Page 145 of Secrets (The Sins Trilogy 2)
My vision dims for a moment, and I blink furiously to refocus. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Ivy Smith. Not Iris.”
“That can’t be right. It’s gotta be Iris Smith. Yuna’s best friend is Iris Smith.” Because I’m Iris Smith! The hysterical words stay trapped in my throat, making it hard to draw in air.
She sighs. “I’m sorry, but I remember all my students, and Ivy in particular was an amazing pianist. So full of potential. She died in a car crash years ago.”
“But that can’t be right. I know…” What the hell do I know? I don’t even have the right name. “She died,” I say, my mind numb. “She died in…” Tempérane or Almond Valley? I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.
“Her home town in Louisiana. So tragic.”
Oh my God. Tempérane. It has to be. Bile rises, flooding my mouth with a bitter tang.
“Look, you have your names mixed up. But regardless, if you’re attempting to pull some kind of scam with Yuna Hae, I wouldn’t bother. She’s too smart to fall for it, and she’ll destroy you. If you need money, get a job. Karma’s a bitch.” She hangs up.
I clench my phone. My entire body shakes uncontrollably.
Ivy Smith. That’s my name. And Tony lied. A bomb seems to go off inside my head at the realization. So did Yuna. A smaller bomb this time, but it still puts spots in my vision. I shove my fingers into my hair and clench, pulling at it tightly until it hurts. Why? Why did they fool me like that? And Edgar and Harry… They lied to me too, probably at Tony’s request.
I realize than I’m hyperventilating. I try putting my head between my legs like I saw on TV once, but I lose my balance and fall forward instead.
Has anything Tony said been real? According to Marty, Tony and I dated before in Tempérane. Is this some kind of sick revenge because I did something he didn’t like back then? Or did I snub him at some point? I can’t think of any other reason for him to tell me nothing but lies when he knows how much I need the truth about my past.
Or maybe this is some weird competition with Byron. Tony made it clear how much he despises Byron.
But he’s been so sweet to you, a small voice in my head whispers.
Only because he needed to in order to make me believe him,I think bitterly. I wouldn’t have trusted him so fully if he were a dick like Marty. The pearl on my finger glows. I thought it was the most beautiful ring ever. Now it seems tawdry and vile—a mockery of everything I ever felt for him.
Sam called me a blank canvas. Maybe Tony came to the same conclusion. A blank is more malleable…full of possibilities. For all I know, he sought to mold and bend me into the woman he wants—a stupid, gullible idiot who would believe every piece of crap out of his duplicitous mouth.
And he lied to me again today. In the car when I asked him…because I needed to know…
What did he say? Of course.
My chin shakes, and tears prickle my eyes. I clench my jaw, my teeth digging into my lip. The coppery tang of blood fills my mouth. Instead of easing the tension, I bite down harder. The physical pain is anchoring, so the emotional blow doesn’t blast me into oblivion.
I stand and look around the room. The bed where Tony and I shared our bodies. The closet where we helped each other get ready in the morning. The shower where we washed each other and then got hot and heavy.
There are too many memories tearing at me. And when I face him again, he’s going to expect me to smile and wrap my arms around him and kiss him and let him fuck me into a moaning ecstasy. The notion is revolting. I press my hands over my mouth, so I don’t throw up. I don’t have time to waste with that sort of thing.
I have to get out of here—away from him—now.
I pull out my suitcase from the closet and throw it on the mattress. Then, quickly, I grab my dresses and work clothes and shoes and start dumping them into it without bothering to sort them…until I notice the lavender Versace I wore to our engagement party. The gorgeous outfit mocks me, reminding me of the party where all those people looked at me with smiles on their faces. Were they in on the fucking farce, too?
A rage of humiliation sweeps over me. Even this morning, our engagement was the culmination of our love and commitment to each other. Now it’s a joke. A third-rate show for some sick entertainment.
I pick up the dress and try to tear it apart, but, infuriatingly, the material holds. It looks so easy on TV. I hurl it to the floor and kick it, wishing it were Tony instead.
There might be scissors in the bathroom I can use. I go there, then see my lotions and toiletries. I spent my own money on them, and I’m not leaving anything of mine here. Breathing roughly, I grab them all and add them to the pile in the bag. I spot a bottle of perfume Tony bought for me a while back, but ignore it. He’s not going to claim I took anything of his.
I want nothing from him.
The door opens, and Tony walks in. Snarling inwardly, I zip up the bag. Guess I won’t be cutting up the damned dress after all.
He takes one look at me, and rushes forward. “Iris!”
How dare he! I slap his hand away, hard. He stares at me like he doesn’t recognize the person he’s looking at.
Of course he doesn’t recognize me. I’m not Iris Smith. Not anymore.
Fury builds inside me, slowly at first, then with more momentum and speed, like an avalanche. “You bastard.”
“Iris…what’s wrong?”
I despise the concern on his face. It looks so damn genuine, and it hurts. I hate it that he still has the power to make me feel this way. “What’s wrong? You’re asking me?” Wrath racks me. I’ve never felt this out of control. My fingers are twitching, and I can’t command my body parts to do what I want. It’s as though the anger has given them independent wills of their own.
“Iris—”
If I could stop myself from shaking so much, I’d slap him. “How about you stop with the ‘Iris’? You know that’s not my name.”
