Chapter 1 #2
I reach out before I can talk myself into being dignified, which is good, since dignity has never once improved my life.
My fingers brush Creed’s jaw. His skin is warm, a little rough from the day.
His breath breaks against Halston’s mouth, and then Creed turns just enough to catch my fingertips with his lips.
There.
That small contact.
That devastating inclusion.
He hears the breath I try to hide. Of course he does. Creed hears everything I don’t want noticed and stores it somewhere behind his ribs, probably alphabetized, probably in a folder labeled “Livia: Emotional Liabilities.”
Halston pulls back only enough to look at me.
His eyes are dark—possessive.
Tender too.
A terrifying combination for a woman who already has poor impulse control around complicated men with tragic souls and excellent hands.
“You okay over there, wife?”
I hate how much I love that word in any sentence—even in questions.
“She is,” Creed says, lips brushing the side of my neck. “She likes it when we forget the law is stupid.”
“I like it when you both stop talking about the law,” I say, though my voice betrays me with need.
Halston smiles. “Mrs. Saint Claire has opinions.”
“Mrs. Saint Claire has two men with catastrophic boundary issues.”
Creed laughs against my skin. “Catastrophic?”
“Historically significant.”
“Temporary,” Halston murmurs, lifting my hand to kiss the ring. “Only until we fix the world.”
I turn his face toward mine. “That might take a while.”
His eyes soften in a way I still don’t know how to survive.
“Then we’ll be busy.”
I believe him.
God help me, I believe all of it.
That paperwork can be corrected. That families can be handled. That money can be refused, redirected, or burned to the ground if necessary. That love this strange and bright and alive can keep its hands on us long enough to become ordinary.
We don’t even need the money. Not really. The money is not the point of us or why we committed to each other. It has never been.
The promise is.
The promise Halston made to Cornelius St. Claire before the old man died. The promise tangled in inheritance clauses and family rot and the rotten little legal details rich people use when feelings are too honest.
It will be fine, I think.
We have time.
Then, suddenly, the memory is gone.
The hospital returns in fragments.
White ceiling.
Plastic rail.
Tape pulling at my skin.
My hand twitches again on the sheet.
A doctor stands over me now with kind eyes and a face trained to deliver unbearable things in portions small enough to swallow without choking.
Mom stands behind him with her hand pressed to her lips. Dad is in the hallway, speaking to someone in a voice clipped with fury, the way people sound when they mistake control for love.
“Livia,” the doctor says. “You were in an accident. Do you remember anything?”
I stare at him.
That is not an answer, but what else can I do? All I remember is the bed and . . . I feel as if I keep waking up to different versions of myself. All of them leave my body feeling foreign and my mind drifting.
“We need to talk about your injuries first.”
“No.” My voice barely exists. “Halston.”
My mother makes a small, broken sound. She reaches for me, and I flinch before her fingers touch my arm.
I don’t mean to.
Her face crumples anyway.
“Baby,” she whispers.
I look past her. “Where is he?”
The doctor glances toward the door.
My father steps into the room, and I know, somehow, that he has been waiting to manage this. To manage me. He looks exhausted, older than he should, his shirt wrinkled, eyes red, mouth set with purpose.
Purpose scares me more than grief.
“She’s going to do it again,” Mom chokes on a sob.
“Livia,” Dad says, “you need to stay calm.”
I almost laugh.
Of all the impossible instructions he has ever given me, and there have been many, “stay calm” while my husbands are missing is a truly elite-level delusion.
“Listen, you were in an accident,” Dad begins to explain. “There was significant trauma.”
Significant.
Trauma.
Two clean words pretending they have not dragged blood into the room.
“Is he alive?”
No one answers fast enough.
The machine keeps beeping. My hand keeps moving against my will. Somewhere outside the room, a phone rings until someone finally silences it.
“Is he . . . is he alive?” I say again, louder, though the words scrape all the way out.
“He’s in critical condition,” Dad responds. “They don’t know if he’s going to make it.”
Critical.
Condition.
My body understands before my mind does.
The beeping changes.
A nurse moves toward me. Someone says my name. My mother starts crying, saying I’m losing it again. My father orders someone to do something, because that is what he does when helplessness comes upon him—he turns it into a command and hopes no one notices the terror beneath.
“Creed,” I gasp. “Where is Creed?”
“Livia—”
“No. Where is he?” I beg. “You need to call him.”
The room tilts.
Or I do.
The beeping goes faster. Too fast. A terrible little metronome for a life I can’t reach.
“Call him,” I insist. “Call Creed. He’ll know. He always—he’ll—”
“Her pressure’s climbing.”
“Livia, look at me,” Dad orders.
“We have to take her,” Mom begs. “Keep her sedated until she’s safe.”
“Don’t touch me.” I try to pull away, but my body betrays me with a pathetic half-movement. “Get Creed. Get Halston. I need—”
“Push two milligrams.”
“No.” Panic rips through me. “No, don’t. I have to—”
A nurse presses a needle into my IV.
The room begins to blur at the edges.
I fight it.
Of course, I fight it. I fight traffic patterns, poorly formatted spreadsheets, men who say “circle back” when they mean “avoid responsibility,” and every soft little attempt the world makes to move me out of my own life.
But whatever they give me is stronger than terror.
Stronger than rage.
Almost stronger than love.
Almost.
The last thing I hear before the dark takes me again is my own ruined voice dragging their names out like a prayer.
“Halston. Creed. Please.”