Chapter 4: Perfect Lie
1204 Words
The drawing room was a study in oppressive luxury.
Mahogany walls that absorbed the light. Heavy velvet drapes that shut out the blizzard. A fireplace large enough to roast a whole stag, crackling with a hunger that unnerved me.
I took the armchair in the corner—the one furthest from the heat, the one partially obscured by a potted fern. My designated spot. The spectator seat.
"Scotch, Adrian?"
The voice boomed from the doorway. Charles Hart didn't walk into rooms; he occupied them. My father strode to the crystal decanter on the sideboard, pouring amber liquid into a tumbler without asking if anyone else wanted one.
He was wearing a smoking jacket that looked ridiculous on anyone else but somehow made him look like a king on a throne of blood money.
"Neat, please, sir," Adrian said.
Sir.
The word sounded wrong coming from his mouth. The Adrian I knew didn't call people "sir." He called them by their names, or he didn't call them anything at all. He had always hated authority, especially the kind bought with inheritance.
I watched him take the glass. His fingers were steady. Not a tremor.
"I’ve seen the quarterly reports from the London branch," Father said, taking a seat in the high-backed leather wingchair opposite Adrian. He swirled his drink, the ice clinking—a sharp, musical sound in the tense silence. "Aggressive numbers. I like aggressive."
" The market was volatile," Adrian replied smoothy. He crossed one leg over the other, ankle resting on knee. Relaxed. Confident. "We capitalized on the uncertainty."
"Ruthless," Father nodded, a rare smile touching his thin lips. It wasn't a warm smile. It was the smile of a shark recognizing another predator. "Isabella tells me you handled the acquisition of that tech startup personally. Dismantled the board within a week?"
"It was necessary," Adrian said. "They were dead weight."
I shrank deeper into my chair.
Who was this man?
The boy I loved used to rescue injured birds. He used to spend hours sanding down a piece of reclaimed wood just to bring out the grain. He didn't dismantle boards. He didn't call people "dead weight."
But as I watched him, really watched him, I saw it.
A tiny muscle in his jaw feathered.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
It was microscopic. Invisible to anyone who hadn't spent hours memorizing the topography of his face in the moonlight. But I saw it.
He was clenching his teeth. He was grinding them so hard his jaw was spasming under the skin.
He hated this. He was performing.
Why?
"Oh, Daddy, stop talking business," Isabella interrupted. She was perched on the arm of Adrian's chair, looming over him like a possessive gargoyle in red velvet. "It’s Christmas Eve. We’re supposed to be celebrating us."
She slid her hand down Adrian's shoulder, resting it on his chest. Her fingers splayed over his heart—the heart that used to beat against my ear.
I looked away, staring at the pattern in the Persian rug. The swirls of crimson and navy blurred together.
Every time she touched him, it felt like someone was taking a cheese grater to my skin.
"Fine, fine," Father waved a dismissive hand, though he looked pleased. He liked this. He liked the aesthetic of it. The powerful heir he never had, and the beautiful daughter to secure him. It was a transaction that balanced his ledger perfectly.
"So," Father leaned back. "When is the main event? I won't have a winter wedding. Bad for travel."
"We were thinking spring," Isabella purred. She leaned down, brushing her cheek against Adrian’s hair. "April. When everything is in bloom."
April.
The air left my lungs in a silent whoosh.
April was our month.
We met in April. We had our first kiss in the rain in April. He left in April.
"April is good," Father mused. "Tax season is over. The shareholders will be in a good mood."
"We’ve already looked at venues," Isabella continued, her voice light and bubbly, oblivious to the fact that she was suffocating me. "Adrian wants something traditional. A cathedral. Isn't that right, darling?"
She looked at him, waiting for her cue.
Adrian took a sip of his scotch. He didn't look at her. He stared into the fire, the orange flames dancing in his eyes.
"Whatever makes you happy, Isabella," he said quietly.
It was the perfect answer. The dutiful fiancé answer.
But his knuckles were white around the glass.
"See?" Isabella beamed at Father. "He’s perfect."
"He certainly seems to understand the assignment," Father agreed.
The assignment.
That’s what this was. A role. A script. And I was the only one in the audience who knew the actor was dying on stage.
Or maybe he wasn't. Maybe the jaw tick wasn't stress. Maybe it was annoyance. Maybe he just wanted to get the wedding over with so he could secure his place in the empire.
Maybe I was projecting my own misery onto a man who had clearly moved on.
"And you, Evelyn?" Father’s voice cut through the fog, sharp as a whip crack.
I jumped slightly. "Sir?"
"Still painting your little pictures?" He didn't look at me. He was inspecting the cuff of his jacket. "Or have you finally found a real job?"
I felt Adrian’s gaze shift. I could feel the weight of it on the side of my face, heavy and hot.
"I have a gallery showing next month," I said softly. It was a lie. The gallery had cancelled on me last week. But I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing that.
"Cute," Isabella laughed. "Maybe Adrian can buy one for the guest bathroom. Support the family charity."
She patted Adrian’s chest again.
That was it.
The nausea rolled over me, a physical wave of sickness. The heat of the fire, the smell of the scotch, the cloying scent of Isabella’s perfume, the sight of his hand resting on the arm of the chair—it was too much.
I stood up. My legs felt like they were made of balsa wood.
"I think the drive has caught up with me," I said. My voice sounded thin, reedy. "I’m going to go unpack."
"Don't be late for dinner," Father warned. "7:00 sharp. We have guests coming."
"Of course," I whispered.
I didn't look at Adrian. I couldn't. If I looked at him, and saw that blank, cold mask again, I would scream.
I turned and walked out of the room. I kept my pace measured, slow, dignified.
But the moment the heavy doors clicked shut behind me, the facade crumbled.
I leaned against the wall of the corridor, pressing my forehead against the cool plaster.
Spring.
He was marrying her in the spring.
He was going to stand at an altar, in a cathedral, and promise to love my sister until he died.
I closed my eyes, but the image burned behind my lids. Him and her. Together.
Three days.
I had told myself I could survive three days.
I slid down the wall, clutching my chest where my heart was beating a frantic, broken rhythm.
I was wrong.
I wasn't going to survive this. This weekend was going to kill me.
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