Page 37 of Fragile Twisted Vows
Which I would very much like to do.
Jesus, Damien. Get a grip on yourself.
She turns to walk out of the room, but I hear her pause at the door as I open the tab for my email.
“What?” I bark and she sighs.
“Do you have like…a library or anything? I ran out of my art supplies and I’m a little bored,” she explains and I pause for a moment, mulling over her words.
“Down the right hall, past the dining room on the left side,” I say distantly, and she mutters a lowthanksbefore walking out and closing the door to leave me in silence.
Overwhelmingly still silence.
I sigh and lean back in my chair as I rip off my glasses and throw them onto my desk. I pinch the bridge of my nose, angry that she has distracted me once more. And even though my mind has been filled with images of her wet, naked body, now it’s filled with her long legs beneath that short skirt. Now it’s filled with the outline of her breasts pressed against her tight body suit. And to make matters worse, now it’s filled with all of those paintings that once filled her bedroom at her family’s home in Connecticut.
Paintings that nobody gave a fuck about, except for her.
There would be countless times her mother would be running late to yet another one of her husband’s political events because neither she nor Megan could pull her from her bedroom in time. And when they did, she would be wearing those same oversized overalls splattered in paint. She would be chastised, mocked and then harassed.
A pointless hobby. A useless endeavor is what they would call it. And though I never paid much mind to it, I often admired that she had some form of talent, a hobby or obsession that didn’t involve fucking people over. Rather, it involved creating life outside of the one she suffered in. It involved color and hope, something I’ve never truly had myself.
And while I appreciate art, expensive art at that, I prefer much darker pieces, less abstract and pretty. If it’s not simple, or modern or black and white, it’s a Da Vinci that depicts an image of suffering. Whereas Lucy is all flowers, all beautiful, lively landscapes or abstract lines woven with vibrancy.
And that is why her family mocked her. Not because she wasn’t good, but because she was. She was great at something they were incapable of seeing. Life, beauty, color.
I pull out my phone and text a quick errand to Bruno. He’s supposed to meet with me at Fleur de Femme in a couple of hours, but an idea has come to mind.
An idea that will occupy the woman that has slowly taken over my mind and taken it hostage.
thirteen
Lucy
I’m walking out of Damien’s office and heading towards the main living area of the penthouse when a tall, lanky man locks eyes with me in the massive, contemporary style kitchen.
His hair is light, most likely bleached, but perfectly quaffed. His mustache is small and trimmed to his clear face, much darker than his styled hair. He wears a casual outfit, but it’s very…fashionable. Colorful. And he smirks at me when he swings a hand towel over his slim shoulder and pauses chopping some vegetables.
“Good afternoon,” I say, my voice shaky and unsure, because I can’t trust anyone that works for Damien Reed or is close to him.
The man looks me up and down, his light pink, manicured nails pearly and short as he turns on the long, iron faucet and starts scrubbing his smooth hands.
“And you are?” he asks, his tone both sassy and annoyed sounding. I feel scrutinized and out of place, but mostly embarrassed.
“I’m-” I stutter, but he cuts me off with a laugh.
“Relax, I know who you are. Damien filled me in,” he says as he turns off the sink and removes a pot from the double stove.
Did he tell you that I’m his ex-wife’s sister and that he’s holding me hostage?
“Shocked to meet his new fiance even though I never met his former wife,” he quips and it’s a burn, one that I feel everywhere.
“It’s okay though.” He winks up at me as he throws the vegetables in a bowl and drains the water from the pot, “I heard she was a complete bitch.” He shrugs and I sigh, because he has no clue.
“I’m Henry, by the way. Private chef.” He says, confidence practically oozing from him as he speaks.
“Lucy,” I say as I walk to the countertop.
“Pleasure,” he says as he tosses the vegetables and reaches up to open the glass door of the white marble cabinet.
