Page 68 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
I have. And God, how bitterly that ended—with me being completely disowned by my parents and Ryder as a sworn enemy for life.
“You have something on your face.” I swipe the pad of my shaking thumb over it. Her lips part, and I can smell faint coffee, cherry and caramel. Her soft breath fans my skin, making my entire body prickly and hot.
The mole’s still there.
The wrist in my hand is her left one. Wound tight enough to burst, I turn it to see the tattoo. Instead of the small tiger lily and the initials T and I entwined, I see an old, jagged scar.
Of course this woman isn’t Ivy. If she were, she’d have the tattoo.
Disappointment and denial seep through my veins. I run my thumb over the scar and feel the taut, uneven skin. Her hand—with exceptionally long fingers—is loosely curled, her fingernails neatly trimmed, just like Ivy’s nine years ago. I stare at her face. She looks back at me, her eyes curious, but devoid of recognition.
Still… Those long fingers, that face…the mole…
My head says I’m projecting what I want to see because I miss her so damn much. My heart says, This is Ivy.
I’m unwilling to sort them and take a side. I feel like I’m in a dream—a cruel, painful but lovely hallucination. It’s all I can do to hold her, scared that if I blink she’ll vanish.
A couple of tears fall from the woman’s eyes. The sight is jolting, reminding me of the tears Ivy refused to shed during our last, horrible argument. This can’t be Ivy. Ivy didn’t cry. She straightened her spine and called me on my bullshit.
Although my mind is still a mess, I move on autopilot.
Wordlessly, I reach into my pocket, pull out a handkerchief and dab at the tears.
She stiffens, finding her balance. “I can do it.” Her voice is slightly different from Ivy’s. More mature, with a hint of huskiness. She takes the handkerchief from my hand. “Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Rizzy!”
“Thanks for the handkerchief.” She tries to give it back, but my attention is elsewhere. I’m looking at the man who called out her name. Byron Pearce. The Five-Year-Long Thorn In My Side, all because of a business partnership I had with his brother once.
I don’t think he really sees me, his eyes only on her as though she’s the center of his universe.
“I have to go,” she says suddenly, shoving the handkerchief into my hand. She runs toward him and the black Maserati he’s standing beside.
My jaw tightens until my teeth ache. I hate the warm, overly friendly way he smiles at her. I hate his casual, lazy stance. I hate his face. And most of all, I hate it that he called her Rizzy. It’s all the proof I need to know she isn’t Ivy.
Come on. You knew she wasn’t Ivy.
I clench the handkerchief, wet with her tears. The salesclerk returns with the catalogue and says, “Oh, there she is!”
“What?” I say, my eyes on the Maserati.
“The pianist. The one who played Grand Galop Chromatique. That’s her.”
What the fuck…?
My legs move of their own volition toward the car, but it’s already weaving through the traffic. Coming to an abrupt halt, I put a hand over my eyes. What the hell am I thinking?
Don’t do it. You’re about to go down another self-destructive path…except this time, you have so much more to lose.
Except I don’t know what I have left to lose. I don’t have a heart…or a soul. Haven’t experienced true light or warmth in almost a decade. And all the money and power I have can’t bring them back in my life.
