Page 52 of Souls and Sorrows

We’ve barely interacted outside of small talk since the day I saw Emile. That’s the only part of it I choose to remember. The shame spiral and accusations, followed by my begging him to just touch me that night, are instances I’d much rather forget.

Or at least pretend to.

Cash’s driver, Ronnie, announces from the front of the town car that we’re close to our destination, and I give him a nod, turning away from the window. I didn’t want to give in to having Ronnie cart me around, but I figured it’d be easier in the long run.

At least, this way, I’m free to come and go as I please.

My gaze drops to the rose gold ring on my finger, and I run my thumb over the rose-shaped diamond in the center.

As if my coming and going matters with this medieval torture device stuck on me.

I woke up after that night, groggy and with a sick sensation in my gut, and found the vintage piece already on. I didn’t mind at first because it’s gorgeous. But then, I realized the only way to remove it was to scalp my knuckle because of the shape and modification of the double band.

I’m tempted to have it cut off, but I think Cash would probably find a more sinister way for me to wear it instead.

A shudder racks through me, and my hands drift to my neck as I think about the collar Ermes Barbieri made me wear and the way the prongs dug into my neck.

Having seen me in it, Cash is liable to do the same, especially if he thinks it’ll keep me from fucking around on him behind his back.

I suppose he fits in quite well with the men of my world after all.

Ronnie pulls up to a condominium sitting on a corner lot, then glances at me over his shoulder. He’s an off-puttingly kind-looking man with a head of white curls and glasses with circular lenses, and he keeps calling me Mrs. Primrose, which stokes a fire in my belly at the same time it rankles me.

Cash filed to have my name changed the day after our wedding, and since he’s apparently a favored attorney in the city, the process was expedited.

I like not being a Ricci. For now, that’s all I’m sure of.

Concern etches into his fluffy brows as he turns, looking out the window at the residence. We’re forty minutes from the city, and I know he probably thinks he’s brought me somewhere to have an affair. I can practically feel the wheels in his head turning as he takes in the square building and the ornately designed front entrance.

“Would you like me to escort you inside, Mrs. Primrose?” he asks.

Shaking my head, I unbuckle myself and refasten the belt of my white Marine Serre coat, pushing open the back door. “No, thanks. I’ll only be a minute.”

He rolls the front passenger window down, leaning over the console. “Where should I tell Mr. Primrose you’ve gone, if he calls while you’re still inside?”

I pause, not realizing there were options. “That depends on why you’re asking. You don’t think I’m going up there to cheat on him, do you?”

Ronnie blinks. “I’ve been in this business a long time, Mrs. Primrose. I know what people look like when they’re engaging in illicit affairs. You aren’t the type.”

Warmth blossoms in my chest, and I give him what feels like the first genuine smile I’ve had since all of this started. “If he asks, tell him he can come find out for himself.”

Nodding, Ronnie rolls the window back up, and I turn around, heading inside. Green carpet lines the immediate stairs once I enter the building, and I take them slowly, trying to remember the last time I was here.

Too long ago really.

I’m supposed to be checking in regularly, but the satisfaction of doing so was starting to wear off. Just like why I quit professional ballet—once catharsis stops, it’s hard to crawl out of the hole it dug around you.

My whole life, dancing has been my escape. It was how I dealt with my unfortunate reality without letting it bleed onto my sisters or friends.

But at some point, it started to feel like work. Rhythm no longer felt natural in my body, and I had to put more effort than necessary into my routines.

It was theonlything that brought me any sort of joy, and that joy soured because of its importance.

It rotted from the inside out.

When I get to the third floor, I knock on unit 3B, clutching my handbag tight against my side. Several minutes pass, and I start to worry that maybe she isn’t home.

Or maybe she’s just not able to answer.

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