Chapter 35 #3
What he’s describing is another life. Utterly foreign. Pressing down on me. Pressure, so much pressure.
Off to the side, a man has already had too much to drink. He’s being helped off the terrace.
I reach for the water, but curl my hand away when I see it’s shaking.
Mr. Duncan reaches out and grabs it. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on Luke. Nothing will happen between him and Vistoria. What I meant was strictly professional. He would come home to you.”
“Rita. Duncan.”
Luke’s on the patio, walking over to us, coming in from the foyer doorway.
Heads turn to watch him. He’s changed in anticipation of dinner.
The formal black fits his leaned muscled body like a gladiator suit.
His hair waves softly in the wind, framing a Renaissance figure in the aftermath of battle.
Joyous, glutted on endorphins. A man who has run his enemies down by sword.
Mr. Duncan stands up. “Did you get it done, boy?”
He sits beside me, finds my hand under the table and interlaces our fingers. “I did.”
Champagne is ordered to the table. Bottles and bottles. We pay for it to be served to the rest of the guests on this floor. No one knows why, but anybody watching can tell we are celebrating.
At some point, Mr. Duncan claps Luke on the shoulder. “You’ve got me working so hard, I have neck pains.”
“It isn’t over yet, but when the ink is dry,” says Luke, “spend a month in Mexico at my villa. You’ve more than earned it.”
“How do you feel?” I ask Luke when we have a whisper of a private moment.
“Tired, darling,” he murmurs. “I’m trying to move everything along as fast as possible. Only a bit longer, all right?”
“Sure.” The conversation I’ve had with Mr. Duncan is a rock in my brain, but I’m not going to unload it on Luke.
Instead, I smile and look at the gathering group of a dozen men and women, formally dressed, who are circling Luke, hungry to make his acquaintance.
Something must show on my face before I smooth it away, because Luke reassures.
“I promise I’d rather be alone, Rita. With you. Only with you.”
But he can’t be. He’s on the brink of destroying his rotted father’s legacy, and what comes after is the laborious soldering to form it into something new. That doesn’t happen overnight. It doesn’t even finish after this conference is over.
My stomach clenches.
Mr. Duncan is right. So right. Everything he has said is true.
There is no time to panic or think too deeply on the lumbering, terrifying, stone-weighing picture of the future trying to be painted for me because there’s an afternoon soirée to attend.
I’m dressed in a slinky but tasteful gown that sprouts a flower at my neck.
According to whatever tastemaker was hired to mastermind my clothing, it’s the latest in fashion trends to sprout extra fabric in that spot.
New diamond earrings dangle from my ears, matching the glitzy bracelet on my wrist. I must be wearing thousands and thousands of dollars.
Luke kisses the middle of my palm. “I miss you. I miss us.”
My heart skips a bloated beat.
“When is this all done?” I ask him, knowing myself, knowing I’m comparing his answer to Mr. Duncan’s blatant view on the matter.
“The paperwork is going through,” says Luke, his hand sliding down my back. “They won’t be backing out. I’ve planned contingencies if they want to dare.”
“You are kind of scary,” I tell him, “when you get this intense.”
“All in the name of business, darling. Don’t worry, a conversation with you is always enough to keep my nefarious nature in check.”
“It’s hard work, but someone has to do it.”
“The sacrifices you make.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, leaning into his touch. “I’m keeping a tally of them so you can repay it all in full.”
We set off towards the evening event. “If you would accept payment,” began Luke, “in physical favors, my mouth would enjoy being in your debt.”
“Shhh, there are people around!”
He laughs. It almost feels like we’re back in his penthouse together before anything happened. Before I lost the competition. Before his conference started.
The soirée, like everything before it, is immaculate.
The food in particular is decadent, overly so, dripping with dense flavor.
I notice Luke eats none of it. Even myself, I can only nibble.
People flank us immediately when we enter, and the rest of the evening drowns in conversations I can understand only a portion of.
That’s okay, right? What Mr. Duncan wants me to do is smile and look nice. Smile and look nice. Smile and look nice.
My hand clutches over my stomach. It’s upset, roiling in larger and larger waves. I try to drink as much water as possible, hoping it clears up. This also gives my mouth a break from talking or laughing politely or curving my lips.
Hard as I try, I can’t stop imagining this very event repeating different versions of it, duplicating, mirroring, rolling down the hill toward a murky but lavish future. Mrs. Abbot. If this relationship was real, would it be like this?
“What’s wrong?” asks Luke.
“I think I need to lie down.”
Mr. Duncan graciously takes my empty water glass. “I’ll escort her.”
“I’ve got it,” insists Luke.
“You can’t leave early. Not tonight. You have to finish the job.”
Before Luke can argue, I touch his shoulder. “He’s right. I’ll be fine. Go speak with Agatha. She’s been wanting to talk to you, I can tell.”
“It can wait.”
“No, it can’t,” I insist.
He’s scowling at me. I solve the problem by hooking my arm with Mr. Duncan and sloping off.
Before we exit, I look back and see Vistoria floating over to Luke.
A golden-haired toddler has also wandered over.
Someone brought their child to the conference.
Bending down, Luke easily picks him up and holds him in his arms. They make a picture of a perfect family.
“Good girl,” whispers Mr. Duncan. “Let Vistoria take over.”
He drops me off at the suite. I undress and finally wear a set of clothes that belong to me.
Cotton joggers and a t-shirt with the word KAUR printed on the back.
It’s not acceptable for others to see, but I don’t plan on leaving the room.
I don’t need to. It’s over. I don’t have to play fiancée anymore.
He doesn’t need me. I don’t have to keep up in this world.
There’s no reason to cry, but my vision is beginning to fog over. I can’t even blame my personal failure with MealKits Masala for these tears. I’ve made myself forget that. It’s an ordeal to unpack when it hurts less, which will probably take quite some time. Maybe forever.
Hungering for anchorage, anything to hold on to before I get swept up in the tumultuously painful nature of my thoughts, I call Uncle.
The first words out of his mouth have ice running down my spine.
“How did you know?”