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Goddamn Nina.
My teeth grind so hard that pain shoots up my temples. I stroke harder, faster.
Fucking Nina.
I squeeze my eyes shut, jerking with such force now, it’s almost painful. Heat rises up my neck, tingles begin to spread, emotions swirl inside me.
Her face flashes behind my eyes, that smile, those lips, that hair, that body.
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.
I come on the shower wall, groaning like an ape.
Stilling for a moment, I try to catch my breath, recentering myself. But the release of pressure is only momentary, the guilt returning almost immediately.
Nina.
My wife, Nina.
I press my back against the wall, slide down, drop my head in my hands, and begin to cry.
7
Lavinia
Iam midway through the modern-day retelling ofBeauty and the Beastthat I took from the library when the doorbell rings, the same James Bond tune as before. I have a feeling this is going to get old quickly.
I glance at the clock—3:04 p.m.—then back at Nina, who is staring out the window, as she has been since waking from her nap.
Per Tristan’s notes, I am to physically help her out of the bed anytime she wakes. The first time was a mess. Nina was extremely dazed and lethargic. Pulling her from the bed was like pulling a wet blanket from a clothes washer. I am not nearly as strong as I used to be, and I was slipping and sliding and huffing and puffing during the entire ordeal.
I imagine the scene would have been comical to anyone watching. But for me, it was disconcerting in the sense that Nina would be unable to react to any kind of home emergency. A fire, a burglary, an ice-covered tree limb crashing onto the roof. And again, I wonder why her husband sleeps downstairs on the opposite end of the house.
My compassion for this woman is growing exponentially. I feel terrible for her. A beautiful woman married to a bestselling author loses her only son, then loses her mind, then her ability to live. It’s the kind of horror story that makes you want to either run away or help.
I want to help. How could I not?
I pause for a few seconds, unsure if answering the door is part of my responsibilities.
When the doorbell rings again, I decide to take initiative—mainly because I cannot hear that damn theme song again.
“I’ll be right back, Mrs. Carrington.” I slide the book on the table. “Do you need anything while I’m downstairs?”
Although I know Nina is silent and therefore won’t answer me, I want to give her the opportunity to try to speak. Or, at the very least, I want her to know that I am not going to treat her like an imbecile, like her husband does.
When Nina makes no acknowledgment that she heard me, I jog downstairs and open the door.
I blink, taken aback by the Latina woman standing on the doorstep. She is as stunningly gorgeous as Nina is, but this woman’s beauty is very different.
While Mrs. Carrington emanates a timeless grace with her long, lithe body, perfect blonde bob, and chiseled features, the woman before me is pinup sexy. Curves for days and long black hair that blows in the wind. Her boobs are the size of watermelons, and based on the low-cut T-shirt she’s wearing, she’s proud of them. Hell, I would be too. At first glance, I’m guessing she’s somewhere in her mid-thirties, slightly younger than me, yet I looknothinglike that.
“You must be Lavinia.” The woman smiles widely—with perfect white teeth, of course. “I’m Mariana, the housekeeper.”
Tristan Carrington must love beautiful women. I am suddenly incredibly grateful that our interviews were over the phone. I might not have gotten hired otherwise.
I reach out my hand. “You can call me Lavi.”
“Lavi,” she repeats.
