25. Zoe
25
ZOE
I clutch my hands around Bullwhip’s chest with everything I have, unsure if I’m holding on for dear life because he speeds like a maniac, or because I need emotional support and these bikers are the only ones who can give it to me.
Breath catches in my throat. I haven’t eaten a single thing today, but vomit still threatens to explode out of my mouth.
She can’t be dead.
My heart won’t be able to take it.
I glimpse Bullwhip in the rearview mirror, and we exchange a strange glance that suggests he still has something to hide. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he’s just nervous.
“It’ll be okay,” he assures me.
“I can’t believe he asked you to join him,”
He returns his eyes back to the road when I say that, so I do the same. A long stretch of it snakes up ahead, and we turn off a few moments later when a signpost signals us right into a nature reserve. It’s prettier than what I had in mind.
The calm before the storm.
Orange rock gives the place a nice scorched look. A lake in the middle of the reserve reflects the blue sky, giving it a glass-like appearance. All is still, and I can’t decide if this is a good thing or not.
“Keep going,” I say, noticing the motorcycle shift down a gear.
“It’s beautiful,” Poet says.
“We’re here for Fiona, not the view.”
Surprisingly, they don’t bite back at my snappy remark.
We roll downhill. A bird of prey arches overhead, its impressive wingspan shading the ground beneath. Wind whistles in my ear, and a ball of tumbleweed wheels past us.
Feels like we’re in a fucking western.
We descend to the lake and then roll to a stop.
Silence.
I look over my shoulder and see nothing. All I hear is my own thumping heart, and now it beats even faster in panic.
Where is she, if not here?
“It’s okay,” comforts Wrangler, activating the stand to park the bike. “She’ll be somewhere.”
“It’s pointless,” I say. “Everything’s a waste of time with him. Felix is always two steps ahead.”
Wind rattles through the planes again, rippling the water. A cluster of bare trees stand on the other side of the lake, branches blowing gently in the breeze.
The bird of prey swoops low over them.
Wrangler frowns. “There’s something over there.”
“What?” I ask.
A look at the boys suggests it’s not good.
“WHAT?”
“A vulture,” Wrangler says.
Bullwhip squints into the distance. “We should go.”
Shakespeare, I know. Birds? Not so much.
But I do know that decay and rotting flesh and other disgusting things attract vultures.
I break into a run.
“Zoe!” one of them calls, but I don’t have time to look back and explain.
They charge after me, all three of them.
“Zoe! You need to be careful!”
“It could be a trap!”
“I don’t give a fuck!” I shout back, legs kicking out behind me like I’m an Olympic sprinter. God bless adrenaline for making running an easy task for once.
My sneakers sink into the sand, but I draw strength into my leg muscles and keep going. I wind around the lake, the bikers shortly behind me. Sand enters my mouth as I open it to suck in more oxygen, and sweat beads across my mouth. I taste salt and grit.
And fear.
Drawing closer to the trees, I wipe my eyes and focus my vision up ahead. I see it now. The red splotches. Some of the branches have been turned red, like paint has been spilled or something.
But that’s not the case.
Something swings from the thickest branch.
And still, the vulture looms closer.
“HEY!” I scream, like my threat is gonna magically scare it off. “Get away or I’ll kill you!”
Poet overtakes me, arms and legs swinging back and forth as he sprints. He arrives at the tree before me, and comes to an abrupt stop. A hand covers his mouth, and he tenses his shoulders, head rolling up to observe the swinging body.
That’s when I hear the screech.
“HELP!” shouts a female voice.
I’m a stone’s throw away now and my legs start to buckle, but I continue, one leg in front of the other, until I arrive at the scene.
And it’s sure to haunt me for the rest of my life.
A branch creaks. On it, swings Fiona. Red strands of hair blow in the wind, the knots in her hair almost as tight as the one around her neck. She chokes, and the sound echoes through my body, stabbing every artery.
It’s unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed before. Hearing a loved one choke and cry and gasp for breath paralyzes you with so much fear that there’s no other option but to shut down. My heart clenches, and I don’t know what to do. Vomit? Scream? Tear off my skin? Rip out my hair? I want to do all of the above, but my body simply crashes to the hard earth, and all control is lost.
I look up and see Wrangler climbing the tree. He slackens the knot, and Fiona heaves in relief.
“Stay still for us, darling,” instructs Wrangler. He fights with the rope, triceps bulging as he widens the circular knot even more until Fiona is able to unhook her head.
Her tiny body shakes like a leaf.
Poet climbs up the other side of the tree enough to grab her feet. They’re bare, and a nasty splinter at the sole causes more blood to spill. Bullwhip, tall enough without climbing, grabs Fiona’s other foot, and with Wrangler’s assistance, all three of them lower her safety.
She clutches onto them for a moment.
Until her eyes find me.
We collide, and I wrap my numb arms around her. I grip her matted hair and hold on to her for dear life, letting the shaking run its course.
“Oh my god, Fiona, I’m so sorry.”
“ Shhhh .” Her palm clamps over my mouth. “Don’t say a word. Felix only just left.”
So it definitely was him.
I stroke a hand through her hair. “Fuck, what did he do to you?”
A cut gashes her cheek, one deep enough to gross me out. Blood oozes slowly out of it, but the dried blood all over her face and neck suggests she’s lost a lot.
Her eyes lull closed, and her pale lips part to suck in another breath of air. Her hands attempt to clutch onto my now bloodstained tank top, but there’s not quite enough strength in her fingers for her to grip.
“We need to get her to the hospital.” I turn to the bikers. “Now.”
Bullwhip kneels beside us and presses two hands to the inside of her neck. “She’s fine, just slightly out of it.” Two cautious eyes find mine. “Taking her to the hospital is risky. We should clean this Felix mess up ourselves without authorities getting involved.”
“What? Don’t you think?—?”
“No, Zoe,” says Wrangler. “I’m telling you. We need to keep beneath the surface with this one. He’s in with the FBI.”
“What do you mean?”
Poet steps up. “Officers at the station told all of us to stay away from Felix Fernando. It was a warning, like, I don’t know…a backwards way of saying it’s impossible for us to win.” Poet stuffs bloody hands in his pockets. “My guess is that they sussed Felix out, but he paid for their silence or something.”
“He’s silenced the fucking FBI?!”
“Yeah,” Bullwhip nods. “That’s exactly what he’s done. He told me himself.”
“What do you mean?”
“When you’re a powerful member of society, losing is something you never have to worry about—you have money and dirt to blackmail people with.” Bullwhip straightens his posture and looks down at Fiona and me. “We keep this between us five. That’s it.”
“And that’s how we take him down,” Wrangler adds.
Their optimism is nice, but winning against Felix seems like a losing battle.
I wet my finger and attempt to rub away some of the dried blood from Fiona’s face. She looks terrible. She was born with blue eyes, apparently took after our mom—I dunno, I was too young when she passed in childbirth to remember. Apparently, according to my math teacher who used to attend the same psychology lectures as her, Mom used to sport the bluest eyes—Australian-summer-ocean kind of blue. She always said Fiona was the spitting image.
The only time I can remember Fiona’s eyes being blue was when the two of us were discussing her dream of going to college. Now they’re gray, but the gray is duller than I remember.
She needs life breathed into her.
It’s not about divorcing Felix to satisfy my sex life anymore. This is about Fiona. She’s the one still cooped up in Father’s house without a driver’s license—because he prohibits her from driving. Father doesn’t even let her get a job. He says she doesn’t need one, and that she should be thankful. But back when we used to live together, I saw the way she used to watch those true crime documentaries on the laptop, like she wanted in on the investigation.
This is about Fiona and her future.
And Sammy’s too. If we don’t act soon, we risk her growing up with an oppressive childhood too, as Felix accumulates even more power.
“Taking him down is the only way.” I smooth a static piece of hair behind Fiona’s ear. “We do it on Friday.”
“Friday is your wine tasting event with Felix.”
“Exactly.”
* * *
Pretending to give a shit about expensive wine was my idea of hell until a plan of action spiced it up a little. I recline in my seat as the makeup team works their magic. Tonight, the makeup look is a brown smoky eye, dramatic cheekbone contouring and a dark red lip to match the ruby dress Felix and his team dry-cleaned for me yesterday.
I smile on the inside. Already, the plan is coming together. Red is the color of blood—funny, considering that heaps of it has already been spilled this week.
Suddenly, dread sinks my stomach. Red isn’t like black—it makes you stand in the crowd, for good or for worse. If this plan fails, there’s no hiding, and then what? My cheeks turn the same dark red as the dress, and I become the laughingstock of the century?
“Smile, Zoe,” says one of the makeup artists. She’s called Sarah and always scrapes her hair back into a butterfly clip. With a makeup brush, she dusts setting powder across my forehead and examines her work in the mirror while the guy—Lenon—decides how to style my hair.
“Down,” I say, even though I don’t really have a say in the matter.
Felix usually butts in and decides himself, but he doesn’t today. Must be too busy getting his own face painted—sometimes, I think he wears more makeup than me.
“Hmm.” Lenon runs strands of hair through his fingertips, tilting his head in debate. “Yes, with red I think that will look good. Bring out a feminine side, which is what we want with such a bold color.”
Need I be reminded.
Tiredness wells under my eyes. I examine my reflection. Last night, I slept better, but it was with one eye open. It’s been two days since we saved Fiona from the staged suicide, and I haven’t left the house since.
Felix still assumes that Fiona is dead, strung up in the middle of nowhere decaying in the sun. Every time I walk past him, I stick my tongue to the roof of my mouth in case I burst and yell in his face. It’s tempting. He thinks she’s dead, and he moves through life just the same as before. I don’t think he suspects that anybody knows anything, but yesterday evening when the news played on ABC, he sat forward in his chair like he was curious to see if her body had been found.
If he discovers that she’s alive, he’ll try again.
Which is why I feel ready to throw up today. I don’t how I’m gonna keep down all of these wines—already, my stomach is unsettled.
We headed to Wrangler’s house after saving Fiona so we could get her cleaned up. While the others were doing that, Bullwhip got out his phone and showed me images he’d taken from Felix’s office. My eyes weren’t ready to read the words laid out in front of me. Alibis. Descriptions of how he killed and tidied up all of the mess. Bullwhip told me that there were hundreds of invoices. Most had been paid off, but the clients that failed to pay were shot.
“He gave them twenty-four hours to pay up,” explained Bullwhip. “Otherwise—” He cut an imaginary line across his neck to signal death.
I asked why the short time frame, and Bullwhip took one look at me and said, “If there’s one thing that man loves more than money, it’s murder.”
That did it for me, and I spent that night back at Felix’s reciting the plan constructed by me and the boys to take him down.
Nobody else can do it.
Only me.
Felix might not trust me, but he does need me on his side for the cameras. He said it himself—me entertaining other men is turning him into a laughingstock, so he needs me to do my job, smile and link arms to prove there’s nobody else.
“How are things with you and your father?” asks Sarah.
Things have been sticky in the media ever since I confronted Father. The comments were wild. A certain “Sara” went viral for questioning why the media left out important details, like me saying Felix was gonna kill Fiona, and the part where Father very kindly admitted he wanted sons not daughters. None of that was mentioned, not in any of the stories, and backlash spread like the plague in response to Sara’s very “woke” comment, because Felix “would kill himself before he killed others.”
Blah, blah, blah.
“Yeah,” Lenon adds to the conversation. “I was gonna ask—did you come to an understanding?”
“I can’t believe you’re still hanging around with those nobodies, ugh . They tried to rape you, Zoe. Rape. Want me to spell it out for you?” Sarah rolls her eyes. “They disgust me. I’m all for a little secret affair if nobody gets hurt, but this one needs shutting down now. This has all been made very public, and you’ve upset Felix a lot.”
Just not in the way you think.
I seal my lips as they continue, and wait for them to quit gossiping.
“I can’t believe one of them assaulted that dealer. Disgraceful.” Lenon runs a piece of my hair through the curling wand. “Also, it’s disrespectful. Poor Paul hasn’t even been dead a week yet, and already chaos is breaking loose in his casino.”
“I know, right?” Sarah curls her head around me. “Also, Zoe? Your literature teacher? Seriously? I know he’s a hottie, so do what you want, I guess, but you should’ve been more careful.”
I snap my neck around to face Sarah—not in the mirror. In real life. “What?”
“You didn’t see the interview?”
“With who?”
“Aaron. The dealer that two of your men threw up against the wall? It wasn’t long, only two minutes or something, but yeah, he was speaking about…what’s his name—Harrison Reeves? Apparently he’s always been a bit of a pervert. Always had a wandering eye for the girls he taught.”
Aaron? The son of a bitch who named himself Senior Year King?
The boy who took my virginity?
“It’s all bullshit, I assure you,” I say. My mouth feels like explaining what happened at the casino in full, but I’m tired and saving my breath for the event, where all will be revealed anyway—fingers crossed.
So when they ask what I was arguing with Father about, instead of telling them the truth—that he’s a psycho man who loves money more than family, I answer, “Can’t remember. Just some stupid, petty shit.”
Lenon adds another curl to my hair. “Are you gonna stop seeing the bikers?”
I take a look at myself in the mirror—red hair, red makeup, red dress incoming. I lied about the argument with Father, but that’s different because I don’t see a future with him like I do with Wrangler, Bullwhip, and Poet. The bikers. They’re different, and I imagine a future with them more every day. Sammy is Poet’s. There’s no denying it.
I observe the red getup for tonight and feel confident. If people used colors to describe romantic relationships, red is the one I’d use for how Wrangler, Poet, and Bullwhip make me feel. It’s hot and it’s passionate, and above all, red is the color of love.
Tonight, I embody us.
And so in response to Lenon’s question, I say, “No. I will never stop loving them.”
Even though that wasn’t exactly the question…
The room falls silent after that. After hair and makeup, a third person enters—Rosaline—to fit me into the dress that takes almost twenty minutes to get on. I twirl in the mirror. I love it. The mock neck accentuates my curves, and the skirts, tight around my legs, hug my curves. The design is simple and classic, and the silk material adds a touch of je ne sais quoi.
A black limousine waits outside for Felix and me, and we plonk ourselves in the back seat.
Silence again.
A thick coat of foundation covers Felix’s skin—two shades darker than his natural skin tone to give him that bronzed look he needs. A bow tie has been fixed around his collar, black like his heart, and the salt-and-pepper hair has been raked back away from his face which makes a change—usually, it just lies flat.
“I need you to smile tonight,” he says, ironically with a very straight face. “And if anyone asks you about the bikers, you say it’s over—understood? The doctors increased your sertraline dose to prevent the sleepwalking and running away. You weren’t thinking straight. You tell them that. Got it.”
I nod, but in my head I’m running through the script of how to end his career, hoping and praying that it all turns out to be a success.
Fiona hasn’t been mentioned. The last time Felix and I spoke about her was the night the bikers got arrested. Perhaps I should say something.
“I haven’t seen Fiona, have you?”
He looks at me blankly. “You told her to run.”
That, I can admit. I nod. “Yeah. Naturally, one tends to pick up the phone and tell their sister to run when their husband threatens to kill her.”
“Stop with the cockiness. It’s not a good look.” Felix turns away and pulls out his phone. In peripheral, I catch the ABC logo at the top of the page as he scrolls down. The news? He must be waiting for them to announce Fiona’s suicide. For some reason, he can’t drop it.
Then, he clicks onto his messages. He catches me looking at the screen, so I turn away and use the blackout window to my advantage. The reflection isn’t the clearest, but the two Ws at the top of the message thread indicate that he’s talking to Father.
A two-word message.
The second word is Fiona.
Discreetly, I turn my head from the window to make out the first.
“Where’s Fiona?” says the message.
Odd, I thought Felix knew where Fiona was—on the hanging tree.
“She’s not here,” replies Father.
“What are you doing?” Felix clicks off his phone and stares at me.
I shrug. “Nothing. Just want to know where my sister is.”
“Hmph,” he says.
And that’s the end of the conversation.
Cheering crescendoes as we draw closer to the event that takes place inside Caesar’s Palace. The wines brought in are all red—that would explain the color of my getup, and they’re apparently some of the most expensive in the world.
Felix hands me a card listing all of the different types. Chateau Lafite Rothschild 1923 from a vintage vineyard in Bordeaux, France, appears to be the most expensive on the menu tonight.
“They’re all one-of-a-kind,” says Felix. “And I’m hoping to shake a few hands tonight and seal some deals, so I don’t want you causing a fuss.”
Felix currently can’t locate Fiona, so that releases the tension some, but he will. That man can find anyone. He’ll somehow sniff her out and find her hidden away at Wrangler’s.
The car rolls to a stop and the back door opens. A man in a suit holds open the door as I clamber out. Camera flashes blind my vision, and it takes a moment to adjust. A bodyguard—I don’t know his name—escorts Felix and me to the red carpet. It’s a gated-off area, but people push and shove to get closer to the railings for the perfect shot. I smile and widen my eyes, and loop my arm around Felix, our sides pressed together.
I focus on the cameras, but my ears can’t help but pick up the questions.
“What about your other men?”
“Have you and Felix kissed and made up?”
“Where’s Warren? Is he still mad?”
“Is it true? Did the bikers try to rape you?”
I dismiss them all with an even wider smile, and flick my hair. Thankfully, I can use it to shield my eyes a little. It’s the only protection I have tonight.
Other notable people stroll down the carpet with us, including other successful businessmen I can’t remember the names of, and their wives. A young French woman, the daughter of a winemaker, twirls for the cameras in a pink velvet dress. To the naked eye, the downturned mouth goes unnoticed by most, but as an expert in all things camera-acting, I know fake happiness when I see it.
That’s the trouble. Everything’s curated.
The general public assumes truth in everything they see.
Tonight is important.
The truth must come out.
“In memory of Paul Royal” posters decorate the walls around the place, and as Felix and I walk down the red carpet, conversations float into my ear about how devastating the suicide was. Felix continues holding the same expression. There’s not even a glimpse of knowing on his face. That pretty much sums up how seamlessly he kills.
We make it to the end of the red carpet. A young woman, short and slender, greets us, and holds the microphone under Felix’s chin as she asks, “What wine are you most excited to test tonight?”
Felix smiles. “It will have to be the Chateau Lafite Rothschild 1923 from Bordeaux.”
“Expensive taste,” says the woman. She directs the microphone to me, and keeps up with the grinning. C’mon. Drop the act. We both know there are more exciting things in life than wine…or maybe not. “You look dazzling tonight, Zoe. Truly wonderful. Felix is very lucky to have you.”
Subtly, I turn my head his way.
He smiles.
And god, I fucking hate him. In public, he’s so smiley and innocent and modest about his ventures, but behind the scene when the curtain drops, he morphs into a wolf. There is no difference. Anxiety has been riddling my stomach all of today, but anger kills it in an instant. It’s not fair how easily he gets away with stuff. How he can kill Paul and the next day waltz around pretending to be devastated.
There’s no time to be anxious about taking him down anymore.
My entire life rests on this moment.
“That’s very kind of you to say.” I slap Felix’s shoulder. “But I’m also very lucky .”
“Adorable.” The interviewer admires us for a moment, then directs the next question at me. “I have something important to ask you.”
“Shoot.”
“What are you wearing?”
Here comes tonight’s sponsor. “The dress”—I smooth my hands down the silk—“is Dolce and Gabbana. Red too, as you can see.”
“And isn’t it a beautiful shade?”
“Isn’t it!” For this next part, I grab her wrist. “Do you know what it reminds me of?”
“Wine?”
“No! Blood. I thought I’d pay tribute to all of the people my husband has killed over the years.”
I feel the interviewer’s temperature drop. She tenses her body. Awkwardly turns around to the camera crew, who, still rolling, prompt her to continue. “Uh.” After trialing different shapes with her mouth, she settles with a smile. “Oh, Zoe, you’re funny.”
This isn’t her fault, and my intention wasn’t to make her feel uncomfortable, but my mouth keeps going.
“You know, Paul Royal. Isla Juniper?—”
“Zoe,” says Felix, “is a bit of a conspiracist, aren’t you, honey?” He strokes my head.
So I toss it in the other direction.
“We recently increased Zoe’s sertraline dose.” He elbows me in the side. “She’s not been doing too well, and the sleepwalking has been worsening.”
“Actually,” starts the young French woman in pink, “for sleepwalking, sertraline isn’t the right?—”
“I’m sure you have all been keeping up to date with the media,” continues Felix.
This draws in a crowd, and the general public, like caged animals behind the barriers, move to where we’re standing to hold up their iPhones.
“It’s a private matter, but one that needs to be addressed. As some of you may know, Zoe doesn’t have the best mental health record—sleepwalking, running away, etcetera, but I’m doing my best to get her on a good healthcare plan. It hasn’t been pleasant to see the photographs and rumors online, but those can’t be helped when you are in the public eye. Zoe and I have not been on the best terms, so I can understand why she feels the need to proclaim false information. She tests my patience sometimes.” A chuckle. “But she has my heart, and always will.”
If I loved you less I might be able to talk about it more.
The entire crowd hushes.
A tear threatens to fall, and I do my best to blink it away.
Words, weapons…he always wins.
But that’s why the boys and I developed a backup.
“Anyway,” continues Felix. “To move on to lighter news, I want to say how honored I am to be taking over Cash Pot Palace.” He places a hand on his heart—even though there’s no organ there. “Warren and I were both fond of Paul and his work. He was my confidant and friend, and the money-laundering scandal doesn’t make me love him any less.”
He slides a cold hand onto my shoulder. “The same goes for you, Zoe. Together, we can weather any storm, so I’d appreciate you guys letting us work out our differences in peace.” The hands drop to his sides. “Now, enough of that. This talking is making me thirsty. I think it’s about time we go and test out some wines!”
Applause fills the red carpet.
Felix tightens his grip around my arm and tugs me forward as we head indoors.
The Caesar’s Palace lobby is embellished in gold to give the place a warm and inviting feel, but currently I feel cold to the bone. Goose bumps pepper my skin. I want to wrap my arms around my stomach and generate warmth, but doing that signals a closed-off posture, and I can’t afford to piss off Felix even more by “slouching.”
He tenses his jaw as we walk into the building.
Now, the strip of red carpet looks even more red, and the glasses of wine on the tables we’re about to gather around glow like blood.
Red.
It’s like the boys are here with me.
I should shoot them a text for an update—if things haven’t already been plastered all over the media.
Felix escorts me to a table. There are many, and representatives stand around each one talking about various types of wine. It’s all too boring for me. To take the edge off on the weekend, a cheap Walmart vodka does the trick.
Felix raises a glass to his lips. I look at the bottle—that Bordeaux shit he was drabbling on about earlier.
“Here.” Felix passes me a glass, and in his most genteel voice, demands I try some.
“You’re supposed to avoid alcohol consumption when on sertraline,” I say.
He issues me a glare, and then goes on to force the glass into my hands. After that, he distances from me to talk to representatives from the vineyard.
“…yes, sir, we can make arrangements for Zoe and yourself to visit.”
“…oh, how wonderful.”
I slip my phone from my clutch and message Wrangler—we created an untraceable number the other day to be in communication for the event.
Me: Plan A failed.
I click off the phone and pretend I’m enjoying myself as I await a response. Everybody has now filtered inside and the sounds of chatter echo around the lobby as people laugh and sip alcohol and talk wine jargon. Suited people are everywhere, and I’m tired of it. My eyes crave leather. My ruggedly handsome bikers.
A message pings through.
Unknown Number: Let me guess. He charmed the audience with his words?
Me: Yup. Made me look like a total looney.
Unknown Number: Time for plan B. You still have evidence of the marriage contract on your phone, right? All you need to do is show that to somebody that works in the media.
Me: But what if they don’t want to believe me?
Unknown Number: You’re Zoe fucking Warrington, okay? You can do this.
Me: IDK if I can. You don’t understand. He can squash anything. He’s too?—
“What the hell are you doing?” Felix snaps in my ear. “You’re testing my patience tonight.”
I put the phone back into my clutch and stare up at him. “None of this is bullshit.”
That’s when he swoops me away. My legs no longer belong to me, pretty much like everything else. Arm clutching mine, he ushers me further into the lobby, away from the tables.
“If you’re going to do this,” I say, “take it outside. There are too many people here.”
But Felix continues into the building. I know why. Escorting me outside will draw too much attention, and will involve us having to thread between the crowds to make it out of the front doors.
I’m filed through a door, and then pushed up a couple of stairs. A wall partitions us from the wine tasting shenanigans below. Back here are boxes full of unopened bottles of booze. Storage, it looks like. Up ahead, a microphone rests on a stand. Probably the evening planner has asked Felix to do a speech or something later.
SLAP!
Right across my face before I can even fully turn around.
I wince. Press a hand over my cheek.
“Is that wise? Leaving an imprint of your hand on my face? Remember, we’re at a public event. You don’t wanna fuel the conspiracies.”
“Stop it. Right now. You are skating on very thin ice.”
Still no word on my sister? Huh. Interesting.
“Can I go now?” I ask.
He narrows his eyes like he’s doing a cross-examination. “No.”
“Come on. You’re the man of the night.”
“Who were you texting?” he asks.
“When?”
“Just now. Who was it?” His face turns sour. “Them?”
That’s when I see it.
The microphone.
That thing isn’t just an inanimate object anymore—it’s the key that can unlock the chains Felix has shackled me in for years.
If it can be turned up loud enough, wine tasters and guests in the next room might just hear our conversation…
Staring up into his sadistic eyes, I make a point of nestling the clutch even further into my armpit, because if I refuse to hand it over, I’ll be able to run past the microphone and power the thing up without him knowing. It’s possible. It’s dark enough in here for my movements to go unnoticed.
“Give it to me. Your phone.”
“No.”
“Don’t you dare say no again to me, Zoe Fernando.”
I take off, beelining for the microphone. I run, and he chases after me. The scanned documents on my phone are all I have left. If he takes my phone, there is no plan B.
But the microphone presents a perfect plan C.
And to make this work, I forfeit my phone.
I just hope the wire snaking across the floor from the microphone leads to a plugged in power outlet.
“ZOE!”
An arm reaches out to block my path, just as I collide with the microphone.
The stand topples with me, and I subtly wrap my hand around the contraption to search for an on button. My fingers locate nothing but smooth surfaces. There’s no dip. No rounded button to press and power up the device. I fumble my hands over the grated area, but still—nothing.
I feel my whole life capsize when Felix steals that clutch from me.
I’m at a loss.
My fingers can’t locate the button.
Plan B and C both recede away from me.
“Give it back!” I demand.
Felix drops the clutch and switches on the phone.
A white light illuminates his deformed face, and he reads.
I try the microphone one last time. After that, I’ll give up. Surrender to Felix and his world. Accept that I’ll never see Fiona again, and the bikers, and that this is all my fault for failing to control my sexual desires.
But then my fingers magically locate something.
A button.
I press it down, and then stand up to meet Felix’s eyes.
The air feels different now, and it tastes sweeter on my tongue.
The microphone is on the floor, but a tiny red flashing light indicates that it’s been powered up, and that’s all I need to know.
“A unknown number?” Felix chuckles. “Subtle!”
I remain quiet.
“So, you’ve been plotting to destroy me with them. They’re all a bunch of pussies.” He cackles. “They pride themselves on coming to your rescue, but I don’t see them party-crashing today. They only care enough about you to get into your pants, Zoe. When are you gonna learn?”
Inwardly, I grimace. Things aren’t sounding too pleasant at the moment on my part.
Time to anger the beast.
The microphone might not even reach the wine tasters. But it’s worth a shot.
“You’re a killer. Paul Royal. Isla Juniper. Those are the two notable ones, but there’s more. The invoices are proof—that’s how you started your business at eighteen years old. Your fans deserve to know the truth. You murdered Paul because he refused to join forces with you, and murdered Isla Juniper because Paul requested it. You pretty much murder anyone, don’t you, even if there’s no financial reward? Like my sister.”
“I didn’t kill your sister. I went back to that tree and she was gone. I suspect you and the three biker friends have something to do with that.”
“We saved her.”
“ Once .” The room is dark, but Felix’s face still finds a way to glow. “One time. I’ll find her and do it again.”
“No you won?—”
“This is your fault, Zoe. There’d be no need to punish if you orchestrated self-restraint. That’s the problem with you. You’re always testing your luck.” He pauses. “Maybe not. I know what you’re like. It all started with the porno searches—you’ve always been a ratty little whore, spreading your legs the minute somebody from the opposite sex gives you attention. You embarrass yourself, and you embarrass me. You’re lucky you have a face like that. You’d be scrounging around at the bottom without me.” He tilts his head, reevaluating. “Or, maybe not. Maybe you’d be working as an easy whore. Either way, I saved you. Be more grateful. Don’t you see the crowds outside? Everybody wishes they were you.”
I’m not bothered about the microphone anymore, the public, people finding out. Felix thinks he’s done some sort of charity number on me, like he saved me from the streets, and it boils my blood.
Anger courses through my veins, and my heart feels like it’s gonna explode. How dare he steal my life and think it a blessing? He took away my freedom and trapped me in a mansion, sugarcoating it with quartz finishing, grand chandeliers and staircases. He thought I’d see it as a gift, and he thinks I’m indebted to him.
Once, Felix said, “The average female would kill to get their hands on limited edition Louboutins,” but he forgets that the average female also has a sex drive, and dreams of building her own future.
And then there’s Sammy.
I wouldn’t even call it parenting. Felix is a replica of my father.
And I’m done with the way he’s treated us both.
Tears blur my vision, but my body shakes with an emotion I can’t quite pinpoint.
All I know is that I want to see him burn.
So I launch myself at him. Start throwing punches at his chest.
“You selfish, ungrateful brat.” He grabs my wrists and locks them together. “Your sister might be alive and well tomorrow, but my employees will track her down in no time. You speak too much, that’s your issue. I think we need to quiet you. What if I knot that rope around Fiona’s neck, and this time I make you watch?”
“And if I refuse?”
“You reach the same fate.”
“You wouldn’t. You need me alive for your reputation.”
“Maybe not.” This brings a smile to his face. “You have a bad case of sleepwalking, and that could send you to your grave. You’re a bit of a looney at the moment, aren’t you? When men try to rape women, the woman doesn’t tend to go back and entertain them further. You’ll end up killing yourself. Think about it. The delusion paired with the sleepwalking will send you straight to your grave. One night, maybe you’ll walk across the road during one of your sleepwalking episodes and collide with something. A car? No.” He searches the floor. “A truck would be more devastating.”
My breath catches in my throat.
Please, microphone, be loud enough to amplify this conversation.
“You wouldn’t.”
“Why not? It’s like you say—the only thing tying us together is a contract, and I can opt out whenever I want. This doesn’t have to be forever. You said that yourself.” He looks at me for a moment, and then continues, “Should I kill you first, and let your sister and biker friends watch, or vice versa?”
Tears prick my eyes, and the urge to punch him again rises.
He’s not bringing Sammy up alone.
She’s not losing her mother like I did.
“And by the way.” He wanders over to the microphone. “Nice try. This is a condenser microphone, so it needs to be plugged in first.” He squats. Reels in the lead.
The plug dangles from his hands.
“It was recording! The red light was?—”
“Flashing, exactly. And red, not green.” He cackles.
And it’s a laugh that chills my blood.
I knee him in the gut. Press the two plug spikes into his chest.
But it’s not enough.
Felix grabs my leg, wraps his hands around it, and I hobble, unable to control myself anymore—not like that’s anything fucking new.
I’m about to lose my balance when Felix throws me into the wall.
I brace for impact.
Except it’s not a wall. It’s a curtain.
I land on a marble-polished floor.
A pain shoots through my head, and I look up.
Either I’m severely concussed, or I’m lying on the lobby floor as people snap photos from a bazillion different angles.
Gasps fill the air.
I turn around and see Felix standing center stage like a deer in headlights. The microphone failed, but our conversation must’ve been picked up from behind the curtain.
The room breaks out into chaos. Paparazzi flood the scene and start live news feeds, cameras flash from every direction, and people cover their mouths in shock as they turn to their equally startled peers to try and comprehend the turn of events.
I stand, and two suited men come to wrap their arms around mine to help me up.
The one on the right just so happens to be the French representative Felix was in conversation with earlier.
Avoiding the cameras and interviewers, I pick up my full glass of wine. Felix no longer stands on the stage, but I catch sight of him making a run for it—or trying to, anyway. He’s moments away from leaving, but three bodyguards deny him exit.
Not three bodyguards.
My chest lightens.
It’s Wrangler, Poet, and Bullwhip.
He tries to tackle them, but it’s no use. It’s three against one. And he’s weaponless.
I catch up, and the crowd parts around me like I’m Moses. I’ll be a biblical figure after today, that’s for sure.
“In life,” I begin, catching my breath, “you must own up to your mistakes and face the music. That is the consequence of sin, unfortunately .”
Felix’s face twists into something foul.
But it’s about to get even fouler.
I take my time pouring the Chateau Lafite Rothschild 1923 over his head.
Then, I exit the building.