Page 16 of Forbidden Sins

Rubbing my hands over my face, I resolve to apologize as soon as I go back out. I find a pair of slim black pants and a black sleeveless chiffon shirt in my wardrobe and put them on, tying my hair back away from my face with a hair tie and a black velvet ribbon. Maybe I’m being dramatic, refusing to wear anything other than all black right now, but it feels wrong to put on color and leave my room. I feel like everything should be dark right now, like the sun shouldn’t even have risen this morning.

Sebastian is, of course, still outside when I emerge. He looks at me, his face carefully blank, and I bite my lip.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “I shouldn’t have said that to you. I know you and Luis were friends, too. I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have treated you like that. I know you’re just trying to help.”

“It’s fine, princess,” Sebastian says gruffly, shaking his head when I open my mouth to argue. “Don’t, Estella. You don’t need to apologize for anything right now.” He moves, ever so slightly, and I think he’s going to reach out for me, but I see his hand curl into a fist at his side for a moment instead, before he shoves them both into his pockets. “Your father will be waiting for you,” he says finally. “Probably shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

My father is already in the dining room when I come down, seated at the head of the table and wearing a black suit, as if this were a formal occasion instead of just the two of us having dinner. I pause in the doorway, taking a deep breath and trying to steady myself and my emotions before I walk in. Sebastianwas right, it helps nothing for my father and me to fight, but all the words that come to my lips are barbed.

I sink down into the chair to his right, reaching for the glass of water that’s already filled next to my plate. “I thought you’d come up and talk to me earlier,” I say quietly, taking a sip of the water. My father looks at me, his face expressionless. Still, I can see the dark shadows even more deeply under his eyes tonight, the lines of his face still craggy and deep. I expect that he didn’t sleep at all last night, and I feel myself soften slightly.

“I was in meetings,” he says finally. “Luis’ death isn’t just the death of my son, Estella, or the death of your brother. He was my heir. Everything changes, now. I needed to talk to the other heads of the families, not just here in New York, but those we have connections and alliances with elsewhere.” He takes a deep breath. “They needed to know what happened.”

Something burns behind my ribs, and I set my glass down just a touch harder than I need to. “More than I do?”

My father’s gaze sharpens. “The business of our family is not something you have ever needed to concern yourself with, Estella, and that does not change now. Informing those who we have alliances with, who we do business with, is of greater concern than personal matters, yes.”

I swallow hard, feeling that same burning in the backs of my eyes. I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

“The funeral will be the day after tomorrow,” my father says, just as the soup course is brought in. “Be ready to leave for the service by ten in the morning.”

He picks up his spoon, everything about his bearing suggesting that the matter is closed—that he’s not going to say anything else about it. I stare at him for a long moment, wondering how he can be so cold. How he can think that I don’t deserve to know what happened. What he did afterward. How he found out.

How can he think that I don’t care? That I wouldn’t want to know?

He looks up, glancing at me. “Eat, Estella,” is all he says, before scooping up a spoonful of soup.

“Did you find out—” I pause, my fingers brushing against my soup spoon, but I can’t bring myself to pick it up. “Did you find out anything?”

“You don’t need to hear about any of that, Estella. It’s not for your ears.”

“My brother is dead!” My voice rises, and my father looks up, startled. I don’t think I’ve ever raised my voice to him before. “I want to know?—”

“Estella.” His voice comes down like a hammer, hard and final. “You are very innocent,” he continues, his tone gentler now. “I don’t want to expose you to the terrible things of our world, things you are never meant to know about, that you should always be sheltered from. Your innocence should not be a casualty of all of this, as well.”

I stare at him for a long moment, tears brimming in my eyes. “My brother is dead,” I whisper again. “Isn’t that the most terrible thing?”

My father’s face is impassive. “Eat,” he says simply, and returns to his food.

The first tear spills over, and I know I won’t be able to contain them. “I’m not hungry,” I manage, my voice choked. I shove my chair back, nearly toppling it, and bolt away from the table, out of the dining room. I hear my father call after me, but he doesn’t follow me, and I ignore him. I run all the way to the stairs, up them, and past Sebastian, flinging myself into my room and slamming the door shut as I crumple to the floor, overtaken once more by sobs.

—

Like the morning after Luis’ death, the morning of his funeral dawns far too bright and beautiful. The sky is a perfect, glossy blue, studded with clouds, the morning already almost too warm. I wake up, blinking at the sunlight, seeing that Sebastian has already gotten up and left the room. He slept in the armchair last night again, close enough for me to feel safe, but not close enough to protect me from nightmares. Although maybe I would have them even if he was in bed with me.

I have no way to know, really. I’ve never had nightmares before, and I’ve never shared a bed with anyone.

My outfit for Luis’ funeral is simple: A knee-length black sheath dress with elbow-length sleeves, modest and appropriate for St. Patrick’s, and a pair of black pumps. I pull my hair back the way I did for dinner with my father, tying back the front with a black velvet ribbon. I don’t bother with makeup—there’s no point. I’ll cry it all off, and why would I care what anyone thinks of how I look?

Sebastian has already seen me at my worst, and I shouldn’t care what he thinks of my looks, anyway. As for everyone else—all there really is to it is that I don’t care. My brother is dead, and spending time at my vanity doing my makeup feels wrong.

I slip a pair of onyx studs into my ears for jewelry, and find a black leather clutch purse. Sebastian is outside of the door when I step out, and he says nothing, just straightens and follows me as I head for the stairs.

Every step feels like I’m weighed down by lead, impossible to take. Every step brings me closer to the inevitable moment when I see Luis’ coffin, when I won’t be able to pretend any longer that this might not be real. When there won’t be any more moments where I let myself believe, just for a second, that I’m going to wake up from this terrible dream. That someone will show up and say it was all a mistake, that whoever they saw dead onlylookedlike Luis.

I know it’s horrible of me, to wish someone else was dead instead, someone I don’t know. But I’m learning that grief has a way of twisting everything inside of a person into something terrible. It has a way of making a person wish for things they never thought they would, be willing to make bargains that would have seemed wrongbefore. I lay in bed last night, wondering what I would give up to have Luis back, and the answer was… a lot.

There are so many things, so many people, I would give up to have him alive and well again. I don’t know what that means about who I am as a person, so I simply try… not to think about it.

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