She delivers her response low and with a twisted confidence that borders more on threat than assurance. “I didn’t have a phone.”
“Bullshit. The room phone was on the bedside table, and your mobile was on the bed.”
“I. DIDN’T. HAVE. A. PHONE!” she emphasises pointedly, but I’m not letting this drop. In fact, a lot of questions rise to the surface.
“Actually, a few things don’t add up. Who paid for the suite? Why were you in the penthouse in the first place? You clearly don’t take all your lovers to the high-class hotels…”
“How dare you!” she spits. Her sneer firmly back on her lips. “Did you stop to think maybe they took us there?”
I’ll give her that as a possibility. “Fine, say I believe you. That would mean they grabbed you between here and the hospital.”
“So?”
So?What an interesting way to reply. Not a confirmation or denial. Not an explanation. Just a stubborn littleso.
“Well, we know that you weren’t planning to go to the hospital at all. You were coming to surprise me at my interview,” I ponder as another thought occurs. Something that makes no sense at all. “Which is where I assumed they’d grabbed you.”
“Exactly. They got us there,” she agrees, jumping on my explanation a little too fast.
“Then why did you have a suitcase of clothes, Sylvie? Why would you come to a coffee house with a suitcase of lingerie and negligees?”
Sylvie lunges. She moves at the exact moment that a screamof frustration comes tearing from her mouth. She hits me full force, and I’m only just able to turn to take the impact on one side instead of letting her barrel me over. Unfortunately, turning gives her access to my hair, which she grabs and yanks. My scalp screams the sting of each hair she pulls out before I shove her backward into the wall. Knocking her against it again and again, I’m fighting to remember it’s Sylvie, not Dad. I can’t blackout. I can’t hurt her the way I hurt Ben. But pulling my hair has triggered me and I’m half in this corridor with the pissed off woman-child and half in my head with my abusive father…No. I am a Girard. Not a Feelan.
Fuck this!
As soon as she releases my hair, I pull away, raise my right hand, and slap her straight across her twisted face. Hard. Just as I expect, Sylvie has no idea how to take a hit. She rears back, her hands releasing me and clutching at her face. Her are eyes wide and awash with tears, and her mouth stretches wider as she stares at me in shock. I’m quite sure this is the first time someone has openly slapped her.
What were those bruises on her arm at the hotel, then?
I watch as the shock transforms to disbelief and then to fury upon her face; her eyes narrowing to accusing slits, but I’m past caring how Little Miss Trevainne feels. No one fucking touches me without my permission either, and especially not to hurt me. Never again.
I ready myself for her next attack only to rear back as she pulls a complete emotional one-eighty. Wailing fills the corridor. More tears than I’ve ever cried, dredge down her face, ruining the make-up I didn’t know she was wearing. I’m mesmerised by the dark streaks trailing through her ever so pale foundation despite the way the fury never quite leaves her eyes.
What is this?
“What the fuck is going on here? The whole compound can hear you both!”
Ah. We have an audience. Makes sense. Seems my original assessment of Sylvie was the right one. Grandmother will be tutting and rolling her eyes at me right now.‘Never judge a person on a single error. Judge them on the errors they repeat.’A single error might just be an innocent mistake—a lapse in judgement, but repetition means it is long-learned behaviour. It’s who they are.
And Sylvie Trevainne is a selfish, manipulative bitch, and a liar.
She sobs, great hulking breaths choking down her throat. She’s good at this. I turn to see what I’m dealing with and whether it’s even worth explaining myself, expecting Dax, Aiden or even Cas to be lined up on the stairs, but it’s Frank and Ben.
“Well? Is one of you going to explain, or do I have to drag you both into Dean’s business meeting and shame us all?” Frank’s anger slices through the silence.
I’ve a curious urge to tell him to ‘fuck off, you’re not my father.’An urge so ludicrous, I can’t stop the burst of laughter that erupts from my mouth. Frank’s eyes narrow at me, but he directs his question back to Sylvie.Of course.She’s the walking wallet in this scenario. Why would he bother letting me explain first?
God, I’m so done with this afternoon. I should have set up my laptop instead.
“She…she…” Sylvie stutters, pointing at me, but I’m not hanging around to listen.
“SHE is going for a walk. You can sell your bullshit to Frank. He seems eager to hear you out, Princess. Personally, I was done the second you opened your mouth. I came by to make sure you were okay, but I can see you are as good as ever. I’ll not make the same mistake again.” I push past Frank and take the stairs, stopping to wince my apology at Ben. “I owe you. I’ll not forget it.”
Ben nods, the movement is fast and contained like he doesn’t want Frank or Sylvie to see. “Don’t go far,” he snaps, uncharacteristically. “Dax’ll be pissed if you go any further than themaze.” He stares straight into my eyes like he’s begging me to hear what he’s saying. To understand.
I nod. “Fine.” The maze sounds good to me, anyway. Fresh air and privacy. A moment to breathe and think without being watched.
At the bottom of the stairs, I reach for an oversized black hoodie hanging on the rack. I don’t care who it belongs to. Pulling it on over my t-shirt, I yank up the hood, tucking my hair inside, then get as far as the security office before I’m stopped.
