them too. In those hours, the silence here seems less disturbing and time more dangerous.
You think about it, don’t you? Your eyes don’t waver when my words cut you.
Your arms are covered in marks from the thorns, but you don’t pull back.
You touched the river, and even watching your fingers darken, you didn’t pull back.
I admire your courage and crave it as though it alone could free me from this prison without walls.
The prison I put myself in, not the one you’re trying to get me out of.
Tell me… what color is our rose when you’re reading this letter?
D.
I held the paper in my hands, my eyes fixed on the last line.
Then I looked up at the rose, which at this hour seemed as dark as the feeling that had been dragging me away from reality these past few days.
Dante is just a boy… no, Dante is an intriguing man, and he knows it.
He twists me around his finger in a way that’s visceral and almost uncomfortable.
I’ve been doing my best not to succumb to this. There’s so much at stake, and Dante knows it. That’s why he keeps crossing the line, drawing me into his web. And I ask myself why the hell I’m smiling.