Page 83 of Pretty Little Threats

Maybe I do like the sense of belonging that accompanies him telling people I’m his wife, but is that a weakness I want to admit, on top of everything else I’ve already given him? Probably not.

“Do you always answer a question with a question?” I ask instead.

“Do you?”

Mother. Fucker. Taking a breath, I glare at him. “Fine. You can take me to lunch.”

His smug grin is enough to make me consider changing my mind, but when he drags me out to the waiting car and gives directions to my favorite Vietnamese restaurant, I decide notto fight.

Remy stands sentinel outside of the hole-in-the-wall restaurant, always looming close by. Having a bodyguard seems a little excessive, but Dare and Remy carry on as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The restaurant we’re at is nothing fancy, but they have the best pho I’ve ever tasted. The wooden tables are worn, as are the laminated placemats, like they’ve had years of use, and they’re still using those big red plastic cups for drinks. Most of the tables are full, and the servers are rushing around. It’s open seating.

Before Dare can take charge, I pick the table in the back corner and breathe in the delectable mingling of mint, coriander, and Thai basil. Deeper scents tangle with those, threading around me in a warm embrace, promising delicious food and a full belly.

Dare searches my face once we place our orders. The way he watches me is unnerving, like he’s imagining picking me apart, bit by bit. Something tells me he might not put the pieces back together once he’s done.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asks.

“It’s only a matter of time.” I unwrap my straw and stick it in the glass of fizzy water.

Dare releases an amused chuckle but lets the subject go. “When did you start drawing?”

The question takes me by surprise. No one has ever cared enough to ask. The few people who’ve seen me with my sketch pad were ex-boyfriends, and all they ever cared about was getting laid or sucking up to my dad. Now that I think about it...I’m not sure I ever dated anyone who actually wanted to get to know me.

Every relationship I’ve had has been superficial, and I have to remember this marriageisn’t real. He might ask questions, but Dare doesn’t really care about me. It’s always about my Dad. Always.

That lonesome ache in my chest grows more pronounced.

“You were drawing at Frank’s,” Dare explains, mistaking my silence for confusion. “And I’ve noticed some discarded sketches in the guest bedroom.”

I narrow my eyes. “Are you snooping?” A silly question, given that I literally searched his entire house twice over, but for some reason, him studying my creative work—again—bothers me. Especially since half the ones I’ve thrown away are my attempts to capture Dare on paper.

“Yes.”

A flush crawls up my neck. Great. Now he probably thinks I’m obsessed with him. “I’ve been drawing as long as I can remember,” I say quickly, hoping to hide my embarrassment. “After my mom died, Dad was perpetually busy with work, but he always had a pen and paper with him.” I shrug. “I guess drawing was my way of entertaining myself.”

“You were there for a while?”

“He had work to do.” I glance away, memories of hours spent waiting for Dad to remember I was there suddenly filling my head. His secretary would check on me, but only after she was done taking care of everyone else. It was almost like I was the forgotten child. On those days, I grieved my mom hard, and the more I drew, fueling all of the sadness into creating something, the more I was able to pretend like everything was okay when Dad finished his meetings.

“That had to be hard.”

I bristle. “It was fine. Drawing was entertaining enough, and now it’s part of who I am.” The hobby stuck,despite Dad’s every attempt to get me to stop. To him, art is pointless, but to me, it’s part of who I am.

“You’re really good.”

My eyes cut to Dare’s. I wait for him to talk shit. To poke fun at how many times I’ve drawn him. But it never comes. Like before, I’m conflicted by his compliments.

Those dark brown irises bore into me, piercing through my walls to stare at the Rose I bury behind practiced smiles and a hard exterior. Does he find me lacking? Should I care?

“I especially like the one of the woman in the crowd,” he says.

I know the exact one he’s talking about. She’s stagnant and everyone is rushing by her, not even noticing that she’s frozen. The woman is surrounded by hundreds of people, but she’s alone. It’s one of my more personal drawings.

Dare continues. “It makes me sad in a way. The woman you drew is beautiful and elegant, but everyone is so wrapped up in their own selfish desires, they can’t see that she’s drowning.”

“What makes you think she’s drowning?”

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