Lily Black lies in a luxurious bed big enough to make her tall frame seem childlike. The room is so spacious that even the bulky medical equipment can’t make the space feel cramped. The walls and headboard share the same cobalt velvet damask, leaving the bed and the pale woman unconscious in it as the only bright spots in the hushed gloom.
Against ice-blue silk pillows, Lily’s coiffed hair is inky black. A clear, thin oxygen tube bisects her face, but her lips are painted a lush red, as are her perfectly manicured nails.
It’s creepy, the beautician said to me when I’d arrived in time to catch her working. Like working on a cadaver.
Yeah, creepy. And crazy. The whole room looks like a mausoleum for her carcass. The sky has darkened outside, giving the impression that it’s dusk instead of noon. The floor and table lamps are all on, the slender silver bases topped with indigo drum shades and chandelier crystals that throw prisms of light against the dark walls.
I’ve wondered if Kane fucks her while she’s unconscious, but when I mentioned it to Darius, he told me I’m insane even to think that. Whatever. The entire family is delusional, and I refuse to be gaslighted.
Sheer curtains hang from brushed nickel rods. Heavy velvet drapes the same hue as the walls flank the windows and pool on the polished sodalite floor. In a navy armchair with silver tacks, Frank – the nurse – sits quietly with a tablet. He glances up with a smile when I step deeper into the room, then stands, knowing the drill. When I show up, he gets to take a break.
The moment he leaves the room, I dig out my flask and unscrew the cap with shaky fingers. I’m still so pissed at Kane; I want to break something. I study Lily as I lift the cool aluminum to my lips, but my eyes close when I toss my head back, and the welcome warmth spreads through my stomach. My tote slides off my shoulder and hits the royal blue rug with a thud. The other flask is still full. Thank God.
Kicking off the towering heels I wore to approximate Lily’s height, I walk toward the bed as I take another drink, my fingers gliding over the various pieces of furniture as I pass them. While the depth of color aligns with the rest of the penthouse, there are textures in this room and patterns within the textures. It almost feels like swimming deep underwater, at the point where sunlight is a faraway shimmer. Bouquets of stargazer and black lilies fragrance the air, clearly defining the space from the rest of the condo, which smells of Kane.
The decor could easily be termed masculine, yet the result is sensual bohemian femininity. The room is opulent. Expensive. Faux animal hides draped on chairs and crystal obelisks on marbled tabletops. On the vanity in front of one of the windows, a set comprised of a silver hand mirror and two brushes with LRB etched into the backs waits for its owner to wake the fuck up and use them. The pen and notepad on the nightstand bear the same initials.
Someone put thought into this room. It doesn’t seem possible that it was created overnight or even within a week, filling me with questions. Was it Kane who styled this for her or Witte? Maybe the decorating was hired out to a professional. I hope that’s the case, and Kane didn’t care enough to design it himself.
Distantly, the darkening sky rumbles a warning.
Looking toward the lifeless figure in the bed, I eye the jewelry she wears on her left hand, safely below the intravenous line providing her with liquid and nutrients. At first, I’d scoffed at the wedding ring Kane had given his precious Lily.
A ruby. Really?
I don’t care how big a gemstone is; a wife should get a diamond, for fuck’s sake. And not a halo of small ones but a big fat “love of my life” statement stone. Even Darius had known that.
It wasn’t until I’d tried the ring on myself that I realized the stone changed color with the light.
An alexandrite, I’d discovered after research. Far rarer than diamonds, especially in the size Kane had given her. And far more expensive per carat than pretty much every other stone on the planet.
“You’re an asshole, Kane,” I mutter, licking vodka off my lips. “And you’re a bitch,” I tell her.
I return to my bag, shove the flask away and pull out a magazine. I take the chance of checking the nightstand drawer and grin when I find a bottle of the polish used on her nails. I laugh when I recognize it as one of Rosana’s new ECRA+ shades. “Blood Lily.”
Of course.
I sit on the edge of the bed, reach out and run my fingers through Lily’s hair. The strands are glossy and vibrant with life. They slip and slide, settling neatly onto the pillow when I let them go. Her skin is like white satin. Flawless and smooth, soft as down feathers and free from the sun damage every other woman her age fights, including me.
Somewhere, there’s a bag collecting urine from her catheter. And she wears a diaper for shitting. So … maybe not so fucking perfect after all, huh?
“I’ve decided I want you to wake up,” I tell her conversationally. “I need to know how you fucked him up so badly.”
Because I really want to fuck him up, too.
The thin straps of her red negligee bare her shoulders and arms. Her nails are crimson spots on the ruched ice-blue silk of the duvet. The taped IV needle draws my gaze to her vein, which pulses visibly, a direct line to her heart and brain. I touch it, feeling how cool the liquid is that’s dripping into her, how it’s chilled her skin.
“You feel like a corpse,” I tell her.
But she doesn’t smell like one. I lean closer and sniff, catching the faintest trace of perfume, something floral with undertones of deep musk and tropical breezes. I like it. My face is inches from hers, taking in every detail. Her lashes lay like black lace fans against her cheeks.
Thunder cracks the sky and the penthouse quakes. Her eyes slit open, luminous green, staring with serpentine ferocity.
I tumble to the floor, screaming.