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So Billie hides it.
Hides it like she hides the forever-ache in her thigh.
The knife that Blood Hood stabbed into her leg, it left a reminder. A kiss that stains her pale, blue-veined complexion with a scar. An ugly one, too. Raised and bumpy, somewhat purplish, with a red hue around the edges.
Angry looking thing.
In vain, she tries—like she often does—to soothe anger of the scar. Using a strong-smelling oil she got from her physiotherapist, she massages the scar in circles with the heel of her palm, around and around and around.
The voicemail on the answering machine plays throughout the lush bedroom. Phone rang when she was in the tub. And she’s only listening to it now as she dotes on the scar with as much of the healing oil as her sense of smell can withstand.
It’s Preston’s voice that echoes out from the answering machine. He’ll be late. Meaning, they’ll be late to their dinner reservation.
Bums her out at first. But then, she feels the reminder of a cool leather touch in her other hand. The flask. And, maybe, Preston being tied up with his study for the bar exam isn’t such a bad thing.
Gives her more time to get ready, anyway. And more time to mask the evidence of the flask. Hide it; brush her teeth and gargle mouthwash; use those eyedrops in the bathroom, the ones Preston keeps for red morning eyes.
Still, he’ll notice if she’s drunk. So she only sips the vodka here and there, doesn’t scull it back like she’s almost programmed to do.
There’s something distantly beautiful about it all, Billie thinks.
She’s no stranger to fine furnishings or luxurious homes and fancy cars. Not since she met Preston when she was only a girl. But it was never hers. Never felt like hers.
Still doesn’t. And because of that, there’s the distance between her and the reality she lives. Like she’s a shapeshifter or something, and this is someone else’s life.
All the same, Billie’s aware of the beauty now, in a way she wasn’t aware before. Could be the booze, or lack of, that’s cleared her vision—and now she can see.
She can see the fine details of the buttons that pinch the plush material of the chaise she’s sprawled out on; the white chaise that Preston ordered in from France, whose legs are gold-painted, and whose padding is softer than any mattress she’s ever owned.
It’s become her favorite seat in the bedroom.
Not just because it’s beautiful. But because of where it sits. Right at the paneled doors that open onto the terrace. Well, this one is the smaller of the apartment’s two terraces, but it’s got the best view. Billie’s favorite view.
Back in Dosserport, Preston would drive her to Lover’s Lookout—and they’d watch the view of the whole town and harbor… for a few moments before they were all over each other.
Those views aren’t comparable, not at all.
Because this one, the one she watches from the chaise, is a view of the largest park she’s ever laid eyes on, dusted in the oranges and reds of this day’s sunset.
This… ‘home’ maybe isn’t so bad.
The view sometimes helps her escape the reality that she’s in this monster of a city. When her stomach churns at the thought of Manhattan, and her hands tremble under the blaring car alarms and shouts from the too-many people out there, she sits on this chaise—and stares at Central Park.
Billie has no doubt that’s exactly why Preston picked this particular apartment. He wanted her to have a safe space. An escape from a city she’s not ready for.
And that’s why he draws her out onto the terrace each morning with the freshly brewed coffee the housekeeper makes.
A housekeeper. A doorman. A driver.
Preston’s got himself a little team here in the city.
He’s used to it. Billie, not so much.
But the longer she’s here (and it ain’t been long at all), the more she’s starting to understand the fuss about New York City. About Manhattan. And, especially, the Upper East Side.
Like just how fucking powerful it is around here that Preston has this penthouse apartment. To her, it’s a house. Smaller than the manor his family owns in Dosserport, but an apartment-house all the same. A “Classic Six”, it’s called. Just means it’s old, but in a nice way, and that there are six rooms and three bathrooms.
Billie didn’t see what that meant. Not at first. But now, she knows it’s some serious “old money” business to have this place. And the ring on her finger means that all Preston’s city friends are just dying to meet her—and Trevor died to get rid of her.
