Thirty-Seven
Amelia
Iwake up with a hell of a hangover to the smell of coffee.
My stomach revolts and I swallow hard, throwing an arm over my eyes and groaning.
“Drink this,” Van Wyk says.
“Can’t do coffee.” Just the thought makes me want to throw up.
“Water and some Advil,” he corrects.
I sit up, wincing, taking the pills and washing them down. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure.” He collects his coffee from the table and sits down on the edge of the bed.
He’s already dressed, looking fresh and pristine in black slacks and shirt.
Did he drink anything last night? In fairness, I can’t remember much of what happened after he danced with Vicky, save that Nat and I finished a bottle of champagne or three. Or I did and she watched.
“Did we…?” I let it trail off in the hope he’ll clarify.
“Dance? No, Little Stray. You were having difficulty standing by that point.” His tone is neutral, his expression careful, but I still pick up on his disappointment.
Not what I was referring to, but his reaction angers me. How dare he bring his disapproval to bear after what he’s done?
“You danced with another woman before you danced with me.” That’s the goddamn point, not how much I had to drink, or that we never had our dance.
He tilts his head to the side. “I asked, and you said yes.”
Wrong answer. “You asked, and I felt obliged.”
He presses his lips together, regarding me for a long moment. “I apologize,” he says at last. “That wasn’t my intent.”
Too little, too late.
“Whatever,” I mutter, drinking the rest of the water. It sits uncomfortably in my stomach, but it will make me feel better. I’m not sure I want to feel better.
“We didn’t do anything else, either,” he adds. “Call me old fashioned, but I prefer to engage with you while you’re…”
He doesn’t say it, so I do so for him. “Sober?”
“Well, conscious at the very least.”
I stare at him. “Fuck you, Van Wyk. Me being drunk crosses a line, but me saying ‘no’ doesn’t?”
“Are you suggesting you wanted me to take advantage of you?”
I scoff in bemusement. “How did you not when you pinned me over a table?”
“There’s a difference,” he says calmly.
“What difference?”
“Conscious and aware versus unconscious and not even participating? All the difference in the world.”
“Not that much difference. Choice ignored versus choice never made.”
“Active response, need, and engagement versus incapacity.”
My jaw drops. “Are you implying that I responded and engaged because I needed it?”
He nods like he’s conceding a point. “You’re right. ‘Needed’ was strong.”
“Thank you, finally some—” I cut myself off. “Strong?”
“‘Wanted’ is probably more accurate.” He rubs his chin. “A case could be made for ‘needed’; you were wound quite tight when you arrived at that gala. A lot more relaxed when you left, wouldn’t you say?”
The nerve of the man. “I was there to confront Serranto! Of course I was wound tight! How tight were you wound when you murdered him?”
“Surprisingly unperturbed, actually. I enjoyed it.”
“Of course you did,” I mutter.
My head chooses that moment to throb, and I wince. At this point, it’s less my hangover and more the conversation. It’s like arguing with someone who is convinced that white is black, that we all perceive color differently.
What’s worse is that he’s somehow persuading me. Did I want what he did on that terrace?
I thought I didn’t at the time. But looking back? And all the things since?
Is he right?
And the bigger question: can I find it within myself to care anymore?
Yes, I was arguing, but only because what he said was so outlandish. Now, all I feel is weary, this one conversation—and my hangover—sapping what energy I have left.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “I’ve taken too much out of you when you’re not feeling well, and we need to get ready.”
“For what?” I ask with a sigh.
“We’re going to Montana.”
I wince. “What, today? Now?”
“Yes.” He raises an eyebrow at me. “I told you, remember?”
He may have mentioned it; I’d forgotten. Now I’m wishing I hadn’t drunk so much last night. I have to pack… no, I have to shower and try not to throw up, and then pack. “What time does the flight leave?”
“When we get there,” he says. “I use the Company plane.”
Flying on a private jet is considerably less stressful than flying commercial, and I’m grateful for it. I’m still feeling shaky when we board, but when the flight attendant offers me a drink, I choose water, but then ask for a glass of wine as well.
Van Wyk’s eyebrows rise, but he doesn’t say anything. Screw him; my emotional numbness is wearing off, and the alcohol helps.
What would Lucy say if she could see me? Nothing good, I’m sure. My parents didn’t drink that much. Even Sierra—who could down a bottle if there was a tub of ice cream at the end of it—would be unimpressed by the amount I’ve been drinking of late.
It’s a crutch, and I’m not oblivious. Right now, I just don’t know how else to deal with my life. I’m still a captive, even on a private jet, flying to a billionaire’s estate. Will I get more freedom there? Somehow, I doubt it.
I suppose I should ask him why we’re going, but I can’t bring myself to. I take a drink of my wine instead.
Van Wyk waves the flight attendant away, waits a moment for her to withdraw, then fixes me with his steady gaze. “We need to talk.”
Oh, crap. “Do we?”
“I think so, yes.” He props his elbows on the arms of his ridiculously large and soft leather swivel chair, and links his fingers like he’s a philosophy lecturer. “I’m worried about you.”
I laugh. I’d roll my eyes if I thought it would help. “Your care is touching. I’m fine.”
His mouth quirks in distaste. “Fine. That is exactly what I expected you to say. One thing you are absolutely not is ‘fine.’”
I let out a weary sigh. “You know, in the past few months, I’ve had my apartment broken into on no less than three occasions and my art gallery burned to the ground.
I’ve been spied on, threatened, blackmailed, had my sister threatened and blackmailed, been held captive for weeks and weeks, and had my life completely disrupted and destroyed.
” I pause to see if I’ve missed anything important.
“Oh yeah, and I got married. So given all of that, I think I’m doing… fine.”
“But you’re strong. You’re a survivor. You’ll take all of it, and you’ll shape it into something that makes you stronger still.”
“If that’s what you think, then why are we having this conversation?”
“Because you haven’t started yet.” His head tilts. “Do you need a push? A hug? A spanking? Or is there something else you’re waiting for?”
The truth about Juliette.
The thought arrives unbidden, startling me, my subconscious working hard in the background.
That’s the missing piece. That’s the cause of my listlessness, my numbness, these many long weeks.
I know it now.
Opposite me sits a killer, his preferred weapon a knife that is no doubt on his person right in this moment, security on private jets not being quite what it is at the main terminal.
His last wife died from a knife wound to the throat in the bed that we slept in.
No one will talk about it, and they call it suicide.
But him? He called it a relief.
“Surprisingly unperturbed.” That’s what he said about killing Serranto. What did he say about Juliette?
Will he kill me, too? Is that my fate? Will I make it twelve years? Will I make it twelve months? Was Juliette even ill, an illness no one will talk about? Or was she numb?
The wine in my glass sloshes, and I set it down on the table beside me, my hand trembling too much to hold it. He’ll have noticed; he misses nothing. I’ll have to explain.
“My headache has returned. Red might’ve been a bad choice.” My voice barely wavers, and what’s there could be attributed to pain. He’s right; I am strong.
Just not strong enough to escape him.
Neither was she, until the end.
“Do you have painkillers?” he asks.
“I’ve taken some. I think I’ll just… sleep.” No chance of that. Not without my Ambien, and that’s in my suitcase. But I can fake it. I’ve gotten good at faking things. My life, for example.
He nods slowly. “Very well. Let’s talk about this when you’re feeling better.”
“All right.” There’s no escaping the conversation, just like there’s no escaping him.
I turn in my chair, tucking my legs up beneath me, and close my eyes.
Quiet, passive, still. With a killer sitting opposite me, watching me feign sleep.
Bastien sends his helicopter to pick us up from the airport, our destination an enormous house beside a lake, sandy stone and dark timbers, with numerous glass walls that will only tease the escape I’ll never be able to touch.
Bastien comes out to meet us, along with Anna and Nat. I crave some company other than my own, but after my behavior last night I’m almost embarrassed to see them.
“Welcome, my friend.” Bastien greets Van Wyk with the warmth he always shows, like he hasn’t seen him in ages.
But this time with a hint of pride, and that’s justified; his house is stunning.
“And the beautiful Amelia.” He bows over my hand, brushing my knuckles with roguish charm, and Van Wyk tenses.
I do hope he’s not going to try and kill Bastien. He’d probably succeed; there’s no security around.
As soon as Bastien releases me, I hook my hand around Van Wyk’s arm, leaning into him, aiming for mollification. I’m not sure why I bother, except that I like Bastien, and I don’t want to be the cause of a rift between them. Numb or not, I don’t need more guilt.
Our rooms are a suite, two large sofas in the living space, a bathroom and kitchen, and a bedroom with an enormous bed. Van Wyk leaves me as soon as we arrive, work pressing as it always is.
I spend my time mostly in our rooms because he doesn’t. Some of it with Nat, although she’s working. Anna I don’t see as much, but then I never had the same sense of warmth from her, and she’s busier still.
It must be nice to have a job, a purpose.