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“You’re extraordinary, Daphne.”
The words were low and fierce, and I felt them in my womb and heart.
“Ian—”
“If you didn’t know that, you do now. And it’s my job to make sure you never forget.”
Oh my God. He was killing me.
“Shut up,” I demanded, voice husky with feeling.
“All right, darling. Sleep.”
I turned my head to kiss his chest and closed my eyes.
But I could feel my lips were smiling.
Though I didn’t see, as both Ian and I drifted into sleep cuddled together under his duvet in his bed, the time on his tablet said it was three oh three.
Thirty-One
THE CONVERSATION
We were seated in black velvet wingback chairs in a void. No walls. No color.
Just black.
And she was wearing a spangled, black sheath, her legs crossed, her T-strap shoes with the arched heel were covered in jet beads, and a black beaded band was tied around her forehead.
Her platinum hair and the alabaster skin of her bare arm, therefore, shone stark against the abyss we were occupying, and she was examining me, like she needed to decide whether to deem me fit or not, for what I did not know.
“I wouldn’t let a little nothing like Rose be the end of me,” Dorothy Clifton informed me.
“I know. It was David,” I told her.
She made a scoffing noise. “I wouldn’t allow a man to be the end of me either.”
“Then what happened? Why were you up there? Did you fall?”
“I can hold my drink, girl. I did not fall.”
I was losing patience.
“Okay, then what happened?”
“Why do you care?” she demanded.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“I’m not what’s important that’s happening in that house.”
“You were important,” I returned.
She rolled her eyes then again focused on me. “I know that.”
“So, tell me, what’s important in the house?”
“Him. You.”
