Trust me. Choose me.
Oh god. He has no clue. I bury my face in his pillow and take a quick inhale. One last breath of him. I made a decision last night that solidified when I got the text. He’ll hate me for it, but the truth is, it’ll save them. All of them.
I set the items he bought me—including the vibrators and underwear—on the bed and grab the diamond earring from the drawer. In its place, I leave him the note Iwrote this morning and go. Even when it feels as though it might physically kill me to do so. My heart stays here. It’s his to keep. The thing never did me much good anyway.
With my backpack on, I walk the mile and a half in the early morning heat to the nearest bus stop. My thoughts frequently drift to Rowan, to last night, but that won’t help me now. It’ll only hurt what I have to do.
The bus into town isn’t long, and my gaze stays glued to the window, watching the pretty landscape of Messalina pass. Tourin sprawls out before me as I climb down the three steps from the bus onto the sidewalk. Determination holds my spine and head straight as I walk the streets, up two blocks, and down three. On and on I go, following the GPS directions on my work phone until I reach the edge of town where L’Hotel Louise sits. It’s a posh hotel on the hill with a view of everything, including the river. It’s also near the hospital, and I wonder how Bellamy is doing. How her twins are.
I have no right to ask. No right to know.
I enter the lobby and take in the elegant vibe with its crystal chandeliers and velvet couches with white roses in bud vases on small tables scattered around in the lounge. Signoria sits at a table with her back to the room, her blonde hair pinned up in a perfect chignon. In years past, she would have been front and center in the café, her face a beacon to the room. Shame has done funny things to her, but her soul was black well before Samil died.
Ignoring the host, I breeze over to her table, drop the coin into her purse that’s hanging off the back of her chair, and take the seat across from her.
A server comes by, and I order myself a coffee and a croissant without asking if I’m allowed. It makes Signoria scowl, the lines of her face stressing the Botox doing its best to keep them smooth and in place.
“Were you followed?”
I shake my head. It’s just us in here, and the staff is giving us our privacy, no doubt tipped very well to forget they saw Signoria Batorini speaking to anyone.
“No one knows I left. No one cares that I did.” They will tomorrow, though when I don’t present for work. By that point, my work phone and everything I need it for today will be dead. I left everything else that wasn’t mine there. I’ll send Emily an email or a text letting her know that my sister or family needed me emergently and that I’m sorry I had to go, blah, blah, blah.
By the time she gets it and looks to do anything about it, Signoria and Antonia will be dead, and Jaqueline and I will be out of the country. I know the people who got me the IDs, and I’m hoping they’ll trade their work for diamonds or cash if I can sell the diamonds first. Then we can start fresh. Away from Messalina. Away from nightmares and memories.
The evil deeds we commit cannot be erased by others’ bullshit revisionist history. Wrong is wrong, no matter how you try to dress it up and make it look presentable. With that, I’m done doing the evil for others who have the luxury of pretending they’re above it simply because their hands aren’t dripping with blood.
My coffee and croissant arrive, and I take my time adding milk and sugar, stirring it around and driving Signoria mad.
“What did you find on his computer?” she snips, her impatience getting the best of her.
“Nothing,” I tell her bluntly after I take a sip. “There was nothing on there. He did no wrong. He’s not part of any schemes. No blackmail or manipulation.” I stir my little spoon around. “Your son, on the other hand, was tied up in all kinds of both.”
Her lips purse to the side as if that tidbit were boring and useless to her. “I have what I need you to plant on his computer,” she continues, dismissing my narrative. “Do it tonight, then leave tomorrow.”
“Of course,” I tell her, my gaze not wavering, not even as I take another sip. “Samil loved Nora, and I understand his hatred of the king. The king won, and Samil lost. Still, you’re aware you’re going to ruin an innocent man.”
Rage colors her face. “Do not speak to me about innocence you know nothing about. He killed my son. Your brother. The only reason I’ve let you live. You will do this, Marcella, or I will kill Jaqueline while you watch, and then I’ll kill you.”
Not if I kill you first.
Except this is part of the game.
“I’ll do it. You know I will. I love my brother, and the king deserves to go down for what he did, but I want my freedom. I want Jaqueline’s freedom.”
She’s quiet for a very long moment, and this surprises me. I expected her to laugh as she’s done every time I’ve made that request. This time she doesn’t. And it chills me further. It also solidifies my resolve, knowing full well what her plan is for me.
She appraises me, taking me in from head to toe. “You look different.”
“Different?” I parry, taken off guard by her topic changer.
“Yes. There’s something about you now, isn’t there?”
“Signoria, since I could barely walk, I’ve done your bidding. I’ve taken your punishments, and I’ve accepted your torture. I’ve never let you down. Not once, and I won’t now. Do we have a deal? Our freedom for the king’s.”
“What if I asked you to kill him? It’s what Samil wanted. Would you deny the only person to love you their dying wish?”
I harden, my eyes narrowing. “I thought you wanted me to plant evidence. Now you want him dead. Which is it?”