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After that, the Halloween decorations stay up—though I do throw out the next set of headbands I find on Cerberus (little red devil horns).
Luckily for me, I’mworking on Halloween this year, kept busy with back-to-back meetings—my father’s punishment for leaving the UK, I suppose. Even though I’m relieved I’m not forced to dress up and attend some loud American Halloween party, I’m distracted all evening.
I know I have no right to be since I’ve been waging war on Willow’s Halloween celebrations all month long, but I can’t help it. A black cloud of annoyance hangs over my head all day, and I barely contribute more than two words during my meetings.
Later, I’m sitting in my office on the seventeenth floor when my phone buzzes and the screen announces a text fromPrincess Poison.
Willow must have gotten into my phone again, so before I open her text, I quickly change her name toFuckable Peasantin my contacts, just to hurt her feelings when she finds it the next time she breaks into my phone to cause mischief.
Then I open Willow’s text despite knowing better. I lean back in my chair, staring at the screen, taking it in.
A selfie of Willow, artless and crude as all her photos tend to be, standing in front of a mirror with her back arched and her tongue sticking out. She’s in a tawdry witch getup—big pointy black hat, tiny black dress, long black gloves, and there’s an inverted pentagram painted in sparkly red across her exposed chest. My cock, seemingly unbothered by the tackiness of this display, grows hard enough to tent the dark fabric of my trousers.Deplorable.
Fuckable Peasant: Trick or treat?
She punctuates the text with a pumpkin and an eggplant, which only serves to annoy me more.
I respond despite my better instincts.
Luca: Your costume is cheap and obnoxious—just like you.
Fuckable Peasant: Your hot friends disagree.
This text is accompanied by another crude selfie. This time, Willow is holding her phone high with one hand while she stands squeezed between Evan Knight and Iakov Kavinski. Evan looks ridiculous, dressed as some sort of Greek god, with a crown of laurels on his blond curls and a white cloak half-hanging off his (otherwise bare) chest. Iakov Kavinski is all in black (original), with his face painted like a skull.
Both of them look in advanced stages of drunkenness, and both of them have one arm around Willow’s waist. I sit bolt upright in my chair and immediately call that shameless slut, even though I know that’s exactly what she wants me to do, that all I’ve done is take the bait she threw at me.
Her phone goes straight to voicemail.
“Fuck.”
I call Iakov and keep calling him. He picks up on the fifth attempt.
“Yea.”
“Where are you?”
“New York.”
“Don’t be obtuse, Kav. I know you’re in New York. Where in New York?”
“Evan and Sophie’s Halloween party.”
I narrow my eyes even though he can’t see me. “It’s just you and Evan?”
“Zaro’s here, and Sophie,” Iakov says unhelpfully.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and another picture from that witch pops up. This time, she’s holding two glasses with some blood-red concoction in them and sticking her tongue out between the glasses in a parody of an orgasm face. Next to her is Sophie Sutton, also in a witch costume, her lips crushed against Willow’s cheek, and a girl I almost don’t recognise. She’s wearing a crown of seashells and sparkly blue make-up and creepy milky eye contacts.
It’s only because she looks so odd that I recognise Anaïs Nishihara, Sev’s fiancée.
“Is Sev there as well?” I practically yell at Iakov through the phone.
“Yea.”
“What?Who else?”
“I dunno—everyone.”
