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“No better antidote than the poison itself.” I tsk.
“May I remind you she tried to ruin you?” Christian and his poster-ready Clark Kent features darken. “Almost succeeded too. Yet you’re obsessed with her.”
“And obsession”—Arya sinks her upper teeth into her bottom lip—“is a potent poison. It tastes real sweet and can easily be mistaken for love.”
I am well aware that what Grace and I share does not classify as love to most people. But it is big, uninhibited, and everlasting. This is what Christian and Riggs don’t understand—Grace and I never have to settle for friendship with sex, the default state of every couple who’s been together longer than two or three years.
Our sex is always angry, hot, and hostile. Our animosity infinite.
I traded comfort for passion. Safety for desire. Gracelynn Langston is a risky stock, but I’ve always played on the dangerous side.
“I’m not obsessed with her,” I say, dry amusement in my voice. “I’m obsessed with having her. It’s the circumstances that drive this entire operation.”
“You’re wrong,” Arya insists. “The circumstances don’t matter. What matters is you’ll end up being with someone who doesn’t care for you. News flash, Ars—the world is full of people who don’t care for you. So, when choosing your partner, you really want to make sure you find someone who’d be in your corner.”
Riggs massages his jaw. “Sorry to interrupt your TED Talk, but your heartbroken, grieving stepsister is looking mighty happy right now.”
Following Riggs’s gaze, I watch Grace standing next to Chip, Paul, and Pablo. Her colleagues came to show their condolences. Grace laughs at something Chip says, smacking his chest playfully, not a care in the world.
Without meaning to—certainly without wanting to—I find myself scanning the room for Winnifred. If Paul is here, maybe he brought his wife along.
It isn’t that I’m interested in her. I want to see if she is showing a bump. If I was right. I want to see if her blue eyes are still sad and haunted.
As it happens, she isn’t here. Good. Terrific. More alcohol for me.
“Welp, this is boring,” Riggs laments, grabbing an hors d’oeuvre from a floating platter and tossing it into his mouth. “I’m going to try to beat rush hour back to the city.”
“With what car?” Christian asks with exaggerated interest. For all his wealth, Riggs does not possess any items of value. No car, no apartment, not even a fucking staple piece of furniture from IKEA. Whenever he is in town, he crashes either at Christian’s or at my place.
Riggs throws him a half-dazed look. “Right. I bummed a ride with you. Well, I’ll Uber it.”
“No need. I rented a car.” Alice pats his back. “And anyway, I came here to show my respect to Ars, not his father. Which I did. I’ll give you a ride. Corbin, sweetheart, I’ll see you soon.”
“So long, and thanks for the sashimi.” Riggs salutes us.
They trek out of the room. Riggs stops to compliment a few of Grace’s attractive friends on their outfits like we’re in a fashion show. He gets one number and a lot of inappropriate giggles. The man is as careless as a condom wrapper at a frat party. Though chronologically he is thirty-four years old, based on his behavior alone, I wouldn’t give him more than seventeen on a good day. Best of luck to the woman who tries to tame the fucker.
“You need to take care of the Grace situation.” Christian turns to look at me as soon as Riggs and Alice are out of sight. “When shit implodes, no one’s going to help you tidy up.”
“You’re right, it is my shit to clean. So do me a favor and stay out of it.” I clap his back, bowing to his wife. “Lovely seeing you as always, Arya.”
“Didn’t he want to be cremated?” Grace takes off her earrings in front of my en suite bathroom mirror. I live in a skyscraper on Billionaires’ Row. A fourteen-hundred-foot tower overlooking Central Park.
Lounging on the upholstered bench at the foot of my bed, I unlace my loafers. “He did.”
“Why’d you decide to bury him, then?” She materializes from the bathroom, lathering her hands in cream.
“Precisely for that reason.”
I waltz over to my walk-in closet to put my shoes away. Grace falls into bed with a sigh, scrolling through her phone with a bored pout. “You’re petty.”
“And you fucking love it,” I say mildly.
“Do you think he was aware of what was happening to him when he had the stroke?” She sounds pensive.
One could wish.
“Don’t know,” I say instead, plopping on the other side of the bed. I start undoing my shirt buttons. “Don’t care.”
“Do you think he thought about us? The few seconds before he died?”
Though I’m unhappy about Douglas passing away—it is never good news when someone in your vicinity pegs out—I don’t understand why Grace is trying to humanize the man.
