Asad stands there, an imposing, stoic sentinel next to his mother, gaze fixed straight ahead, staring at nothing… and everything. As if he can hear my thoughts across the distance separating us, he looks at me. Those steel-gray eyes clash with mine like gladiators with raised swords, determined to fight to the death.
I return his unwavering stare, taking in his thick, dark eyebrows and smooth, peanut butter skin that make those startling smokey eyes appear almost ethereal. With lethal bone structure, a salacious yet cruelly slanted mouth surrounded by a coarse but neat, dense beard and long, curly hair pulled back into a sleek bun at the top of his head, Asad Prince stands out even among this crowd of beautiful people.
Sticks out like a fucking sore, gangrenous thumb.
It’s not so surprising though. Satan had the prettiest face, after all.
The longer we engage in our visual battle, a low-grade sizzle races over the exposed skin of my face, neck, and throat. The force of that intense, unblinking gaze slides beneath the jacket of my black pinstripe pantsuit, skims the brown skin rising above the top of my vest. That damn near electrical pulse resonates with disgust, hate, maybe even a slash of fear. And underneath, fine ripples of—nope. Not even going there. Because that would make me a masochist.
And after thirteen years of unwillingly living in this man’s presence, I am well versed in him being a sadist.
One of his eyebrows rises slightly, as if he’s questioning why I, the cast-off Cross, would dare to maintain eye contact with him, Michelle Prince Cross’s beloved oldest son? Well, fuck him. He might not consider me his equal, but I don’t see him as mineeither. Him, his mother, and his brother—none of them are. My veins are the only ones coursing with the DNA of the Cross family. By rights, people should be consoling me. I should be the person hovering next to that ornate casket. Yet, I’ve been exiled. Again. And though I should be used to it, should be resigned to this position of forced anonymity, the rank bitterness of it still tastes the same. Hasn’t lost its potency.
Neither has the loneliness that skitters across my skin like a cold, whispering wind.
“… with love, we leave you in peace. With respect, we bid you a fond farewell until we see one another again in the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection as we now commit your body to the ground.”
“No.”Michelle’s cry rips through the air, a seemingly heartrending, brokenhearted sound to punctuate the reverend’s last words of prayer. Too perfectly timed, if you ask me.
Her knees buckle, but as if choreographed, Kareem, her youngest son, catches her with a supportive arm around her shoulders and across her stomach. Her thin hand presses to her mouth, as if shuttering the rest of those plaintive sounds. A ripple of murmurs sweeps through the crowd of mourners, and the echoes of “She loved him so much” and “How is she going to go on without him?” and similar platitudes have my bullshit-o-meter pinging.
Okay, girl. Work hard for that photo op.
Moments later, Kareem guides Michelle forward to lay a red rose on top of the casket. He follows suit, as does the parade of others standing directly behind my stepfamily.
Maurice Neilson, CFO of House of Cross.
Gregory Jones, COO.
Leonard Mansfield, senior vice president.
They all march forward, flowers in hand, a dutiful, appropriately somber line of black suits and designer dresses, paying their respects with a lingering touch to the casket lid or a brief pause before moving along like a well-orchestrated performance. Well, almost everyone. Asad remains standing in front of his chair.
As do I. But not for the same reasons.
The employees and other unimportant people graciously allowed to attend the graveside service must wait until the family and executives file out before they can move forward with their flowers and final words. The press continues to snap away, eager to catch every moment that transpires. If they only suspected the truth, that Marcus Cross’s only child is in attendance and relegated to stand with the employees instead of family, this quiet buzz would transform into a feeding frenzy. But they don’t know. Barely anyone does, and that’s just the way Marcus wanted it. In life and now in death. Especially in death.
Michelle and Asad will make sure of that.
Why should today be different from any other though?
The truth is I haven’t been considered or treated like a daughter or sister in thirteen long, torturous years. Not since Dad showed up to the house with Michelle and her two sons.
“You okay, Em?” Perla Emory, my friend and co-worker, gently taps the back of my hand and peers up at me from her five-feet-even height.
A gust of wind ruffles her signature purple pixie cut and she blinks at me, concern bright from behind her blue-and-gold-frame glasses. She crosses her arms over her chest, casting a glance over her shoulder. She isn’t exactly a people person, and her discomfort with being around a sizable crowd like this practically bleeds from her pores. Despite being an employee of HoC, she’s here for me, and I appreciate that more than words can express. While most people would look at Perla and call her mousey, I see the opposite. To me, she’s unique, sweet, and adorable. And can’t forget brilliant.
Though smiling is the very last thing I feel like doing, I scrounge one up for Perla.
“I’m good.”
She squints at me, but after several seconds, sucks her teeth.
“Okay. I know you’re lying, but I’ma let you have that.” This time my smile at her is a little more genuine. “I’m going to headout. Do you want to ride to the repast with me, Gus, and Jaq? We have room—”
“No, she’s riding in the family car.” A strong hand wraps around my upper arm in an implacable, don’t-start-no-shit grip seconds after the interruption.
For a moment, I close my eyes and clench my jaw. Even if I didn’t recognize that low, sin-gift-wrapped-in-nightmares voice, the rush of fight or flight roaring through my blood and pounding in my ears would’ve clued me in. Only one person incites this particular blend of rage, adrenaline, and dread.
