6. Willow
6
WILLOW
After we arrive at the Chessmen’s penthouse, he drops me off in the room he calls my bedroom and gives me space to breathe.
I don’t know if it’s mercy or strategy, but either way, I take it.
The room isn’t just beautiful—it’s mine.
The walls are painted a deep, muted blue, the kind that swallows light in the most expensive way. A king-sized bed with silk sheets sits against the far wall, the comforter the perfect shade of ivory.
I close my eyes, exhaling shakily and kick off my Converse. The plush carpet cushions my feet as I take another step forward, my pulse hammering against my ribs. The floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across one side of the room, a private balcony just beyond them, the Dallas skyline shimmering in the distance.
I sit on the bed, sinking into the comforter as the scent of lilacs and cherries kisses my senses. The scent reminds me of Dad, and all the lilacs he would get my mother when I was younger.
Mom looked like one of those old-school supermodels, like Shalom Harlow but with huge, curly black hair and devastating blue eyes that looked like the ocean and reminded me of the sea.
When Mom was good, everything was good.
She was a piano teacher, and she played like a saint. Dad would fall asleep on the couch as she practiced, lulled into dreams by the soft, rolling notes, and I would sit on the floor, knees tucked to my chest, watching the way her hands moved.
She never just pressed the keys. Never forced them.
She coaxed them.
Each note was a whispered secret, each song a spell cast into the air. She played like the music was alive beneath her fingers, like the piano itself was breathing.
She said the lilacs were for good luck, that they kept the bad energy away. Every week, he’d bring home a fresh bouquet, filling the house with the soft, floral scent that mixed with the warm notes of old sheet music. When she played, the lilacs swayed from the vibration, like they were listening, too.
“Art is the only way the soul gets to scream without making a sound,” she told me once, her voice soft as she guided my hand over a blank page in my sketchbook. “When you don’t have the words, when it’s too much to say out loud, you draw. You paint. You play.”
So I did.
The first thing I ever sketched was her at the piano. The curve of her back as she leaned into the music, the way her fingers barely seemed to touch the keys, the lilacs framing her like she was an apparition out of a dream. I wanted to capture the way she looked when the world made sense, when the melody carried her somewhere far away, where nothing could hurt her.
The shrill ring of my phone shatters the trance, yanking me out of the past and slamming me back into the present. My breath hitches, my fingers still curled around the soft fabric of the sweater Vincent picked out for me. I blink, forcing my vision to clear, and glance down at the screen.
Rudy.
I hesitate for only a second before going to sit on my bed and swiping to answer, pressing the phone to my ear. “Yeah?”
There’s a pause. A breath. Then his voice, low and urgent. “Willow, where the hell are you?”
“I had to do an emergency trip,” I whisper, sitting up in the bed and pinching my nose to get the lilac smell out of my system.
“An emergency trip?” Rudy repeats, and I can practically hear the disbelief dripping from his voice. “You vanish without a word, and that’s the best you’ve got?”
I sigh, sinking deeper into the plush pillows, the soft fabric brushing against my skin as I try to ground myself. “I didn’t exactly have time to draft a formal excuse, Rudy.”
“No shit.”
I can hear him running a hand through his hair, likely pulling at the strands out of frustration. “Rudy?—”
“Willow.” His voice is heavy with concern now. “How long?”
“What?” I shift, feeling my heart beat a little faster.
“You disappeared in the middle of the semester,” Rudy says, quieter. “I know you’ve been through shit, but I also know you did some bad things.”
My stomach drops. “What do you mean, bad things? What are you talking about Rudy?”
“Freshman week,” he says quickly. “When you were drunk, after Vincent left, you told me you were a bad person who did bad things. Which, for the record, I don’t believe. But now you disappear? That can’t be a coincidence, right? Are you running from the mess you made?”
My fingers press against my temple, but it doesn’t help. A bad person who did bad things. I can still hear my own voice from that night, the bitterness in every syllable.
I swallow hard, trying to shake off the words, but they cling to me. “Partially. But that’s exactly why I’ll be back. In a week…” I trail off, looking around the unfamiliar room. “…A month, tops.”
“I can cover you for a month.” His voice is almost teasing, but I hear the underlying strain. “You owe me a damn burger and sake bomb when you get back to RISD. I’m gonna need it.”
I grin despite myself, leaning back into the bed. “Rudy,” I squeal, “Did I ever tell you how much I love you?”
“Yes…” he drawls.“But I’d love to hear it again because I’m gonna have to lie to Santiago, and that bitch is scary.”
“Rudy…” I sing his name. “Literally the most perfect man in the world. Rudy?—”
“Wow, little devil.” A smooth, raspy voice says and I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound. I turn and see Vincent standing there with his arms crossed over his expansive chest. “I knew you were cruel but professing your love to a guy in the middle of our home is just diabolical.”
“Diabolical?” I repeat, trying to keep my voice steady. “You know, I’ve never been called that before.”
His lips twitch again, but this time, there’s a smoldering glint in his eyes. He takes a slow step forward, closing the distance between us, his presence overwhelming. His blue eyes are dark with intent, studying me as if I’m the very thing he’s been hunting.
“Well, isn’t that what you are, little devil?” he murmurs. “A diabolical little mastermind here to manipulate us... A pawn who comes to bring the King to his knees?”
His words slide over me like a caress, but the way he says them—low, dangerous—makes my pulse quicken. Every muscle in my body tightens, as if some primal instinct is warning me.
I open my mouth, but my breath catches in my throat as he steps closer, his chest nearly brushing mine. The heat from his body is almost unbearable, sending a shiver down my spine. His scent, rich and intoxicating, surrounds me. It’s familiar—cedarwood and a familiar aroma that makes my head spin.
I’m trapped, my heart hammering in my chest, but I can’t pull away. I want to be closer than I am now and there is not a body part of mine absent from the touch of him.
“Willow?” Rudy’s voice breaks through the haze, but I don’t move to speak.
And then Vincent smirks, leaning in just enough for me to feel the heat of his breath against my ear. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches down, snatches my phone out of my hand with surprising gentleness.
He brings it to his ear and says, his voice calm but firm, “Willow is going to be preoccupied for the foreseeable future. Don’t call back.”
My mouth opens, but no words come out at first. It’s only when I can finally breathe again that I manage to choke out, “Hey, that was rude.”
“No, it was effective.” Vincent’s leering smile widens, and he leans in closer, his voice dropping lower, a teasing undertone creeping in. “You’re not allowed to have boyfriends, Willow.”
I blink, my breath hitching. My fists clench at my sides.
“I am not allowed?” I repeat, my voice icy, cutting through the charged air between us.
Vincent’s eyes darken, the playful edge in his smile slipping away as his brows furrow. He steps closer, closing the space between us until there’s barely any air left to breathe. The heat from his body presses against mine, and I fight the urge to retreat. His presence is suffocating, intoxicating.
“Yes, Willow,” he says, his voice low and deadly serious now, no hint of teasing. “You are not allowed.” His gaze locks onto mine, almost daring me to contradict him. “Not after what you did in Rhode Island.”
“Vincent-”
“If you are allowed to say no, then I am too, princess.” He hisses in my ear, and my blood runs cold. “No.”