43. Lavender
“Brin!”I hammer the side of my fist on the door again. Bang-bang-bang! “Brin, open this fucking door, or so help me, I’ll—”
The door swings open, and my brother stands in the entryway with a white towel wrapped around his waist. “Lavender? Fuck’s sake, what’s going on?”
“That’s what I want to know,” I grate out, not waiting for an invitation as I push my way past him.
“Come in, why don’t you,” he mutters, swinging the door closed.
I drop my purse on the console table and turn to face him, shoving my fists under my armpits because I really want to hit something, and he’s just a little too close. I feel uncontrolled. Wired. My head is filled with thoughts that keep banging against the walls of my brain without making any sense.
“Tell me what I don’t know,” I demand as my heart hammers and my stomach tenses.
“You’ll need to be a bit more specific,” he mutters, but when he turns, I can see he’s concerned. “I’m sure there’s loads of shit you know nothing about.”
“Including things about my husband?”
“I don’t… no. I’m not doing this.”
“Yes, you are.”
“If you want to know anything, ask him.”
“I will, but I want to hear from you first.”
His gaze flicks in the direction of the stairs. “Mind if I go put some clothes on?” he asks gruffly.
We’re on the eighteenth floor, so I guess he’s not escaping out the window.
“Fine. But hurry. I have shit to do.” Daisy’s still with Primrose. She knows something is up, but she didn’t ask too many questions.
“I see you’re in your usual charming mood,” he says as he stomps off.
But that’s just deflection. This right now? This isn’t my fault. But this mood feels familiar, like the Lavender of old.
I make my way into the living room and to the glass doors overlooking a terrace. Brin paid a fortune for this apartment a few years ago. It has stunning views of Westminster, to Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, and beyond. The early evening sky is really lovely. Pale pinks, violets, and oranges—it seems almost ethereal, but it does nothing to calm the turmoil I feel inside.
My husband, the man who professes to love me, who married me for… what? Payback? The man who then kept me under his roof to live a lie. At least, that’s what I’ve pieced together. What his lawyer said. What my brain was intent on denying.
And then there’s Brin—does blood make his betrayal worse?
I hear his footsteps tripping lightly down the stairs before his tall form appears in the doorway, pulling a black T-shirt down over his waist.
“Want to tell me what this is all about, dragging me out of the shower?” Bluff and bluster. I see the worry in the pinch between his eyes.
“I want the truth. I want you to tell me the truth.”
His brows flicker like he doesn’t understand.
“I swear to God, if you don’t start being straight with me, I will start breaking things.”
“Jesus, Lavender. Haven’t you grown out of tantrums?”
I walk over to his huge TV, which sits on a low console. This is not the behavior of an adult. A sane person. But I don’t feel sane. I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience when the behemoth TV wobbles as I rattle it a little.
“No! All right, all right.”
I don’t take my hand off the edge of his top-of-the-range, razor-thin screen.
“First off,” he says, his finger held aloft. “I didn’t marry him.”
“Hardly a compelling start.” My eyes feel so dry and like they’re bulging from my head on stalks.
“I didn’t even know you knew him, not until I walked into the kitchen to find you flashing a big old diamond and a glass of champagne.”
“But you knew it was a lie.” I did too, just not the lie Raif and Brin were hiding.
“How could I when you looked so happy? With Mum there and Primrose making a fuss. You wouldn’t have believed me.”
“That’s not the point. It’s also not the truth. You were just covering your own arse.”
“There was no point in upsetting you by telling you. What’s done was done, that’s what I told myself.”
“I was done,” I mutter unhappily. “You should’ve tried to tell me, taken me aside or something.”
“Yeah, because he would’ve gone for that. He was watching you like a hawk does a tiny mouse.”
“And afterward? You could’ve come to me.”
“I thought about it.” His shoulders sag. “I really did. But would you have believed me over him?”
I make a noise full of derision.
“Lavender, you’re my sister. You’re a colossal pain in the arse, but I do love you. I would never go out of my way to hurt you.”
“Or set me right. You love me but not enough to come clean about your part in my marriage. It’s much easier to blame me when it all fell apart, right? Stupid Lavender screwed up like she always does.”
“But how have you screwed up? You have a husband who loves you. Whether he did or not before he proposed is a moot fucking point.”
“Is that what you think or just what you tell yourself?”
“I know it was wrong. I went back and forth over the decision for weeks. But then I realized the time to say something had passed. I saw the way he looked at you. The way you returned those looks. I wasn’t going to ruin things.”
“Living a lie ruins, Brin. Lies eat away and erode.”
“If I’d known you were seeing him before, I would’ve said something, but I couldn’t afterward. Can’t you see that?”
“I see only that you both made a fool of me.”
Maybe I’m a hypocrite. He thinks I married for love, not for money. Not by blackmail. I won’t tell him. Pride, I suppose.
“Whatever it was at the start, it’s clear that bloke would drag his balls over broken glass for you.”
A noise sounds in the air between us, part incredulity and part plaintive plea. “Is that your way of trying to make me feel better?” Because it does, God help me.
“If nothing else, that is true. ‘Don’t call her Lav if you know what’s good for you. What’s the name of the boyfriend who hurt her?’ And then he gave you a car worth a quarter of a mill!”
Gavemight be stretching it. I demanded it.
“But at the heart of it,” I say as my eyes turn glassy, “he married me to get back at you. I need to hear you say it—admit it.”
“Lavender, come on. Be reasonable.” A pause. A stare off. Then Brin throws up his arms. “Fine, I’ll say it. I fucked his fiancée, all right?”
“Yeah. Thanks. I know, but not the details. Did you know she was engaged?”
“I did.” His chin lifts with defiance, but I see through it. Hear the hoarse note in his tone. “It was just a heat of the moment thing. She told me it was an open relationship, but it didn’t quite look that way when he walked in on us.”
“Nice.” God, I feel ill just looking at him.
“No, it was very far from nice. It was fucking horrible. I felt like such a prick, but she was the one who lied, not me.”
“You didn’t lie to him, at least.” Anger leaps up inside me, hot like a flame. I tamp it down, not ready to give in just yet. “Why here? I thought my husband was someone to be afraid of. A bad man,” I say, my mouth turning down.
“You knew?”
“I’m not an idiot, though you seem to think so. Was it just another thing you thought you’d just keep from me?”
“Grow up, Lav. Most people with money are up to no good. I wasn’t sure if you knew. And no, I know you’re not stupid.”
“So what happened? When Raif walked in on you.” I want to know, and I want to run away. Why is it we like to hurt ourselves?
“It wasn’t a pleasant experience, let me put it that way.”
“Caught with your pants down,” I mutter.
“Celine admitted she lied. To me. To him. I dunno, maybe that helped my cause.”
“But not mine,” I retort. “You screwed her, so he screwed me over.” He needed to get married to help Daisy, but maybe he thought he was in love, unlike Brin who fucked with his plans. Literally. Not that my brother realizes any of this.
Maybe that’s why Celine didn’t get her golden handshake. I don’t care about that, but I hate that I was second choice. Second to the woman with endless legs and golden hair down to her waist. My God, I felt so smug in that pink café.
The first Mrs. Deveraux, I think with an unhappy huff.
Did he love her? Did she break his heart?
He said no, but God, I fucking hope so.
I hope he knows pain for what he’s done to me.
He can’t love me, no matter what he says.
“Well, this is just great, isn’t it? My life, the second chapter. Another fuckup,” I say almost to myself.
“He loves you. I see it.”
“You know nothing. But there’s no use crying over spilt milk, right?”
I don’t wait for Brin’s platitudes as, with a heave, I pull on the TV. Watch it tip. Fall. Hear it crack.
See it. Hear it. Feel nothing.
“Ah, fuck!” Brin throws up his hands once more, but it looks like he knew it was coming.
But I’m not done. Not even when I stomp on it.