Page 49 of Twisted Love

“Good idea. Ooo … there’s a customer who needs me. Talk later?” she says.

“Yeah, later,” I say and hang up.

I pull the earbuds out, and the greenhouse is suddenly quiet again. The sun filters through the glass, golden and warm, and for the first time since I got married, I feel a flicker of peace. I know now what I want to do.

CHAPTER30

EARL

The office has finally come together, but the process has been a blur of deadlines, decisions, and late nights that have left little room for anything else. Still, as I sit at my desk, I can’t shake the nagging awareness of what she’s been doing. It’s in little things, subtle adjustments that she thinks I will hardly notice.

The soups.

At first, I thought it was the staff who’d changed the meals, but it’s too specific—exactly the kinds of things I once gravitated toward. Come on, scrambled eggs with bits of crispy bacon in it. That’s completely my thing! And she’s the only one who knows it.

Where I used to not bother with food and settle for a quick coffee breakfast, I’ve now shifted to a rather pleasant food I actually want to eat. Her famous pancakes with strawberries and fresh cream or those blueberry muffins she gets from the bakery in town. It was satisfying in a way I hadn’t expected and I finished more than I expected to.

And then there are the changes to the house. Fresh but understated scents linger in the halls. Somehow everything feels curated to suit me. It’s subtle enough that I could pretend it’s a coincidence, but I know better. It’s her.

She’s always seemed to understand and know and accept me more than even I did myself. It is perhaps why her betrayal hurt a thousand times worse. This quiet persistence with which she weaves herself into my life without asking isn’t what I planned. But I understand what she is doing. She’s trying to worm her way into my heart, but she doesn’t realize my heart is rotten to the core. Not good to eat. She either chokes on rotting flesh or she worms her way out again.

The clock on the wall ticks steadily, each second dragging me closer to the inevitable showdown. Tonight is the gala, the kind of event I’d usually avoid like the plague. But this year, it feels important—like a statement I need to make. A reminder to this town, to everyone who ever doubted me, that I’ve risen far beyond the boy they used to sneer at.

Well, fuck you too, but guess what? I got the girl and fucking house.

With a sigh, I push back from the desk and head to my bedroom. The walk through the empty halls of the Belafonte ancestral home feels strange.

A mocking voice in my head whispers, “Look at you, a stranger in your own house. You don’t belong here. You never will.”

The idea of the evening presses down on me. Once inside my bedroom, I head straight for the bathroom, unbuttoning my shirt as I move because I’m already running late. The hot spray does little to wash away the restless energy thrumming through my body.

I push open the bathroom door and step into my closet. There, laid out neatly on a hanger, is the tuxedo Raven must have arranged for me.

The crisp shirt slides over my arms, the fabric smooth against my skin. Button by button, I fasten it, my jaw set. I tug on the sleeves, slipping on cufflinks that glint under the overhead light. Next comes the jacket. Its tailored lines fit perfectly.

The man staring back at me from the mirror is composed, every inch the sophisticated and successful man. But I know better. Beneath the polished surface, my thoughts churn with the same bitterness and frustration that’s haunted me for years.

I flatten my lapels, letting my fingers linger a moment before I speak to the empty room. “So this is it,” I murmur. “Time to get back on the plan.”

Yeah, the fucking plan. My real intention for coming back to this backwater town. The reason I’ve been punishing her—punishing us—ever since I forced her back into my life. That small, traitorous voice in my head wonders sarcastically if I’m starting to slip and forget why I’m doing this. But no. I will never again allow myself to become the boy who worshipped the very ground she walked on. She was my moon, sun, stars. She was everything.

My eyes glint coldly in the mirror.

She needs to break down and admit what she did to me, admit what she truly thought of me while she claimed to love me more than life itself. Meanwhile, she was no better than the others. I want to see her face of the harm she caused, how she shattered the boy who loved her more than life itself. And I’ll keep at it until she does.

Turning away from the mirror, I cross the room to my dresser, where a small velvet box waits. My mouth is a grim line as I pick it up. The necklace inside is worth more than most people make in a year—more than I made in all my time laboring at my different jobs over many months until I found it was easier to be a criminal than an honest man. Life is good for criminals. Diamonds catch the light with every subtle tilt, cold and brilliant. Perfect for the statement I want to make.

She’ll wear this tonight, I decide. She’ll have no choice in the matter. She will carry the sin of its worth around her neck, a glittering reminder of how low I’ve fallen and of how far she’s fallen in my eyes.

Box in hand, I walk into the hallway. Each step echoes unnervingly in the quiet house. The polished floor reflects my silhouette, a dark figure gliding through corridors I never dreamt would be mine. I wanted a home, warm, inviting, shared. Instead, I’ve got a mausoleum full of corridors of cold hate and dead resentment.

I reach her door and hesitate, my hand halfway raised to knock. The faintest sliver of light glows beneath the threshold, a soft glow that suggests she’s inside, maybe brushing her hair, maybe fiddling with the clasp of her dress. My stomach twists at the thought. For a heartbeat, I almost step back, almost show courtesy and wait for her permission.

But courtesy has no place in this game.

I lower my hand and curl my fingers around the doorknob. I will push it open without warning. The door will swing wide, her light will spill into the darkened hallway, silhouetting me in the frame.

And just like Dracula, I will step boldly into her bedroom.

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