30. Thirty
THIRTY
HARLOWE
The next week passed like a fever dream, half-day breaks and half-blackouts, the restlessness carving its pattern into the new normal. The city’s temperature rose with each hour, rumors and open threats heating the avenues.
Arrow never said if he was sleeping or not.
Sometimes, late at night, I’d hear the click of him loading a magazine or the low click of his phone, orchestrating.
Other times, I woke to him curled head-to-ankle beside me, asleep but not at all at rest, the tension in his hands shouting the story of his dreams.
Our days sorted themselves into strange rituals.
He taught me how to shoot. A few times we went to practice at the hardcore basement range below Solzhenitsyn’s old jazz club, other times on the roof of the penthouse, where we fired Glocks at the skyline and placed bets on who could quote more Camus before breakfast.
I forced him to read novels with me, made him guess the endings, and Arrow almost always did, but not in the way that ruined the book.
He’d always say, “It ends with blood,” or “The lover kills himself for show but forgets to make it look like an accident.” Sometimes he’d guess humiliation instead of murder, and every time I changed the subject before the prediction came true.
At breakfast, Arrow scanned the news and pointed at the contracts on his head, small moves made by the new wave of hunger in Crown Heights and the Bronx, the clickbait headlines about the union between me and him, and the photoshopped images of us at last Friday’s party, my hand in his, eyes burning so bright someone on Reddit claimed they were filter-enhanced.
I spent a whole hour reading the comments. I laughed at most of them, though the best ones landed in the ugly place just below my ribs, a hollow you can’t fill with food or even sex, only with the slow acid of knowing how much you were never admired, just studied.
When Arrow would leave, he’d text me dirty suggestions so filthy I’d pace the penthouse waiting for him to come home so that I could jump his bones. But tonight, he said he’d be late. I turned on the TV, letting the sound of the newscaster drone on in the background while I made myself a sandwich.
“Trouble in Paradise? New York’s Russian Playboy, Arrow Romanov, was spotted at The Raven nightclub on the arm of none other than Svetlana Kovenski, heiress to the Kovenski diamond empire and former flame of the notorious bad boy.”
I froze, sandwich halfway to my mouth, as they flashed a grainy photo of Arrow in a dark suit, with a woman who had platinum blonde hair cascading down her back.
She was pressed against him, her red lips close to his ear, whispering something that made him smile.
My stomach twisted into a knot. I set the sandwich down, my appetite vanishing as quickly as my illusions about what we were building together.
“Sources say the two were seen getting cozy in the VIP section, with Romanov leaving in the early hours of the morning. This sighting comes just days before his scheduled wedding to Harlowe Virelli, daughter of—”
I hurled the remote at the TV screen, shattering the glass and sending sparks flying. The room fell silent except for the sound of my ragged breathing.
Former flame? Getting cozy?
My fingers trembled as I pulled up my phone, scrolling through social media.
It didn’t take long to find the pictures—Arrow with his arm around a statuesque blonde, her body pressed against his in the dim lighting of the club.
His face was half-turned from the camera, but there was no mistaking him.
The woman was gorgeous—all legs and curves, with the kind of practiced seduction that came from a lifetime of being the prettiest girl in every room. I’d seen her before, at Romanov events, always circling Arrow like a shark that smelled blood in the water.
The chain at my neck suddenly felt like a noose.
Pacing the penthouse, my mind raced with scenarios, each more violent than the last.
Was this some twisted game? A strategic move? Or had I actually been na?ve enough to believe I was special?
The rational part of my brain knew this was probably business, but the irrational part wanted to burn everything to the ground. And unfortunately for him, I was a Virelli, and irrationality was quickly winning out.
I tried Frank first, but he didn’t pick up. Of course not. He was probably trailing Arrow, watching him with that blonde bitch, making sure he didn’t get into too much trouble before the wedding.
The wedding. What a fucking joke.
Picking up my phone again, I scrolled through my contacts until I found the number I was looking for.
It rang three times before a familiar voice answered.
“Harlowe?” Orion sounded surprised. “Everything okay?”
“Where is he?” I demanded, not bothering with pleasantries.
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “He’s handling business.”
“At The Raven? With Svetlana Kovenski’s tongue down his throat? That kind of business?”
Another pause . . . longer this time. “It’s complicated.”
“Uncomplicate it for me,” I snapped, my grip tightening on the phone. “Or I swear to God, I will burn this entire fucking arrangement to the ground.”
Orion sighed. “He’s meeting with her father. The Kovenskis control the diamond trade, and with your wedding coming up, we need their cooperation to ensure certain . . . gifts . . . make it through customs without issue.”
“And she just happened to be there?” I laughed bitterly. “How convenient.”
“Look, Harlowe—”
“Save it.” I hung up and hurled my phone across the room.
My phone crashed against the wall and fell to the floor, screen cracked but still glowing with those damning images. I stared at it, feeling something dark and ugly unfurl inside me.
Diamonds. Customs. Business.
Bull-fucking-shit.
I’d seen how women looked at Arrow—like he was a force of nature they wanted to be destroyed by. And this blonde? She wasn’t just any socialite, she was his ex. The woman he’d been with before our arrangement, if the gossip sites were to be believed.
I stormed to the bedroom and yanked open the closet door.
I changed quickly, stripping out of my sweats and pulling on tight black jeans, a dark top that showed just enough skin to be distracting, and boots with heels sharp enough to pierce a jugular.
I grabbed my leather jacket and checked myself in the mirror.
His chain hung around my throat, glinting in the light. I touched it, feeling the cold metal against my fingertips, remembering how it felt when he pulled it tight.
With a sudden, violent motion, I yanked it off and tossed it on his dresser.
Let him come home and find it there—a message.
The night doorman gave me a startled look when I strode through the lobby.
“Ms. Virelli,” he said, clearly surprised to see me leaving alone. “Would you like me to call a car for you?”
“No,” I said coldly. “And if Mr. Romanov asks, tell him I went to find better company.”
I pushed through the revolving doors and stepped onto the sidewalk. I hailed a cab, sliding into the back seat with purpose.
“La Lune Noire,” I told the driver.
He glanced at me in the rearview. “You got it.”
Isadora smiled when she saw me, wrapping her arms tightly around my body. The club was more electric than usual, a fusion of raw pink and obsidian blue poured over every surface. The air was saturated with the scent of gin, vanilla, and sweat.
“Harlowe! I didn’t expect to see you here after . . . last time. Zephyr’s got a new act tonight,” she apologized.
“What? Why? We’ve been together since I started here.”
She looked away, not meeting my eyes, and the realization hit me.
“My fiancé?”
“He is co-owner of La Lune Noir, and a walking grenade when it comes to anyone looking at you for longer than two seconds.” Isadora patted my arm and squeezed. “I’m sorry. I tried to impress upon him that Zeph is the safest switch in the city, but Mr. Romanov was insistent.”
I rolled my eyes.
We weren’t married, and if he thought he could run around town and fuck blonde heiresses, but tell me who I could and could not fuck in this arranged marriage, he had another thing coming.
I smiled at Isadora and all but stomped to my dressing room, pissed, and put on a pink see-through baby doll, with a matching pink thong.
If my fiancé thought he could humiliate me, then he was about to witness, up close and personal, what uncontrollable really fucking looked like.
I left my hair up, in a tangle of violet and black, no time or fucks to give it a proper brush.
The hallway outside was filled with new faces and old men, all acting like I was meant to walk among them in strings and smoke.
I ignored them, swayinh my hips for maximum effect and dared any of them to so much as flinch.
They all looked.
Some pretended not to.
One older man in a pinstripe suit watched the length of my legs and then up to the pulse in my throat, his stare polite but invasive. I caught it, held it, and let him have it back with a smile.
Walking past the velvet-rope holding cell, three trust-fund boys in pastel dress shirts gawked at me like I was an OnlyFans thumbnail. I bared my teeth in a straight-up animalistic smile.
One flinched, the other two just swallowed and blushed.
I wondered, lazily, which of them would try to buy me a drink later. Which would get as far as the dressing room before security handed them back with their balls still attached.
Backstage was a hush of voices. Zephyr was preoccupied with his new sub, so I looked around for someone to play with. I saw a girl in a mesh thong and a haze of body glitter, prepping on her phone between sets. She had immaculate cheekbones, and an attitude so pointed it could pierce drywall.
We’d never talked outside of the club, and after-hours cigarettes on the fire escape, but the way she looked at me when I was falling apart on stage said she was game enough to try anything, especially with me.