Chapter Twenty-Four Charlotte
Chapter Twenty-Four
Charlotte
Someone cradles me. A respite from harsh hands.
I feel those harsh hands then. The terrified thud of my pulse as he lifts his hand to me. His palm across my cheek will sting. Skin against skin. But the smack and the pain that follows don’t reach my face.
I surge forward. My bottom stinging as someone holds me.
Softer. Gentler.
“Hush, Charlotte,” he shushes me. “You’re safe here.”
I can’t see him, but I relax back instinctually, eyes closed, rocking gently.
A moment later, soft sheets engulf me. Cool hands, and an even cooler balm, soothe my aching skin. Someone trails a warm cloth over my forehead, my breasts, my lips. Little pleasures, little touches that make me sigh and shiver, make my muscles unwind.
Finally, the cloth settles to where I feel his cum leaking from between my legs as he cleans me.
Did Mark ever clean me?
That thought causes me to thrash.
No. No, I can’t give him this. Anything but this.
She’ll suffer the same fate.
“Charlotte,” someone says, a serpentine hiss, but I can hardly stand it. The fear that threatens to hold me in place.
So I run. I run until I reach the forest.
Where the shadows wait . . .
My eyes fly open, desperately searching for the shadows as I take in my surroundings. Not a forest, but a bedroom. One filled with early morning light.
Sun streams through the window overlooking the city, and the bed I’m lying in feels heaven sent. But I’m not in Heaven. I couldn’t be.
Lucifer.
I sit upright, covering my naked body with the sheets. My eyes comb over the furniture, searching for any signs of movement, for the shadows that sheltered me in my dream, but the room is painfully still, and bright.
He ditched me.
I flop back down into the sheets, trying hard not to cry as I sort through exactly how I feel about that. Unable to escape the sinking feeling inside my chest. It’s not as if I expected last night would change anything, but I guess I’d hoped for a little ... tenderness, after.
I scoff at the word. Tenderness and Lucifer don’t even belong in the same sentence, but ...
A memory tugs at me.
Large hands in smooth circles over red skin.
I roll onto my side, glancing at my bottom to see if he really did rub some of that cooling balm on me, clean and care for me so gently, but if he did, there’s no evidence of it. My heart shrinks once more.
Suddenly, my phone pings from where someone deposited my clutch on the bedside table. Beside it, a red rose waits. I smile. A jolt of hope shoots through me. That’s something, at least. Grinning like a fool, I reach for it, but when I try to pick it up, one of its thorns pricks my finger.
“Fuck.” I curse and drop it onto the mattress as I look to the spot where it drew blood. A crimson drop pools on the tip, and I can’t help but laugh a little at the cruel, cruel irony of it.
Did I actually think Lucifer would do something kind for me?
I should know better.
Abandoning the rose, I reach for my phone instead, finding a small gold key placed on its surface. I turn it over in my hands, its unique shape familiar from when Astaroth opened the elevator for me. The note beside it, written in a perfect, flawless script, reads:
Come and go as you please.
I swallow. It’s only practical, considering our situation, and not exactly as romantic as flowers would be, but I still can’t stop my foolish heart from skipping a beat.
Stupid, stupid hormones.
I pocket the key, placing it inside my clutch, before my phone pings again, and I finally glance at the screen. My mouth falls open, and my worries fall away as I stare down at my social media icons.
Holy shit.
The red notification numbers seem to have topped out somewhere in the hundred thousands, but when I open one of the apps and glance at the views of my latest post, one from nearly two weeks ago, I immediately drop the phone.
Nine million views. In a single evening.
And climbing.
I take a slow, measured breath, uncertain what to do. I’m the same person I was only moments before, but somehow this changes things. Xzander’s words from last night come crashing back to me then, mixed with the fury in Lucifer’s eyes when I spoke to the press.
The queen’s the most powerful piece.
Maybe I’m not just a pawn in his game, after all.
Or at least, I won’t allow myself to be.
Snatching the rose off the nightstand again, this time I hold it gently, careful not to hurt myself with any of its thorns. I inhale its scent, using the prop to my advantage as I pull the sheets up to my chest and position the early morning city backdrop in the background for a selfie. I take several, picking my favorite, before I stare down at the photo I’ve chosen.
The woman in it looks sexily mussed, confident, sophisticated, and wealthy.
Influential.
She’s nothing like me.
Perfect.
I quickly post the photo with the caption “From my king,” which honestly makes me gag a little it’s so sappy, but Lucifer’s fans will eat it up. I add on a few hashtags for me and Lucifer that have gained popularity recently, confident it will go viral. Satisfied, I flop back onto the bed, even though I’m still a little sore.
It may not stop Lucifer from manipulating me, but it gives me my own kind of power.
The weight of public opinion.
I glance at the screen one more time. It’s not as if I want the whole world to know that Lucifer and I have slept together. And I don’t even care if they think the feelings behind the post are real— which they’re not , I try to tell myself, ignoring the pang of guilt in the back of my throat—but based on the comments on my last post, a picture Jax took of me before my first day at Apollyon, the viral masses already think both those things, and the sooner they believe our love story, the better.
The sooner I can go back to being me.
Even if I’m not entirely certain who that is.
Sure enough, the comments start rolling in. Everything from fangirl stans to religious trolls to the occasional political grandstander. There’s even some speculation about how high the thread count is on Lucifer’s bedsheets, and honestly, I can’t help but snort a little at that as I glance around his room, marveling at my newfound celebrity.
To my surprise, the penthouse’s master suite isn’t anything to call home about. No more or less than any of the other rooms, anyway. The view is better, the lighting darker, and the color scheme more ... relaxed in a way that reminds me a bit of Gluttony’s club, but in a more upscale, sophisticated way. But what sparks my interest the most is that there are actual signs of life here, more than any other room Lucifer’s showed me.
A pile of sheet music sits on a table near the glass door that leads out to the balcony, the margins filled with furiously scratched notes and music symbols like Lucifer must have scribbled them sometime late in the middle of the night. It’s an original, I think.
I rise from the bed, wincing a little as I walk toward where the sheet music rests before I pick it up. I hum the notes to myself.
It’s haunting and sparse with a melody that feels otherworldly.
It’s . . . heartbreaking.
I place the composition back where I found it, uncertain what to make of it as a large carved trunk at the end of his bed catches my eye. The symbols that cover the surface are written in some kind of ancient language, what I can only guess is Aramaic. Maybe Angelic?
I run my fingers over the leather strap-protectors that hold it closed along with the heavy iron lock. The metal is cool to the touch, and I half expect it to rattle or some supernatural entity to suddenly pop out at me, but it doesn’t.
It’s just a regular trunk. Ancient and beautiful, but ...
Uninteresting.
Giving up on my snooping, I return to the bed and my phone, trying not to wince at how swollen and tender I feel.
I scroll through the incoming comments for a bit longer before I close the app and turn my attention to another matter entirely.
Last night’s media coverage.
The articles and video clips take a while to comb through. CNN. FOX. MSNBC. Every major news network in the Western Hemisphere has a piece about Lucifer and me.
It’s exactly what I anticipated. All the focus on our media debut. Not a single mention of Paris Starr. Not in connection to Lucifer, anyway.
Imani will be pleased.
Imani.
I glance at the clock. It’s a quarter past seven and I’m supposed to be at Apollyon by nine, but I still need to shower and get ready.
But since I’m already here, I might as well have Dagon take me.
I quickly scroll through the other news notifications on the home screen. When Imani told me to memorize all the city’s power players, I went home that same evening and, with Jax’s help, placed alerts on my phone for each of the Originals.
The articles about Lucifer’s siblings are expected. Speculation about the current state of Az’s love life. A mix of body-positive praise and misogynist hate for Greed, and the highlights of Wrath’s latest feud with some high-ranked political figures in the military.
Wait. Greed.
I pull open my email. Sure enough, I find a reply message from her at the top of my inbox. From the time stamp, it only took a few hours for her to respond to me.
Charlotte,
Of course! Let’s indulge! After all, we’re practically sisters now.
Yours,
Mimi
I can almost see the catlike grin on her face as she typed her reply to me. She’s probably giddy that I reached out to her. That I’m eager to be free of Lucifer.
Aren’t I?
I glance down at my still nude body and the mussed bedsheets.
Something inside my chest tightens.
The thought of abandoning Lucifer to go work for his sister makes me feel a little guilty. Especially after last night. But I’m being too sentimental, that’s all. Getting inside my own head again. I’ve never been good at separating feelings from sex, in the short time I’ve been sexually active, anyway, and this is my chance to practice exactly what Jax has been preaching to me.
Lucifer definitely will.
I look to the reply line and see that Greed’s cc’d her assistant to schedule a time and date before I glance down at the bed where I’m lying. At my naked, bruised skin.
What am I doing?
I exit my email app, not bothering to respond to Greed with my availability just yet, before I strip off the sheets. I pull on one of Lucifer’s white dress shirts from the nearby closet. It’s long enough to mostly cover me, and as I button it, I stand at the door to his closet, taking in the scene. The rumpled bed. The scattered clothes the staff most definitely found downstairs.
The things we did last night in his playroom were the best kind of terrible. Or the worst kind of wonderful, depending on who you’re asking. I blush at the thought and the memory it leaves on my lips, and elsewhere ...
And yet, for the first time in a long time, I feel ... lighter.
Free. From my own shame.
Lucifer gave that to me.
“It doesn’t change anything,” I say out loud to myself.
Maybe if I say it enough, I’ll actually start to believe it.
With that thought, I frown, heading toward the bedroom door. I’m suddenly in a much worse mood than when I woke up a few minutes ago, and I traipse through the penthouse, unsurprised when I don’t encounter anybody. Lucifer keeps his staff to a minimum.
It takes me a while, but I find the guest bedroom Xzander and I used to get ready for last night’s philanthropy gala on the fourth floor, and sure enough, there’s a whole wardrobe full of clothes waiting for me. I take another selfie with the walk-in closet’s generous contents in the background.
This time with the hashtag #Blessed.
My new followers will eat it up. This little glimpse into mine and Lucifer’s reality. That’s what they want to see, after all.
What we eat. What we wear. What we do with our time. How we indulge.
The fantasy we’re selling.
The one where my poisoned lips are stained red with lipstick rather than blood.
Not reality.
Pushing that thought aside, I browse through the closet’s contents, seeing what selections the style team left for me. Dior. Chanel. Louis Vuitton. It feels like I’m living in a dream.
It’s more than anyone could ever ask for.
I finally settle on a chic, business-casual Dior dress and matching heels. It looks like something Imani would wear, and that thought sends a fresh wave of confidence through me, along with a tiny sting of loss. She and I are still not okay, but I’m going to fix it somehow.
I shower quickly, surprised that even after I blow-dry, the sleek sheen of my hair stays the same. Whatever treatment Sophie gave it yesterday afternoon, it still looks nearly as good as it did last night. Though more casual. I watch a video tutorial on how to style it. I suck at the first few tries, but in the end, the way I tie it up is a mix of fun and flirty.
I grin at myself in the mirror, feeling more confident than ever.
Money really can buy anything.
Satisfied, I make my way downstairs to find a full breakfast waiting.
But Lucifer is still nowhere to be found.
“Guess it’s just me,” I mutter to myself.
I eat alone and watch the bustle of the city streets as I continue to glance at my phone. Midway through stuffing my face with some delicious French pastry, another news notification pops up. This one with Az’s name and the cupid emoji I assigned him. It seemed like a better choice at the time than the tongue, heart, and sweat emojis I chose originally, or God forbid, the eggplant-peach combo Jax suggested.
I tap through to the article, though it isn’t about Az specifically.
Instead, it’s about a man who worked at one of his clubs briefly, several years prior, whose body was found floating in the East River this morning, all the skin flayed from his corpse. An unexpected chill rolls down my spine.
Suddenly, I’m no longer hungry.
“Is everything to your liking, Miss Bellefleur?”
The new voice causes me to jump, and I turn to find one of Lucifer’s staff members, a middle-aged Indian gentleman, watching me. I think his name is Ramesh, though so many people were around me yesterday I could be wrong.
I struggle to find the right words, my mind still reeling from the news I just read. “Uh, yes. Yes, it’s great. I’m just ... not as hungry as I expected I’d be.”
I don’t know what it is about the article that bothers me. Beyond the normal sadness that anyone feels at a loss of human life. But ...
My mind flashes to the spot of blood near Lucifer’s cuff link.
No.
Immediately, I shake my head, willing the thought away.
I can’t even be certain of what I saw, let alone accuse him of anything. I’m jumping to conclusions. Seeing connections where there aren’t any. Not beyond my instincts.
Instincts that, after living under your father’s roof, you’ve learned not to ignore.
The little voice in my head sobers me.
Unaware of the dark turn of my thoughts, Ramesh says, “Of course, Miss Bellefleur. Though I’d recommend taking a scone to go. You have a long day.”
Now he has my attention.
“I do?”
“Mr. Apollyon arranged several meetings for you this morning.”
I lift a brow. “With who?”
“I believe some potential brand sponsorships, Miss Bellefleur.”
I feel lightheaded. “Brand sponsorships?”
I glance toward my phone once more. My notification numbers are going crazy again, and, sure enough, several major luxury companies and labels have started following me overnight. I quickly change the settings to no longer display the notification numbers.
I guess business moves fast these days.
But my devilish “fiancé” moves even faster.
I can’t allow Lucifer to get the upper hand in this fucked-up game we’re playing. Not when we’re straight out of the gate.
Ramesh turns to leave, but I stop him.
“Actually, Ramesh, could you please let the sponsors know that my plate is as full as I like today? I’ll need to reschedule for another time, and please tell Mr. Apollyon that I’ll be taking charge of my own schedule. Effective immediately.”
Ramesh nods. “Yes, Miss Bellefleur.”
“And could you ... also have Dagon get the car ready for me please?”
Internally, I cringe at the words. At how pretentious they sound. I sound like him , but this is my life now. At least, temporarily.
“I need a ride to Apollyon headquarters. For work,” I add with a smile. “Please.”
“Of course.” Ramesh turns and leaves. He doesn’t seem fazed by my behavior.
My phone pings again, and I let out an annoyed huff. The constant notifications are going to be a problem. But this time, it’s a text message. I read the preview across the home screen.
Don’t think you can hide from me.
I roll my eyes. Lucifer. Obviously.
Unlocking the home screen, I let out a pissed off grumble and text back.
I’m not hiding.
I pause for a moment, debating my next move, before angrily typing out:
You’re the one who wasn’t here when I woke up this morning.
I hit send. It sounds a little more hurt than I wanted it to, but there’s no turning back now.
A moment later, three dots appear across the screen like he’s going to respond, but then they disappear.
Nothing.
I jab the button to turn off the home screen and silence my phone. If he thinks he can control me that easily, he clearly didn’t learn anything from the cocktail party last night.