18. Deniz
Chapter 18
Deniz
A t this point, I’m going to kill her just so I can stop wanting to fuck her.
The last week has been hell. Clara has been avoiding me like the plague. I wake up early to catch her before she leaves, but according to the cameras, she’s already gone. I track her through the streets, trying to coordinate my arrival home from work with hers, but she always seems to find the fifteen minutes I’m not staring at my phone to sneak back into her room. If I didn’t know any better, I’d assume she was watching me too.
The first contact with her I get since she left my room is a single text.
Flight for C I told them there were legal complications identifying his body and getting him back to the U.S., that I had to cut some corners and pull some strings to get him home. I think my parents were too overcome with grief to question what I said. My friends, on the other hand, were skeptical, but unwilling to press me while I was in such a vulnerable state.
But even if he had died by chance, a victim of bad luck and terrible timing, there still would have been people at fault. Once I start thinking about it, I can’t stop. There are so many people to blame.
“Accidental fires still have perpetrators. If someone did a shoddy job at the electrical, or misplaced a towel, or ignored building code, they’re responsible. The man who let him run back inside that building. The fire department, for taking too long to get there. Me, for letting him go alone.”
We both sat in silence, my breaths coming fast and uneven as I fought off panic under the last of the day’s blistering heat. There was no one who wasn’t to blame for Kerem’s death. Everyone even tangentially involved would feel the consequences of their actions; I would make sure of it.
“That’s a lot of anger to bear,” Bashir whispered, leaning back in his chair and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t let it kill you, too.”
I’m shaken out of the memory by the eruption of applause around me. Gwen has Charlie’s face between her hands, and their family and friends cheer when they kiss as husband and wife. They lead the procession of people back into the house, where the east wing’s ballroom has been turned into a reception area. Clara slips away from me, ending the torture and comfort of her arm pressed against mine. She makes a beeline to her mother, offering a hand to help her into the house. Lucia pats her face gently, but doesn’t take the assistance, pushing herself up and leading her daughter across the courtyard.
At the reception, there are eight Costas at the table with us—the entire council, save for the bride and groom—and each of their celebratory expressions feel forced. Gia, Beatrice’s mother, barely eats the delicious and clearly expensive dinner in front of her, opting to tap a fingernail against her fork in an uneven, grating tempo. Beatrice’s eyes keep darting to her mother, her dark curtain of hair and false apathy unable to hide her discomfort.
Clara and Emily share glances across the table that their parents clearly notice, though no one says a word. The only people who look truly at peace are Lucia and Aurelio, both watching their son and daughter-in-law whisper to each other at the sweetheart table near the front of the room.
The Costa house is divided. It’s clear in the way Clara’s expression transforms when she looks at Beatrice. Nearly the entire table is clenched jaws and nervous tics, slips of discomfort and mistrust among the congratulations and compliments on the bride’s dress and the floral arrangements. The obvious strain between Clara and I—the way we avoid speaking, touching, even looking at each other—isn’t helping things.
I should be thrilled. A house divided is much more easily conquered, and that’s exactly what I came here to do.
But instead of reveling in what should be my good fortune, the tendrils of worry I see in Clara start to grip me, too. They pull tighter when Clara sneaks another glance at Beatrice before locking her eyes on the dance floor in front of us.
The tension breaks when the quartet playing soft dinner music behind us steps to the edge of the dance floor and nods to Charlie and Gwen. They rise, Gwen’s dress sweeping the floor as they start their first dance to a classical version of a song I’ve never heard.
The Costas watch their son, brother, nephew, as he beams at his new wife. Aurelio pulls Lucia closer, Emily’s parents tighten their grip on each other's hands atop the table. Charlie whispers something in Gwen’s ear, making her laugh, and she says something that turns the tops of his ears red.
Slowly, friends and family begin pairing and grouping off, pulling each other onto the dance floor. Clara’s eyes flicker to me, causing my heart to thump off beat as I imagine wrapping my arms around her as we sway to the music. But instead, she rises and makes her way to Gwen’s younger sister, Ana, sitting at the table beside us.
They whisper conspiratorially before Ana abandons her drink and takes Clara’s hand, letting her new sister-in-law twirl her into the crowd. Gwen looks concerned, but something Charlie says must calm her, because she loosens up, watching her sisters have fun with more wistfulness.
Which means I’m one of the last three sitting. Actually, when I finally stop staring at Clara, I realize I’m one of the last two at the table. Emily’s still next to me, staring at her phone with her eyebrows pinched in concern, but Beatrice is nowhere to be found. I glance around the room—it’s not large, and the lights are fairly bright—but she’s gone.
Even though it isn’t logical, those creeping vines of unease begin to tighten again. Clara doesn’t trust Beatrice, that much is obvious.
“Do you see Beatrice?” I ask Emily, choking on the words. They’re the first I’ve spoken out loud since my chat with Charlie.
“Hmm?” she hums, her eyes not leaving her phone. Not even blinking. She scrolls, cracking her neck to the side like I’ve seen all the Costas do.
“I don’t see Bea,” I repeat, trying to keep my eyes everywhere at once, but mostly still on Clara. My fingers itch to pull out my phone, even though there are no cameras to see through. My pulse beats a little faster, the lack of control pushing my heart rate up.
“I have to check on something,” Emily says, still staring at the screen grasped between her hands. I can tell she isn’t preoccupied with her cousin’s whereabouts, but I don’t stop her as she stands and exits the room without looking up. Which leaves me watching the room alone,
Jewel tones flash and shimmer under the warm lighting of the ballroom, bodies swaying in the tight space. There aren’t a ton of guests, but with the tables and dancing and music, everything feels chaotic, claustrophobic. I stay seated, even though the position is a disadvantage, instinct telling me not to draw attention to myself by standing.
Servers weave through bodies and chairs to pass around cocktails and water, the black of their suits blending with the shadows. One of the quartet—the violist—steps aside to take a break. Two younger Costa relatives stand in the corner, leaning against the wall like they’re filled with teenage disdain.
No Beatrice.
She could be in the restroom, or she could have disappeared into her family’s home to escape the small crowd or the constant eye of her mother. But still, I can’t stop searching. I watch the shadows, always keeping Clara in my field of vision.
It’s more than twenty minutes before I see Beatrice. She appears out of nowhere, suddenly standing near the entrance to the kitchen, leaning against the wall like the teenagers had. Her mother hasn’t noticed her yet, but Bea isn’t looking at her anymore. Her eyes are trained on Clara.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand as she gazes with intensity at my fiancée. Clara doesn’t seem to notice, too focused on the conversation she’s having with her father as he takes his turn dancing with her. Bea’s still as stone, hiding in a pocket of darkness amidst all the light. It’s like she manifests shadows to hide in, because even though she’s standing against the wall, she’s placed herself in the perfect position to be obscured.
It’s like she’s waiting for Clara to do or say something. Her stare makes me want to stand in front of Clara, to pull her behind me and put my body between her and Bea.
Lucia taps Aurelio’s shoulder, and I think she’s asking for help back to the table, exhaustion finally weighing heavily on her shoulders. Aurelio drops his daughter’s hand, turning to his wife. And apparently that’s what Bea was waiting for.
She pushes off the wall, and I’m standing in an instant, doing my best to seem casual as I make my way to the dance floor. Bea’s moving slowly, seemingly as averse to attracting attention as I am. Clara turns in place as I weave through the dancing bodies, her eyebrows arching in surprise when I sweep her into my arms and put my back to Beatrice.
I can almost feel the heat of Bea’s body behind me. I don’t turn, and I barely sway, holding Clara nearly still as we stare at each other in shock. I haven’t been this close to her since that first night, and it’s like lightning under my skin. I pull Clara closer, our hands instinctively falling into place, mine on her hips and hers on my shoulders.
“What are you doing?” she asks as I move us to the tempo of the music. It’s not really slow dance material, but I’ll make do. I’m not letting Clara pull away from me.
“Dancing with my fiancée,” I bite out, gripping one of her hips tightly. She must realize something’s wrong, because she places a hand on my shoulder and lets me lead.
It takes a few more seconds, but I finally feel Bea retreat. I have no idea what this looked like to everyone around us, but Beatrice must have played it off well enough, because no one is staring anymore. I get a glimpse of dark, pin-straight hair as Bea disappears through the door to the kitchen. My body relaxes a fraction.
“Care to explain?” Clara hisses, taking the unwinding of my muscles as a cue. There are too many people around, too many she clearly doesn’t trust. We keep dancing as I move us toward the edge of the dance floor.
“Not here,” I whisper, barely needing to lean down to put my lips near her ear. I don’t miss the way she shivers as my breath ghosts over her skin. Still, she lets out a controlled, slow exhale as she glances over my shoulder, trying to contain her frustration.
Cheering starts behind us, and we both look in time to see Charlie dip Gwen, her copper hair falling out of its twist and almost dusting the floor. He leans to kiss her, and I use the distraction to pull Clara through the small maze of tables and chairs, nearly shoving her into the closest room right outside the ballroom entrance.
“What the fuck are you doing ?” she huffs as I close the door, blanketing us in darkness. This room is small—-I didn’t know a room in this massive fucking house could be this small. I pull my phone from my pocket and turn on the flashlight, illuminating a very pissed Clara surrounded by winter coats.
I find a shelf for my phone as Clara grabs a handful of my shirt, pulling me down so I’m at eye level with her.
“Deniz, now,” she demands, her lips so close I can imagine them on mine.
And I do. Every moment of every day.
“What the fuck is happening?”
The space is so cramped, all I can feel and smell and see is Clara. Her body is too warm and the neckline of her dress is a little askew. From all the dancing. I’m sure.
“It’s Beatrice,” I manage to say, despite wanting to beg to taste her again. But any lust I feel is erased by the sharp, assessing look Clara dons. It's the same one I saw in Terry’s home in the desert. Not Clara, but The Syndicate’s Matriarch.
“Tell me.”