8. Viola The Monstera
viola the monstera
Deirdre
M y eyes blink open to the sun illuminating the space.
It’s a bright reminder that I haven’t been closing my curtains before bed.
I suppose my plan to lure him in was successful, unless I dreamed up the events of last night.
Which would be a great explanation for the man who broke into my house and looked at me like he belonged here.
It’s possible that in that state of unreality, an opportunity presented itself that would’ve allowed me to prove my worth as a Klarke.
One might’ve considered it divine intervention.
Except that for people like us, God oscillates between screening our calls or declining them.
Sure, we’ve earned that treatment fair and square, but foolish me holds out for miracles every once in a while.
Even the damned gotta believe in something.
Except last night wasn’t a dream. I got exactly what I asked for, and they came bearing gifts. Not exactly what I’d expected from my secret admirer, but at least he was raised right. A man should never enter a woman’s home empty-handed, so it was a kind gesture.
But even pigs are well-fed before being led to slaughter.
For weeks, I psyched myself up to finally face him, and it was nothing like I’d imagined.
I was ready, like I promised, but all of that practice left me ill-prepared for the audacious target whose presence both frightened and aroused me.
While I didn’t finish the job, I’d kept my word to an extent, surprising myself by pulling the trigger.
But then my stomach sank when I noticed he was wounded.
This heart of gold will get me killed on day, but until then, fuck it, we ball.
That encounter left me sitting on the stairs thinking of all the times my dad compared me to Regina.
Growing up, she always fought my battles for me, and he couldn’t stand it, telling me to have thicker skin, to be less sensitive and defend myself more.
He’s done it so many times that it’s second nature at this point, and only adds to my resentment toward her.
I understand his comments aren’t her fault, but the blood on her hands is .
Why can’t he accept that I’m not like Gina? I could never find joy in senseless killing, and if that means he won’t let me take on more with Divin, then so be it. I’d like to be allowed to choose my own path while still feeling like a member of this family I didn’t choose to be a part of.
Whiskey and cognac distilling is another lane paved by the Klarke name, though I feel valued at this company in a way I’ve never been at home.
My voice is heard, my ideas are appreciated, and they gave me a chance to gain their trust. I did have the advantage of signing their paychecks, but I still bust my ass to be the best boss I can be.
In turn, the amount of faith these strangers have in me is baffling when I consider how little faith my family has in my abilities.
I stretch my arms above my head and kick off the covers, sliding my house shoes on as I glance around the room.
My eyes catch on the pilón I brought upstairs after he left.
I examined it for a hidden camera and came up short, but I couldn’t stop staring at it whenever I wasn’t peeking out the window.
After a few frantic texts went unanswered, I unsent them and waited around for some indication he’d be okay.
I can’t explain why, but I suppose I needed to know if I was even capable of hurting someone.
At least if I was accused of murder again, this time I would be guilty.
Even if it were self-defense, it’d be another mess my family would get stuck cleaning up.
And my father would never let me forget it.
This is by far the weirdest situation I’ve ever been in. The idiot survived, and a rush of relief washed over me once I noticed him, quieting my anxious thoughts enough to finally get some sleep.
The more we interact, Scar slowly chips away at my guard, and I hate it.
He isn’t the most insufferable man, but his audacity aggravates the fuck out of me.
Then again, so does every man , including my father.
The small part of me that doesn’t fear Scar can appreciate how he helps around the house, fills my tank and replaces my groceries. Selflessness goes a long way with me.
It might be why I let him live last night.
The man is a stalker , I have to remind myself.
Stalking is not something sane people do.
Unfortunately for me, I attract crazy. It’s not shocking that another one has found something he liked in me.
With past partners, there’s always been some dark secret they’re hiding that ends up being an absolute dealbreaker.
It’s possible that Scar’s obsessive personality is his dark secret.
Either way, something is fucking off with him.
For starters, I shot him and he came back.
Any other man would’ve had my place surrounded with red and blue lights, caution tape outlining the scene of the crime as I leave my house in a body bag.
I shot him, and he still sent a text, wishing me goodnight.
It’s safe to say the dark romance novels I’ve been reading have fucked with my logical thinking. Either that or the bar is in hell.
It’s definitely in hell.
A stalker who sends consistent morning and nightly texts.
That’s the bare minimum I’d expect when being courted.
I shouldn’t be impressed, but if he were fictional, I’d let him take me to dinner.
He appears to have a job, since he doesn’t lurk around my place all the time.
Which is good, because I’m not a cheap date.
A horn honking outside distracts me, followed by my phone lighting up with an incoming call from Scar.
I can’t help my sigh as I lift my phone to accept the call. “Why are you calling me?”
“To see if you’d answer. Good morning, Doe,” he says with a deep chuckle. “I didn’t want you to be late for work. Grabbed your coffee order and donuts for breakfast.”
“You cannot be serious,” I deadpan.
“I’m very serious. Devil’s food cake, your favorite,” he sings, and I stifle a laugh at his lighthearted silliness in spite of the fact that he’s nursing a gunshot wound that I inflicted.
I nearly ask how he knows that, but of course, he does. Mindlessly, I pace around my room, debating on whether to take this exchange further, when a question rushes out of my mouth.
“What do you do that gives you so much free time to bother me?”
“Is this your way of asking about my career?”
“Oh, he’s got himself a career ,” I say in a mocking tone.
“Funny. I wouldn’t expect a nepo baby to know what that word means.”
My jaw drops at his response, and I’m not even mad. He got me with that one.
“Oooohhh. He bites in the daytime,” I respond with a chuckle, flipping on the light switch in my en suite bathroom to assess myself in the mirror. I could look much worse. A nap during my lunch hour will do wonders.
“I’m always up for a bite, Doe. I’m a grown-ass man,” he assures in that cocky tone of his. “Matter of fact, I’d like to talk for the rest of my commute. If that’s all right?”
“Only if you answer my questions,” I negotiate, exiting my room.
“It’s my job to know things. I’ll answer two more, so choose wisely.”
“What kind of things ?”
“Whatever is asked of me.”
I trudge down the stairs, considering my last question. But I get distracted by the clean floor beneath me that was left in disarray the night before. The scatter of feathers, shattered ceramic, and soil gone.
What the hell?
I continue the journey through the foyer, entering the kitchen to find the source of the commotion last night. My favorite plant rests on the tile unpotted. I’m at a loss for words.
My monstera? He knocked over my fucking monstera plant!
Her name is Viola, she’s twenty years old and belonged to my late grandmother, Cici. It was one of the things she wanted me to have when she passed, and I’ve taken pride in caring for it. If I’d known this was what he damaged, he wouldn’t have made it out of here alive.
His gruff voice snags my attention. “You still there? Did you get the donuts yet? I left them on the counter,” he informs me, like it’s completely normal.
“What do I need to do to keep you from breaking into my house?” I finally ask, realizing this motherfucker might insist I clear out a drawer for him instead.
He snorts before saying, “Simple. Either aim for the head or invite me in.”
Before I can respond, a beep sounds, notifying me of a call on the other line. I pull the phone away to glance at it and see Regina’s name flashing on the screen.
What impeccable timing she has. As much as I’m enjoying this conversation, I suppose I should see what she wants. Ignoring her is childish of me, but I’m not the best at expressing myself because I’m not usually heard.
“Um, I gotta go, Scar. Work is calling,” I rush out.
“Go ahead, boss. Have a good day.”
“You, too. Thanks for breakfast,” I say, noticing the box of donuts and coffee cup resting on my kitchen island. I waste no time clicking the other line to answer.
“What’s going on, Gi?”
“Are you doing okay?” she asks, her voice heavy with concern.
“Yeah, why do you ask?” Mindlessly, I open the box of donuts, smiling when I see it is, indeed, filled with my favorites.
“I’m surprised you actually picked up. I have an update about Darius’s problem.”
“How’s that going?” I ask, even though I’d rather not know.
“The situation has been taken care of, and it won’t come back on either of you,” she answers in that resolute tone of hers.
It still amazes me how casually she talks about killing, as if she’s discussing the weather. It brings me back to the night I got a similar message from her, but it was me she was protecting.
You don’t have to worry about him again. The debt is paid.
A life was taken, and that was it. I was left to sit with those words. The debt is paid.
“Dee, do you hear me? What’s going on?” Gina asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Um—sorry. I’m all right. Was just thinking about Cici,” I say, which isn’t a complete lie.
“Oh. I just left her gravesite,” she murmurs, the weight of grief slowing her down. “Brought fresh flowers?—”
“Because it’s Thursday,” we say in unison and share a chuckle.
“Well, I’ll let you go. I love you,” she tells me, and I know it to be true.
“I love you too, Gi,” I respond before disconnecting the call.
Memories of my grandparents flood me as I stare at the beloved plant splayed across my kitchen floor.
They weren’t fans of being called grandma and grandpa, which was odd growing up, but we knew better than to argue with them.
So, he was our Ace, and she was our Cici, named after celosia flowers. They were her favorite.
Our grandpa always had a bouquet of celosias delivered to her every Thursday.
It was even in his will to continue the tradition.
Long after she passed, we all took turns replacing her flowers every Thursday, no matter what.
It pained me to have to stop that tradition when I left the city.
I can only hope to be loved as deeply as she was someday.
Half an hour and one failed attempt of lifting and repotting the plant later, I’ve officially given up.
I’m so sorry, Cici. I’ll fix this. Or better yet, he will.
I fire off a text to Scar. Since he wants to be in my damn house, he can make himself useful.
Since you can’t watch your big ass feet, YOU can repot this damn plant.
It’s been in the family for 20 YEARS.
Watch your step OR I won’t miss next time.
Scar
It was an accident and I promise I’ll make it right.
Sure you will.
It better be back to normal by the time I get home.
Scar
You have my word.
Who did I piss off enough to send this man here?
It’s the only rationale I have for why he’s stalking me.
Especially when I factor in the “family business.” I’m on the cusp of such a big opportunity that I can’t help but feel like he’s meant to be a distraction to divert my attention. Someone wants me to fuck up this deal.
My stomach turns as a thought crosses my mind. My dad is so insistent on sending family members to report on me, it’s possible that he hired someone to do it round the clock instead.
If that is true, killing him could be another one of my fuckups to add to the running list. It’s not like I can just call him up and ask about this man who’s been stalking me. Because if I’m wrong and someone else hired him, history will repeat itself, and I can’t have that on my conscience.
Either way, Scar’s blood will be on my hands, and it won’t matter if I pull a trigger because we’re both fucked.