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Camille
Ilast twenty minutes alone in his sitting room before I start snooping.
I try to justify myself as I go through his medicine cabinet. I’m just trying to learn more about the man I’m going to fake-marry—or real-marry, or pretend-real-marry, or whatever this is—so it’s not immoral to look at all his stuff.
Razor, shaving cream, Band-Aids, toothbrush, nothing interesting.
I’m not really sure what the hell we’re doing, but I’m drifting along like a log on a wave lost in the current, and Evander is the entire ocean.
His closet is better. Enormous and filled with expensive, custom-tailored suits, racks of designer jeans and shoes and shirts, and a hundred ties in black and dark blue. There’s a shelf covered in glittering, no-doubt priceless watches, lit with custom bulbs so the whole display glows like a storefront window.
Evander doesn’t strike me as the type of man obsessed with the way he looks, but his closet suggests otherwise.
And his comment from earlier flits through my mind: in this world, appearance is everything.
The rest of the bedroom is more or less what I expected. A dresser with socks and underwear, loungewear, exercise clothes, extra linens. There’s very little personality, no photographs of family, nothing on the walls but generic oil paintings like the rest of the house. If he hadn’t told me this was his personal bedroom, I almost wouldn’t believe anyone sleeps in this place. The bed is made and the sheets are crisp and tight.
And yet, the bed is big and comfortable, and there’s an old army surplus knife lying on the nightstand. It’s beat up and scratched, with no markings except for a date, 1942. It’s entirely out of sync with the rest of the bland, spotless decor, and I’m afraid to even pick it up.
When I’m done exploring, I end up out on the balcony, staring at my phone.
I’m getting married to a gangster. Again. And some part of me thinks I need to tell someone in case I end up in a missing person’s report in the next few months.
A normal person would call their parents, or their friends, or post on social media, or do any number of normal person things.
Except I have no friends. Christopher made sure of that.
He refused to let me go out and see what few I had left from high school, and as the years passed, the texts slowly tapered off until they stopped coming entirely. I could reach out to my parents, but the thought of speaking with them makes my stomach do flips. I’d rather puke than hear my mother’s voice again. I’d rather jump off this balcony than listen to my father talk about the Phillies.
Which leaves me with nothing and nobody.
Except for Ophelia. I have her number, and although I haven’t used it, I stare at the listing in my phone for a second, wondering if we’re close enough for me to call her. Probably not, but a sudden wave of loneliness and desperation washes over me, and I punch the call button even though I know it’s weird.
She answers on the second ring. “Hey, Camille! I was just thinking about you. Is everything okay? You looked pretty upset when you left work earlier.”
“Hey, Phel, I’m okay I think. Just had to deal with some, uh, personal issues.”
“But you’re all right?” She sounds genuinely worried, and her concern makes a dull, happy glow build in my chest.
“Yeah, I’m totally fine.”
“Are you coming in tomorrow? Dad asked me earlier and I didn’t know.”
I hesitate, looking back over my shoulder. “Yes,” I say firmly, even though I’m pretty sure Evander will never allow it, but I’ll think of something. “I’ll be there. Maybe not at opening though.”
“No probs. I’m really happy you called to check in, I was seriously worried.”
“Hey, Phel, uh. I have a weird question.”
“After today I think we’re past the whole awkward phase of our friendship, so go ahead and shoot.”
I grin to myself.Friendship. That word turns the dull glow in my chest into a full-on fire. “Can you tell me everything you know about Evander?”
She cackles like that’s the funniest thing anyone’s ever said. “My god, girl, you’re insane. Like, you’re calling me to ask about the guy I caught going down on you earlier today? Shouldn’t you know him better than I do? No, don’t start apologizing, I absolutely love your psycho energy.”
I’m blushing like crazy, embarrassed beyond belief, but seriously, at this point, it can’t get any worse and I might as well push ahead. “It’s just that, I know he’s, you know, one of those guys. But I don’t actually know anything about the man.”
“I’m not really up on the hot gossip these days. The whole Kazan family stuff is a little too serious and boring for my taste. But, uh, basically, Evander took over the operation a few years back and I think it was pretty ugly for a while. I guess it was like…” She trails off for a second, leaving that thought unfinished.
