Thirty-Two
Amelia
My new phone rings while I’m in the bath.
I splash water as I grab it, seeing an unknown caller on the ID. But only two people have this number, so it’s either Sierra or Lucy.
“Hey.”
“You spent eight thousand dollars of my money on lingerie at Bergdorf Goodman. On one set.”
I quail, the hot water suddenly feeling a lot colder.
Okay, three people have this number.
“First, Tony recommended that place,” I say.
“I was quite happy shopping at Agent Provocateur.” Back when three hundred bucks for lingerie was a lot, and then that bastard went and cut it off me.
“Second, they’re handmade.” Apparently. “And third, I bought just one set because it was eight thousand dollars. So I’m protecting your money while the bodyguards you assigned me are trying to corrupt me. ”
“Corrupting you is my job,” Van Wyk growls. “And one set is not enough. Go back soon. Buy more.”
I hold the phone away from my ear, checking the screen. It still says unknown caller, and I’m beginning to agree with it. I replace the phone tentatively. “One set at eight thousand dollars isn’t enough?”
“From that shop, you don’t get very much for your money.”
I think of the black silk camisole I bought with matching barely-there lace panties, and bite at my lip. “Not as much as you might expect, no.”
“I assume the quality is good?”
“Well… yes.” It’s stunning, and so light it’s like air against my skin. I couldn’t resist it, despite how guilty I felt about the price.
“So go back and buy more.”
I shake my head, trying to catch up with this conversation. “How the hell did you get this number?” But the answer is obvious as soon as I ask the question: Tony has ratted me out. “Never mind, it was your lapdog, wasn’t it? Did he send you pictures of what I bought?”
“No. I saw them when you tried them on in the bedroom earlier.”
My breath catches, nipples tightening, my thighs pressing together beneath the water. His damn cameras. I’ve grown so used to them, I keep forgetting they are there.
He’s been watching me again. Maybe he never stopped. And a few nights ago, I lay on the duvet while I played with myself. Why didn’t I get a call then?
Is he watching me now?
Lifting a hand out of the water, I present my middle finger to the ceiling. “Is there one in this bathroom?”
He doesn’t even pause. “Yes. And that’s a spanking.”
I lean my head back against the tub and run my hand over one breast, letting out a soft sigh as I rub my stiff nipple with my thumb. “Are you enjoying the view?”
“You know I am.” His voice is husky. “Spread your legs.”
“Are you giving me commands when you’re not even here?”
He’s quiet for several beats of my heart. “I’m not commanding. I’m begging.”
That hunger in his tone excites me more than knowing he’s watching.
I close my eyes, listening to his breathing as I slide my hand down my body, beneath the water, my knees spreading. “Can you see everything?”
“No. I prefer it when you take a shower.”
A breathless laugh escapes me. “I bet you do.” I moan for him as I tease myself, louder than I need to. “Is this what you want?”
“Yes,” he says softly. “Lift your knees up. Imagine me—”
“No, that’s all you’re getting tonight.”
I kill the call, switch the phone to silent, and drop it back on the table beside me.
Then I relax in my bath, eyes closed, a satisfied smile playing on my lips.
If he wanted more, he’d be here, wouldn’t he?
Lucy leans back in her chair and crosses her arms. “Get. It. Annulled.”
“Okay, listen.” I hold up a placatory hand. “I knew you’d react like this, but—”
“React like what? Someone sane who’s just learned that their sister has done the most totally insane thing that a sister has ever done?”
“Catherine of Aragon.”
Lucy blinks twice. “What?”
“Her marriage to Henry VIII of England was a political necessity, and she was protecting her sister.” My lips twitch. “Juana the Mad.”
Lucy gives me the look that she reserves for when I’m at my most exasperating. “Are you calling me mad?”
“Anne Boleyn,” I continue.
“Who?”
“Her marriage to Henry VIII was directly to protect her sister Mary’s reputation, after Henry VIII had an affair with her.” The parallel to Serranto is chilling. “What do we take from this?”
“That Henry VIII was an asshole.”
Not what I was going for, but I nod, conceding the point. “Scarlett O’Hara.”
“Who?”
“From Gone with the Wind.”
Lucy looks incredulous. “Didn’t that come out during the war? I’m twenty-six, not a hundred and twenty-six.”
“Still, she had a sister, and—”
Lucy holds up a hand. “You’ve googled, I get it. None of that has a bearing on us.”
“Even today, marriages of convenience are approximately fifty-five percent of all marriages worldwide, and—”
“Stop. Just stop.” Lucy shakes her head. “It’s not about whether it’s been done before—and fine, I concede it has—it’s about you. About what you’re sacrificing.” Her voice drops, and tears well in her eyes. “For me, damn it. I can’t let you throw away your life for me.”
“He’s loaded,” I say, waggling my eyebrows. “He’s filthy, dirty, rich.”
Her lips purse and she dabs at her eyes with her napkin. “That’s just insulting,” she says at last, voice cold. “I know full well you don’t care about money, and if you think that would make me feel any happier about this, you’re dead wrong.”
Okay, that might’ve been a mistake.
“Sorry,” I mutter, picking up my wine and taking a sip, trying not to look at Tony who is eavesdropping on our conversation even though he’s pretending he isn’t.
“I suppose it explains why we’re eating here.” She gestures at the opulent décor surrounding us. “And why you went for the most expensive dish on the menu. Do you even like caviar?”
“It’s an acquired taste.” That I haven’t yet acquired.
Lucy sighs. “Is there anything I can say to make you rethink this… foolishness?”
Like I don’t rethink it every day.
It’s been four weeks since our wedding, and Van Wyk’s been back twice, once for a night, once for—of all things—lunch with Lucy, which went about as well as can be expected, and is what led to this meeting.
Otherwise, I’ve barely seen him since we got married. Christmas is in five days. He must come home for that.
What scares me is that for the first few days following his visits, I miss him.
But then time passes, and the missing fades.
I get used to his absence, forget about all the cameras, and my life descends once more into the isolated drudgery of my captivity, where even the prospect of the heated swimming pool has lost its appeal.
Not least because it’s been snowing of late.
“Ammy?” Lucy prods.
I force a smile. “What foolishness? This way, we’re both safe, and I get to enjoy the finer things in life.”
She doesn’t look convinced, her eyes full of worry. “He never said what he did. He’s not into anything… illegal, is he?”
In my mind’s eye, Gold-Tooth stares at me with blood streaming from his cut throat, then flops face-down at my feet.
I take a mouthful of wine to cover my consternation. “Uh… security.”
Her eyebrows go up. “Security? And he’s ‘filthy, dirty rich’?”
“He’s a specialist,” I say, brushing it off with a gesture. “We don’t talk about it.”
“What do you talk about? Tell me about my brother-in-law. What drew you to him?”
He’s her brother.
Of all the things to bring home the farce that is this marriage.
My heart stutters, my skin suddenly clammy as a wave of nausea threatens to bring back up my expensive lunch.
I grip the edge of the table as the room spins.
It’s not even knowing that Lucy and Van Wyk are now related, it’s that I don’t even know if my husband has siblings.
Such a simple yet vital thing, and we’ve never discussed it.
We skipped all that, along with his favorite color, music, movie, food…
I don’t know him at all.
How can I, when I’ve seen my husband twice since he said ‘I do’ and I didn’t?
“Are you all right?” Lucy asks, frowning.
“Yes, of course,” I reply, my voice sounding distant in my own ears. “But I must be getting back.” Yes, it’s time to end this, before she probes further. “It was lovely to catch up,” I say as I rise, “and do let me know your plans for Christmas. Sorry I won’t be with you this year.”
Lucy looks taken aback by my abrupt departure. “Uh… sure.”
“Thank you for coming to lunch. See you soon?”
“Of course.”
I make it four steps before she speaks again.
“Ammy?”
I turn. “Yes?”
“Be careful,” my sister says with feeling. “Please.”
It’s a bit late for that.
“I’m always careful,” I lie. “Besides, I’m married now. I have a husband to keep me safe.”
I’m wrong. He doesn’t come home for Christmas.
Linda cooks a magnificent dinner, and the four of us sit around like we’re a family, Tony and Jorge breaking their ‘no eating on the job’ rule at my insistence. Maybe my two bodyguards are single and have nowhere better to be, but I doubt it. They’re missing out because of me.
At least I bought them presents, albeit with Van Wyk’s card. If he isn’t going to bother to show, I consider it an abandonment tax.
Linda gets a cashmere cardigan, which she puts on immediately with obvious delight. Tony nods his thanks for the whisky, and Jorge almost smiles when he opens his present: How to Make Small Talk, which the blurb calls a book of conversation starters.
Linda gives me a silk scarf, Jorge a bottle of wine, and Tony gives me a coffee cup with prison bars on it. He gets an unimpressed look in return, but later I see the funny side.
Van Wyk’s left a present for me too, and I didn’t get him anything. From the feel, it’s a book. That’s safe to open with an audience, right? It’s not a vibrating butt plug.
The Atlas of Deadly Plants drops onto the table, and Tony raises an eyebrow. I stare at it, remembering he promised he’d do this. I was supposed to get him a book on antidotes, and I haven’t.
Don’t I feel shit. But at least I can now poison him and it’ll be more effective.
Except I no longer want to. I just want him here.
I cover it with the paper and smile across the table, ignoring the pricking of tears.
Afterward, I help Linda clean everything away. Not just because it’s what family does, but because if there’s ever an opportunity to get her to open up, it’s now.
“I miss Lukas,” I say, wistful. “It’s difficult, you know. Following in Juliette’s shoes, I mean.”
Linda pats my hand. “It’s quite obvious Lukas adores you.”
Obvious to her, maybe. Far from it to me. After all, where is he?
“No doubt he adored Juliette too,” I say, keeping the conversation on that subject.
Linda hesitates a smidge too long. “Yes, of course.”
“What was she like?”
I’ve asked before, but one advantage of having literally nothing else to do is that I’ve spent quite a lot of time with Linda of late. I’m holding my breath, hoping it’s enough.
Linda sighs, setting down the dish she’s holding. “She was lovely. When she wasn’t ill, she was kind, vibrant, and always ready with a smile.”
It’s more than I’ve ever had out of her. I bite my lip, then carefully drop in my quiet provocation. “He said at the end her death was… a relief.”
“Relief?” Linda repeats softly, like she’s exploring the word. “I don’t know… perhaps that is the best way to look at it. I hadn’t thought of it like that.” A long pause. “Yes… maybe what Juliette did… it’s easier to understand in that light.”
What she did?
I don’t understand. I need to know, even though it’s obvious it’s hurting Linda to talk about it.
Stepping closer, I take her hand in mine, and she looks at me with tears in her eyes. “Juliette meant so much to all of you. How did she die?”
She looks down. “It’s really something you should discuss with Lukas…”
“I’m worried it would hurt him to talk of it,” I say quietly. “Will you tell me? Please?”
Linda winces at my plea. “Juliette… was very ill. One night, she… uh… took a knife, and…” She trails off.
Jesus. She killed herself.
“Cut her wrists,” I finish on a breath.
“No. It was… her throat.”
Fuck.
It takes everything I have to conceal my horror. Who cuts their own throat? What illness could possibly be so bad to make that a preferable option? “What was she ill with?”
But Linda pulls her hand back and turns away from me, leaning on the counter for support. “I’ve said too much.” She makes an effort to lower her shoulders. “And it’s Christmas. We should speak of happier things.”
“Of course, I’m sorry,” I reply quickly. “And… thank you for sharing with me. It makes me feel like I can better support Lukas.”
That earns me a tremulous smile. “You’re a good soul, dear. It’s clear what Lukas sees in you.”
“Thank you,” I say again. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to spend a little time in the sunroom. That was quite the dinner.”
“It was her favorite room too,” Linda says to my back as I walk out.
No doubt she meant that well, but all I can think of is Juliette taking her own life. Did she do it in the sunroom, where I’ve spent so many hours?
Does this house now feel more oppressive, or am I imagining it?
I stumble in the hallway as Linda’s words come back to me, and throw a hand against the wall for support.
She didn’t say one day, or one evening. She said one night.
I realize the truth, and my stomach clenches so hard I feel like I’m about to throw up.
Van Wyk’s last wife killed herself in her bed, which is now my bed.
I’ve been sleeping there for weeks, not knowing.
I press my hand to my own throat before I even realize I’ve done it, imagining what it must’ve been like, and what could possibly have driven her to such an act.
And in the images in my mind, the blade she’s holding is curved.