Page 20 of Sweet Poison

“You’re the only thing that brings me joy.” – M

“The fuck is this,” I glance at the plate of food set before me and my stomach churns with annoyance. The pancakes are shaped like Santa Claus, his fat and jolly face adorned with bright red berries and whip cream. Next to it there are strips of bacon forming the shape of a snowman and a variety of fresh fruits bursting with holiday cheer.

Feeling annoyed, I push the plate back and sigh.

This festive nonsense is out of hand.

Not wanting the obnoxious plate anywhere near me, I catch the eye of the waiter, who’s hovering nearby with a wide grin. “Take this back,” I say, my voice harsh and cold.

The waiter’s smile falters slightly, but he recovers quickly. “Is there something wrong with it, sir?”

I sneer down at the plate and then pick it up and hand it to the waiter whose name tag says his name is Mario. “It’s not what I ordered. I’d like a protein dark coffee instead.”

Mario nods. “Of course, Mr. Hunt. I’ll get that for you right away.”

He looks nervous and when he is about to turn away with the plate of rejected pancakes, I stop him. “One more thing,” I say, keeping my tone firm and emotionless. “I don’t want any more food with Christmas cheer brought to me during my stay. No more holiday-themed dishes, decorations, menus and all that shit. Is that clear?”

Mario’s smile stiffens, but he nods. “Understood, sir. I’ll make sure to inform the kitchen and the staff of the rest of the restaurants of the hotel of your wishes.”

I give him a curt nod then watch as he walks away and see him subtly relaying the message to the rest of the staff. One of them looks back at me nervously before nodding to whatever the waiter, Mario, is saying to them and then they all retreat back into the kitchen.

I settle back into my seat, and pull out my phone already bored and annoyed and the day has just started.

I have so much shit to do back home and I’m here stuck in the middle of a holiday nightmare all because my fucked-up brother decided to give me one last fuck you before doing the world a favor and offing himself.

Fucker.

I’m scrolling through the same old shitty news on my phone when Lincoln leans over from the table next to mine, breaking the silence with a low chuckle. “You’re one mean bastard, boss. Does Christmas offend you that much?”

I turn to look at him, my expression flat and unamused. “Not as much as your presence does.”

With a smirk playing on his lips, he flips me off. “You need a heart, Scrooge,” he mutters, loud enough for me to hear.

“Cute,” I murmur, taking a sip of my glass of water to rid myself of the bad taste the nuisance next to me leaves me with.

I don’t need a heart.

I have money, fame and whatever the hell I desire.

A heart does nothing for me besides keep me alive but aside from that the organ is useless.

I lean back in the chair, my eyes locked on my phone. I swipe through the screen; the trash articles and mediocre headlines blur together into a cacophony of invasive scrutiny. The media storm that’s erupted since the news of my brother’s suicide broke out is fucking relentless. Every headline, every comment, every photograph feels like a slap in the face.

They think I’m a monster because of what they think happened between my brother and I but they have no fucking clue the real monster was him. I’m just the product of his merciless abuse.

But that’s the thing isn’t it? The media gives zero fuck about the truth and they much rather slander my image and my name because its entertainment for them.

I’m not a person to them.

I’m whatever they want me to be to sell their trashy magazines and articles.

I keep scrolling through another article, my jaw clenching with irritation. The writing is amateur, the tone is salacious and the facts are distorted to fit whatever narrative the writer deems fit. The phone begins to flood with notifications and updates. A constant barrage of unwanted attention, and it’s beginning to grate on my nerves.

“Fuck you, Milton. I hope you rot.” I whisper harshly under my breath.

The clink of the coffee cup being set down in front of me pulls me out of my grim thoughts. “Thanks,” I mutter, barely meeting the gaze of the waiter.

As I wrap my hands around the steaming mug, the warmth seeps into my fingers and helps clear the haze of frustration. Itake a slow sip, savoring the bitter taste, when an odd sensation washes over me—a feeling of being watched. I lift my head, scanning the room. The restaurant is just as it was before: guests chatting loudly, waitstaff moving about, and the distant noise of the crow outside. There’s no one staring directly at me, except for a few of the guests that are sneaking glances my way. As I scan the room, my eyes briefly catch a glimpse of a figure moving quickly towards the exit. Wild brown curls bounce as the small woman moves and it's just enough to stir a vague sense of recognition.

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