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But a week into living at Dante’s sprawling shore house, I’m starting to go a little stir crazy. It’s gorgeous out here, but at the same time, I mean, there’s only so many walks on the beach you can take.
The weather is crappy on the day I decide to go exploring. Dante’s on some work calls in his office, so I start to poke around the several thousand square feet of this house I haven’t seen yet.
I meander through the library, the pool house, themassivebasement wine cellar. I check out guest rooms, sitting rooms, the massive ballroom where he threw our engagement party.
Eventually, I open a door to what appears to be Dante’s second home office. It’s small, with gorgeous built-in bookshelves and huge picture windows overlooking the Long Island Sound.
It’s the kind of home office that makes me want to get my shit together and figure out what the heck I want to be when I grow up soIcan work out of it.
At least, if Iwasgoing to grow up.
I’m getting worse. The spells of confusion and dizziness are becoming more frequent. My appetitesucks, to the point that I’m basically living off smoothies, water, and the odd cracker.
…And I threw up more blood a few days ago.
I resolutely shove all of that aside.
Dying sucks, but that doesn’t mean I have to spend whatever time I have left being miserable. I mean, here I am, living in a mansion, spending my days and nights lounging around like I’m on vacation and having the most mind-blowing sex any woman has ever had with a bona fide sex god.
There are seriously worse ways to spend the last grains of sand in your hourglass.
I slump down into the comfy leather office chair at the desk. For a few minutes, I just swivel idly, looking out the window at the ocean. Then, of course, my curiosity gets the better of me and I start to paw through the desk for no other reason than I’m bored.
There are some financial records, some contractors’ receipts for work done on Club Venom. An opened invitation to some gala at The Plaza, and a buyer’s information packet on a yacht. Ooh, yacht.
Then, beneath some random papers in the bottom drawer, I find it: a dark wooden box.
Something in the back of my brain tells me to leave it alone. It’s not mine, and it’s certainly none of my business, and I shouldn’t be snooping like this.
So,obviously, I pull it out, set it on the desk in front of me, and slowly open the lid.
Instantly, my breath sucks in sharply, a chill zipping down my spine, like I’ve just seen a ghost.
Layla’s smiling face beams up at me from the Polaroid photo, her green eyes shining, her smile wide and welcoming, and her handraised with her fingers making a peace sign. I wince as my heart clenches sharply.
God, she was so beautiful. And fun, and bubbly. She was the life of every party, without being an attention seeker or making it all about her. Everyone just gravitated toward Layla.
…Including—for reasons I still don’t know and that I’ve been afraid to think about for the last month—Dante.
Dante, who wasn’t friends with her, yet brought her to the hospital that day.
Dante, whomarried herin her final minutes, and then completely shut out our entire family.
I swallow thickly as I lift the photo from the box. Beneath it is another Polaroid: Layla again, but this time, she’s taking a selfie with her arm around Dante’s shoulders.
He’ssmiling.
What the fuck?
There’s a handwritten letter from Layla to Dante, addressed to him in Sicily. In it, she talks about being home for the winter holidays from Knightsblood, and about our brothers, and me, and says she hopes Dante is having a good Christmas with the Barone family.
I pull out more Polaroids from the box: pictures of Layla lounging in her dorm room at Knightsblood. One of Dante striking a silly pose in a winter coat, standing on a rock next to the ocean.
One of the two of them, huddled close together.
I feel something stab in my chest.
They don’t look like strangers who didn’t know each other. They look like best friends.
