Chapter 5
Five
“Some days, survival isn’t bravery. It’s performance. You smile, you breathe, and hope no one notices the cracks.”— Aria Boschett.
The morning light slices through the curtains, landing across my bed just as my alarm shrieks.
I slap the snooze on my brand-new phone.
Every muscle protests as I stretch, a dull, lingering ache creeping through my limbs.
A cruel reminder of Saturday night. Of running for my life, only to be caught anyway.
If my legs had a voice, they’d cuss me out with every step to the bathroom.
I twist the shower handle, adjusting the water until steam clouds the air.
The second the warm spray hits my skin; flashes of memory burst through me.
Cyan. The knife. Hayden screaming. The wicked gleam in Cyan’s eyes when his fingers gripped my throat.
Fear, terror...those visceral, primal reactions.
I understand that. But something darker had been there too, curling low in my stomach.
I feel disgusted that my body felt lust when his hand was around my throat.
My back meets the cold tile as my legs give out, as I slide to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees.
How the hell am I supposed to walk into work and pretend everything is fine?
How do I erase the sensation of Cyan’s touch?
Tears mix with the shower water, but at least here, no one can see them.
Tasha is already suspicious. It got worse when she saw my new phone; her questions were relentless.
No matter what, I can’t let her know the actual story.
I almost blurted it out yesterday. Guess what?
Hayden, the married, lying jackass, stole ten million from what I’m pretty sure is the mob, and Cyan, their boss, said he owns me now, making me Hayden’s debt repayment.
But the memory of those two words funeral dates.
Tasha wouldn’t let it go. She’d try to fix it.
She always does. But this time, she’d get hurt.
Or worse. I must figure this out on my own.
Forcing myself to stand, I go through the motions, my morning routine a lifeline pulling me back to normalcy. I smooth concealer under my eyes, add a touch more color to my lips, and straighten my outfit just a little more than usual. Because today, I need control. Even if it’s only an illusion.
By the time I step into my grandmother’s bedroom, I’m fully dressed in my best armor, my favorite work outfit.
A burgundy pencil skirt, high-neck floral blouse, yellow blazer, and pumps that match.
I feel lighter, better. My Nonna is already out of bed, sitting in her wheelchair, her silver hair neatly brushed, her delicate Italian features still regal despite the hardships of the past year.
Pauline, her live-in nurse, holds a glass of water to her lips, her dark brown skin contrasting against Nonna’s lighter tone.
She’s been with us since my move to Crescent Bay.
Nonna’s eyes still fill with confusion when she looks at Pauline. “Thank you. What did you say your name was again?”
Pauline stands tall, ever patient, places the now empty glass on the tray and smiles. “Pauline.”
“Well, Pauline, you’re very kind.” The familiar ache presses against my ribs.
She asks Pauline that question constantly.
Pauline’s warm brown eyes flick toward me, an unspoken understanding passing between us.
She and I could be mistaken for family, both of us having African ancestry, similar undertones in our brown skin, though my features bear the clear stamp of my Italian heritage.
Strangers often assume we’re related. Sometimes, I wish we were.
At least then, I wouldn’t feel so alone in this.
I cross the room, bending slightly to adjust Nonna’s blanket and kiss her cheeks. “Good morning.” Her deep-set hazel eyes sweep over me, brows knitting in concentration. For a second, something flickers in them. Recognition? Futile hope curls in my chest.
“Morning,” she says, then pauses. “Who are you? Pauline’s daughter?”
I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment; I should know better. When I open them, my Nonna is watching, waiting. Nonna doesn’t remember the little girl whose wild curls she learned to braid, one patient strand at a time, or the teenager who baked biscotti at her side. She doesn’t remember me.
I force a smile and take hold of her veined hand. “No, but like Pauline, I’m here to take care of you.”
“That’s nice.” Nonna beams, completely unaware that her having no memory of me is a grief that keeps carving me open, again and again.
Pauline clears her throat, stepping back, holding Nonna’s food tray in hand. “She had a nutritious breakfast today. Oatmeal and fruit, and she even asked for an extra slice of toast.”
I nod, grateful for the normalcy. “That’s great.” I tap Nonna’s hand affectionately. “I’m heading to work, but I’ll see you later, okay?”
Nonna smiles. “Bye… bye, pretty lady.” I squeeze her fingers once more before letting go.
As I reach the door, her voice drifts after me, light and warm.
“She’s a lovely girl. Reminds me of my granddaughter.
” My breath catches. Somewhere, a part of her still knows me, just not enough to recognize me standing in front of her.
“I wonder why she doesn’t come to see me anymore?
” I glance back. Her hazel eyes glaze over, filling with tears.
“Did I do something wrong? I can’t remember. ”
The sound of her soft sobs hits me square in the chest. Pauline’s hand finds her shoulder, murmuring comfort, but I can’t move.
My throat burns as I press a fist to my lips.
She didn’t forget me because she wanted to.
Her mind just… let go. I turn before the tears reach my own eyes. If I stop, I’ll shatter.
In the hallway, I press my back against the wall and draw a long, shaky breath. I swipe at the corner of my eyes, careful not to ruin the makeup I worked so hard to perfect. Grief gets no room in the day ahead. I square my shoulders, inhale, and step into the kitchen.
Tasha is already waiting, sipping from a to-go cup, dressed to kill in an ocean-blue pantsuit that hugs her tall, lean frame. Her dreadlocks hang down to the middle of her back. “Ready?” She asks, handing me my breakfast.
I nod, grabbing the cup and bagel filled with cream cheese and sweet guava jam. “You’re the best, Tasha. If I swung that way, I’d marry you.”
She snorts. “Please, we both love dick too much. Well, I do. You have had none in a long, long, lo...ng time.”
“You’re such a bitch,” I mutter between sips.
“And yet, you love me.”
“Unfortunately.” I say as I tip my coffe cup at her. Tasha grins, unapologetic, as we step outside.
The drive is mostly quiet, the morning news muttering from the radio while I devour my bagel.
But as soon as I take my last bite, Tasha strikes.
“So... you gonna be okay seeing Hayden at work?” The question makes my stomach twist. I nearly choke, washing the lump down with coffee.
Tasha pulls over. “That’s it. You’re telling me what happened. ”
I shake my head. “Nothing happened.”
“Aria, you were off all weekend. You came home looking like hell.” At her words, another fit of coughing hits me. “Aria, did that clown do something to you?”I inhale sharply. Lie. Make her believe it.
“I found out he was married.” I manage between coughs. “He’s a major douche, Tash.”
Tasha’s eyes darken. “Like Jeremy?” I nod, looking away. Please... please let her not push for more. She exhales sharply. “How’d you find out?”
“He was on the phone. Didn’t know I was there. So, I grabbed my stuff and left. I just feel like a fool, Tasha. Why do I keep picking these assholes?” It’s somewhat true, but I still feel like shit for Jeremy coming up since Tasha was the one who introduced us. But I needed her to drop it.
Tasha grips the wheel like she’s ready to do murder. “I swear to God, Aria, I will...”
“No, Tash. I need this job, and you’re a licensed attorney.”
She tugs at the gear stick. “That cheating motherfucker... needs-”
“No, Tash,” I cut her off. “I’m a big girl, and I can handle the fallout of my choices.
You can’t keep fixing the shit I get into because of my bad decisions.
” My voice cracks with frustration, but I rein in, hoping like all hell that I mask the guilt that’s gnawing at my conscience.
The weight of the secret I’m keeping from Tasha, my sister in every way that matters, is excruciating, and every lie I’ve told her only makes the burden heavier. I look at her, pleading.
“Fine, Ari. But I know you’re not telling me everything.” She pulls away from the curb and into traffic. The small-town hums around us, but it feels miles away.
I force a smile. “Thanks, Tash, and not to worry; if things get to a point where I need you and Trevor, I’ll let you know.” I lied some more, pounding another nail into my coffin of guilt.
I’ll hold you to that, Ari.”
“Great. Now that everything is settled, please focus on driving. You have a two-hour drive back to Boston.” Our conversation shifts to what I think is an inappropriate hair color for an attorney to wear in the courtroom.
“I think turquoise hair is a bad move for a courtroom.”
That got her going. “You’re wrong.” By the time she drops me off, she’s ranting about self-expression in the workplace, and I pretend that my stomach isn’t churning with the weight of my lies.
The J I love working with numbers. Structured, dependable, and honest. Numbers don’t lie or disappoint me. Gladly, I dive into spreadsheets and drown in numbers until Simon shows up.
My slimy, insufferable, power-abusing supervisor leans against my cubicle with a smug grin. “Hate to disturb you.”
Translation: he enjoys disturbing me. I spin in my chair to face my creep of a supervisor.
“What do you want, Simon?” The man is a pig who lords his power over the employees.
He assigns more work to me than to the others in our payroll division.
All because I turned down his advances. The number of clients I’m responsible for has doubled compared with my colleagues.
I should only handle payroll work, but Simon has me taking on some of his tasks, including preparing the quarterly profit-and-loss reports for his client list.
He snickers, eyes dragging over me like I’m a dessert platter and stopping at my chest. The very thought of letting him touch me makes me want to dry heave. “Just checking in. Tough weekend?”
I stiffen. “I’m busy.”
He laughs, rocking back on his heels as he puts his hand in his pockets. “Busy with Hayden?”
Turning back to my computer. “What can I do for you, Simon?” The faster he moves on to his office, the better.
“I’d love for you to do... many things,” his lecherous eyes roam over me again. His blatant display repulses me, and I feel sick at the thought of Simon’s limp dick anywhere near me.
“Simon, this conversation is leaning toward you and me in a private room in the corporate HR department in Boston.” His eyes glint with anger at the mention of HR. That has Simon fixing his perfect tie. He glances around at the other cubicles, then bends down too close to my ear.
“You treat me like a predator, but the golden boy. Hayden, you let touch you all over.” The name makes me jerk farther away from him.
Simon grins. “Did you think screwing him would get you a promotion? Guessing he didn’t mention his new job?
Overseas. In Ireland.” The blood drains from my face.
Simon laughs. “Looks like he ghosted you. Maybe next time, pick someone with real ambition.”
Simon is so vile. He came to gloat. The sound of Cyan’s knife stabbing Hayden’s leg flashes in my mind.
Simon unknowingly confirmed what I was trying to avoid thinking about.
Hayden is dead. “Looks like I was right. Guess he didn’t tell you about this while he was fucking you,” Simon sneers.
The vision of Hayden’s body being dumped and buried in some unmarked grave is prominent in my mind, and my stomach rolls.
I stand quickly, almost head-butting Simon, but he steps back in time. “Excuse me, Simon. I need to go to the washroom.” I don’t wait for an answer. Turning away, with my hand over my mouth, I run-walk toward the ladies’ bathroom. I barely make it before I puke. Hayden is dead.
Simon thinks he’s sipping whisky in Dublin. But I know the truth. As I expel my breakfast, Cyan’s voice echoes in my mind. “See you soon, Aria.”