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Another thing about Lucy: she has a brother with connections.
The kind that I knew could score me a tiny camera that can stay hidden behind things such as leather-bound books on a bookshelf. And if that bookshelf is haphazardly arranged with no rhyme or reason, that’s even better. Because I can then move and arrange things on it to place that tiny camera for the best view and angle without getting caught.
So I put all of these things together: Hermès Himalayan crocodile Birkin in exchange for a camera that I’ve hidden at a perfect spot on the bookshelf.
I’m not sure why I’m thinking about the camera and its origins when I have other very important things to think about, but I am. I’m also looking out the window directly in front of me.
Or rather looking at it.
Because it’s all covered up in mist and thick rivulets of rain so all I can really see when I look through it is a blur. And that’s because it’s raining.
Hard.
And ragingly.
It started two days ago. Sometime Friday night when I was asleep.
And it hasn’t stopped since.
In fact, it has grown worse.
So much worse that every time the sky lights up with thunder, the whole ground shakes. The windows vibrate and the roof almost caves in. I can hear the wind howling, smacking against the windows right alongside the thick rain.
There has been only one time when something like this has happened.
Up on the roof of his mansion four years ago.
Maybe that’s why my heart is thumping right now and every breath I take is shivery and trembling, and I can’t stop thinking about that night. The night I had my very first conversation with him.
My devil guardian.
The man who has since trapped me, tormented me. Controlled me and left me powerless.
The man who’s probably getting ready to do it all over again.
I don’t know yet.
He hasn’t said anything.
And it’s almost time. One hour of detention is almost up, and he has yet to say one word to me.
He sits on his office chair, his head dipped, his eyes lowered and on a book. He looks the same as he always does. Dark curly hair, thick on the top and cut close to the scalp on the sides, pushed back. His eyelashes are curled and so long that they cast shadows on his high and mighty cheekbones.
That bump on his nose that gives him an edge but has such a sad story.
That I’ll probably never find out now.
After I do what I’ve come here to do, I’ll lose that chance.
I’ll lose any chance of ever getting to know him, getting to know all his secrets.
I’ll never know what my mother did to him. Why he doesn’t celebrate his birthday. Why he’s so angry and grave all the time.
So cold and aloof.
It makes me sad.
But I guess it’s just nerves. That’s why I’m feeling so strange.
But then again, I’ve always felt strange and nonsensical things around my guardian.
“Time’s up.”
His voice breaks my thoughts and I wince.
I clear my throat, grabbing the corner of my notebook. “Uh, would you… Would you like to see it?”
“Yes.”
There’s no hesitation in his reply.
In fact, it comes even before I finish my question and it makes my heart pound faster. His eagerness.
And it also brings relief.
That he still wants to see it. He still wants to see my sketches after everything.
After he dropped me off at the mansion and I ran up to my room still wearing his jacket, he disappeared. He wasn’t there the next morning or throughout the entire weekend. It isn’t out of the ordinary, him disappearing whenever I’m around.
But this time, it felt more visceral. More hollow and heavy.
And the fact that Mo was giving me pitying glances wasn’t helping matters. She kept telling me that she would talk to him. That she wouldn’t give up. Not until he listened to her and promised that he would go easy on me. And I kept telling her that it wasn’t her problem.
It was mine.
It is mine.
And I’m going to take care of it.
So I ignore the relief, the euphoria that comes with the fact that he still wants to see my designs. It’s probably because he’s the only one who’s seen them, who’s made me come out of my shell and share my hobby, my passion even, with the world. And in the past week, I’ve gotten addicted to showing them to him.
After today, I won’t be able to.
But it’s okay because I’m gaining so many other things.
Slowly and keeping my eyes on him at all times, I go around the desk and approach his chair. I reach out and offer him my notebook.
But he doesn’t take it.
Instead, he turns the chair toward me and, tracing his silver ring-sporting pinkie over his bottom lip, he orders, “Show me your favorite design.”
