Chapter 2 #2
Three dots appear and my gut twists. Punk doesn’t make mistakes. She’s a coding goddess, trained from the moment she hit Nonna’s doorstep to be exactly what we need. Other organizations would kill for someone half as good. She’s never dropped the ball, not once.
Punk: His fanbase. I can only keep things out of the media, away from prying eyes, but people still talk.
Raking through hundreds of thousands of comments every day when they’d post on his page, asking where he was.
It was taxing, but I managed to get it under control by creating an automated system that bypassed the likes of even Meta.
I wait for the reveal, painfully aware of who sits beside me.
Punk: It’s just, computers are great, but if they’re not overlooked constantly, things can slip through.
Camille was easy enough, since she sincerely thought he had just disappeared on her.
Mixed with the passive-aggressive quotes she’d drop every now and then, I didn’t have to do much on her account, but Atlas?
What? He stir the pot? Accuse us of killing him? What?
Punk: No. He fed into the story I planted, asking people to give his brother privacy right now as he lives off a bad breakup. I let his videos through every news agent because they helped us, right? But there was something.
Why the fuck would Atlas play along with Punk’s narrative.
Punk: His eyes would go dark at the end of every sentence while he looked directly into the camera, like he was looking right at me when he’d answer.
Punk: Like he was mocking me. Us.
Punk: I always blew it off as me being a little more paranoid than usual because it was the first time we’d broadened the scope so far out to four people, instead of just the one and maybe a stray parent or sibling. I’m sorry. I should have said something.
Punk: I’m sorry. I should have said something.
My world tilts as I type out a final text.
It’s not your fault.
Clearly, it’s mine, for underestimating them both.
The drive stretches, silence thick between us.
Twenty minutes later, we pull through a high-wire fence and onto a tarmac where his familiar black jet waits.
I open my mouth to ask if I can get changed out of this ridiculous dress, but he’s already out the door.
My side opens and I turn to see a set of honey brown eyes.
“Hello, I’m Sinead—“ They nod their head over their shoulder. “His assistant… of all things.”
“Are you new?” I ask, because I’ve never met them before.
Their eyes dart sideways. “Not new, no, but to you I guess I am. Come on.” They take my hand and I let them, shifting my dress to step out into the wind.
Sinead starts directing me across the tarmac. “Your bags are in there already with clothes already packed. Asher won’t be too much longer.”
I step through the space, memories flick through my head of the last time I was in here, when he came with me to Veilarath to sign the papers of the manor.
It feels like a lifetime ago. Veilarath feels like a lifetime ago.
I check in with Jasper now and then; he lives in the guest house, maintaining the property, but other than last winter… I’d never been back.
My hand grazes the top of the chair as the lighting dims. The cockpit door is open, and an attendant is shuffling glasses and food around on a table.
She spots me. “Oh, Ivanya! Take a seat and I’ll bring you a drink. You still like it neat?”
I smile at her. “Yes, thank you.” Gathering the dress, I find my bag sitting on a chair and swipe it up just as I hear footsteps on the stairs.
I freeze. I feel him before I see him. I always will. In every room, every lifetime, I’d feel him near.
He leans against the wall, crossing his arms and tilting his head. “Such a shame, Venom. Would have loved to fuck you in that dress.”
My mouth snaps closed as I quicken my steps down the narrow aisle and to the door of the bathroom.
As soon as I’m shut inside with gold fixtures and marble surrounding me, I press my back against the door, eyes closed, lungs burning with every breath.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Twisting my arm to my back, I find the buttons and ties and tug at them aimlessly to tug them off.
Luce knotted me up real tight, probably because she was too busy yapping about her latest adventure to notice.
The first clip doesn’t budge.
I twist my arm further, shoulder screaming in protest, but I can’t get them off.
“Come on.” I yank at the fabric. “Come the fuck on.”
The second clip catches on something. Lace, maybe. Or my own desperation.
I yank and hear a small rip, but the dress stays locked in place, something I stepped into willingly and now can’t escape.
My reflection catches in the mirror, but I force myself to look away, unable to acknowledge this situation.
I try again. Both hands this time, contorting my spine in ways that would make Leon proud.
Sweat beads at my hairline. The makeup Luce spent an hour perfecting starts to slide. I don’t care. I just need this dress off. I need to feel like myself again, whoever that is.
The third attempt leaves my arms shaking and my patience shredded.
I lean my forehead against the cool marble and count to ten, then twenty. The jet’s engines hum beneath my feet, a vibration that travels up into my bones.
We’re moving. Taking off. Going somewhere I wasn’t told about with a man I don’t recognize wearing the face of someone I loved.
The clips dig into my spine when I straighten.
I could ask him. On any other day, I would have. I would have walked out there and turned my back to him without a second thought. His fingers knew every inch of me. Every clasp and zipper and hidden hook.
But that was a different Asher. A different me.
This version of us doesn’t get to touch each other like that anymore.
My hand finds the door handle. I crack it open, just enough to see the main cabin. He’s sprawled in one of the leather seats, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The attendant hands him a glass of something amber. He doesn’t look up.
Sinead passes by with a tablet, their attention fixed on the screen.
“Sinead,” I whisper-yell, hoping they hear.
They stop and turn, those hazel eyes on me through the gap in the door.
“Yeah?” Their brows jump in surprise.
“Can you…” I hate this. I hate every syllable of it. “I need help. With the dress.”
Without hesitation, they nod. “Give me a sec.”
The door closes as I wait.
Moments later, there’s a soft knock before Sinead slips inside, the space suddenly too small for two people. They’re taller than me. Most people are. But they move carefully, aware of tight spaces and tighter situations.
“Turn around.”
My hands grip the corner of the counter as I turn my back to them.
Their fingers find the first clip. “I wish I could tell you that this is going to get better, but from what I hear, you can usually sniff out a lie better than most.”
The second clip releases. Air hits my spine.
“I guess."
“Ivy?” They tilt their head slightly.
I pivot into them. Tattoos decorate their skin, peeking up beneath their collar. Sharp features, soft lips. They’re attractive, and I wonder how they found the job they’re doing.
“Yeah?” I ask, sounding more confident than I feel.
They smile, but it doesn’t reach their eyes. “Hang in there.”
Sinead slips out, and I’m alone in the cubicle, my dress pooled at my feet.
I never wanted marriage. I never wanted love.
Love was disposable and fragile, something that bent until it broke.
But I always imagined my real wedding would be different, even if I couldn’t see myself marrying.
I knew deep down that if that day came, where Ivanya Dubois was scribbled across a marriage certificate, the man would have to be an unstoppable force.
Someone vicious enough to rip through every wall I spent years building, but gentle enough to touch the rawest parts of my fucked-up soul.
I guess in one way, that’s Asher. But in so many ways… it’s not.
I slip out of the door and find my seat, a row behind Asher and Sinead. I wish Atlas was here to break the ice.
Flipping open my phone, I swipe through the notifications and land on Instagram. I hesitate, my thumb hovering over his face. I never unfollowed him. I could never bring myself to.
Did he unfollow me?
The pettiness of even thinking that makes me want to check myself into emotional contamination rehab. I swipe back out of the app and reach into my bag to find my earpods.
Putting one in each ear, I tap on Spotify and shuffle on a playlist, resting my head against the window.
Asher is alive.
Any chance of me being remotely happy about this is squashed by the obvious. I fucking shot him.
My eyes land on him and my stomach drops, because he’s already looking. Seconds stretch and my chest pulls tighter with each one, a slow building pressure, but neither of us looks away.
Finally, I rip my eyes away from him and skip the song.
What the fuck have I gotten myself into.