Wicked, he moves her from her designated place all the way to the other side of my work station. “Also. As of yesterday, we’re planning to host a ball at Ivy’s home. You will be helpingme handle much of the prepwork under Ivy’s guidance and direction.”
“A…ball?” My skin prickles, and I fight to keep my sanity as I stare at my crystal heart. Out of place.Wrong.
She doesn’t belong on that side of my desk. Sheneverbelongs on that side of my desk. Every day, I come in to work, I remove her from her specific pocket in my purse, and I place her perfectly in her spot on my desk.
Which is the exact opposite spot of where Malcolm’s put her.
Because it will never be where Malcolm’s put her.
“Eyes on me,” Malcolm states.
Nauseated, I drag my attention to the demon.
“Iverson wants a Flag Day ball.”
A…Flag Day…ball? Weak, I say, “Sir?”
“He’s got catering covered and the location will be the ballroom in his home, but you’re in charge of invitations, florals, seating, music, whatever else he needs. As he gets the tasks organized, he’ll relay further directions to you.”
Searching Malcolm’s eyes, I part my lips. “I’m…not sure I understand.”
Malice touches his gaze as cruel amusement sparks. “Don’t you?”
A frigid wash of nerves overwhelms me, and I blame them on my crystal heart being out of place.
Relaxed, Malcolm reiterates, “Ivy would like to host a ball on June 14th. We’ll be assisting him as well as attending. And, Azalea?”
I swallow. “Yes…sir?”
“You willnotwear white.”
Dread rises, crashing against the shores of my chest, filling my lungs with water instead of air.
“Ivy wants his ball to be blue and gold. I’ll give you some time to consider which you’d prefer to wear.” Patting my desk,he turns back toward his office and lifts a hand. “That’s all. Enjoy your lunch break, little dove.”
The second Malcolm disappears, I clench my fists and seethe, unsure what’s worse. Him, his actions, thatinfernal nickname. It’s all horrific. Every part.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to deduce that my crystal heart matters to me, and aftertwo yearsof working around me, it’s obvious I haveissueswithcleanliness. For sanity’s sake,he’sthe one who approved my request to turn my work area into a bleached white oasis.
Dropping into my seat, I grab my crystal heart and put her back where she belongs.
Rage tightens my muscles as I stare at the tiny trinket. My fists clench against my thighs.
My tendons wind up, threatening to snap. It’s allwrong.
Still.
And he touched my desk, too.
If I don’t fix this somehow, something bad will happen.
Snatching my heart, I pull open my desk drawer and get a mango-and-hibiscus-scented Lysol wipe. Scrubbing feverishly, I do everything in my power to erase the sensation of gnawing, blatant wrongness. All the while, I replay the dreadful scene in my skull.
What does he mean Ihaveto be at thisFlag Dayball but Ican’twear white to it?
I onlyownwhite. Heknowsthat.
I seldom touch other colors because they cling to my flesh in ways I can’t remove. My brain latches on to an idea that they’re invading my bloodstream, and it burns.
