Page 116 of Because I Killed Him
Rosamund ignores Dickie and sits next to Jack. She leans in and kisses his cheek, leaving a full lip print.
Beside me, Charlotte’s mouth flattens into a hard line. Her eyes lock onto Jack’s face, onto the smear of red he doesn’t notice.
Rosamund turns to Edmund next and loops her arms around his neck. “How does it feel to be twenty-two?”
“It’d feel better if it weren’t Saturday,” Edmund says, slipping the monkey a date from the table. “I thought you were meeting us at the Lotus.”
“It’s already crawling with guests.” Rosamund slides out of her lynx coat. “I’d rather keep our gift exchange private.”
She drapes the fur over one of her Pinkie’s arms and smooths her gown with the tips of her nails. It’s a cobalt blue velvet piece, handcrafted by Lemon, with sheer mesh panels that shimmer along her sides and décolletage. A high slit on one leg flashes jeweled garters, while a spray of sapphires sparkles at her throat, drawing the eye up to her painted smile.
“I already sent your gifts to the Lotus,” Edmund says.
“No matter.” Rosamund pushes the parcels toward him. “You can open mine.”
I lean back, sipping my confetti-laced champagne to mask my annoyance.
Rosamund props her chin on her hand as Edmund unwraps her gifts and narrates each one like a storybook: why she chose it, how far she went to find it, and what it’s meant to signify. Where I expect pride, I find only devotion. She watches Edmund the way someone struggling with addiction watches Bliss, as if he and Jack alone have the power to make her happy. Around them, she’s less like a spider weaving traps and more like a butterfly desperate to land on the only two flowers in her world.
My Bond buzzes again. I glance at the screen, already expecting Vivian. This is the second time she’s called without leaving a message, so I answer.
With Rosamund dragging her feet through honey, I know it’ll be a while before my gift reappears in the pile. So I slip off to the lavatory to take Vivian’s call. Inside, I weave past groups of high-citizens crowding the mirrors and head for the row of private rooms along the back wall. Each issealed from floor to ceiling, with plush seats, full-length mirrors, and brass doors. Real privacy.
I find an empty room and lock the door behind me. As I drop onto the sofa in the corner, my pulse ticks as if waiting for the curtain to rise. I tap my Bond and focus on the screen, already picturing the moment before it hits: Vivian’s face lit with surprise, that sharp, slight inhale, the half-laugh she gives when she’s caught off guard but happy, before joy takes over her whole expression. I want to see every second of it.
The screen flickers, and Vivian’s face appears.
But she’s not smiling.
And she’s not wearing Coquette, either.
She’s bent over her desk, her brow furrowed, her dark hair twisted into a bun and pinned back with a jade comb. Her face is bare of makeup, and she’s dressed in the velvet green pantsuit she wears when she expects to get dirty.
The only sound is the slow scrape of cloth on metal. She’s polishing her Vanguard badges, one at a time. Black smears stain the tips of her gloves as her fingers move with gentle care.
A Pinkie stands behind her, its arms twitching with agitation. The robot is programmed to polish, not sit idly while a human works. But Vivian doesn’t trust it to get the shine right.
She glances up at the screen, and her eyes narrow. “Finally, you answer.”
“Sorry,” I murmur, still processing my surprise. “I’m in the middle of something, but…” I scan the room behind her. “I thought you were calling about my package.”
Vivian arches an eyebrow.
“You didn’t get it yet?” I ask. “It was overnight delivery.”
Vivian swivels in her chair and glances toward a corner of her room. Through the mirror on her vanity, I see a mountain of gift boxes, all wrapped in shades of green and gold.
“I thought they were all from Harry,” she says.
But her tone has changed. There’s a note of curiosity now.Hope.
Vivian stands and runs toward the gifts, tearing off her gloves. She starts sorting through the pile, her lips pressed tightly, eyes darting between labels.
“There,” she says.
She holds one box up, squints at the sender’s name, then pulls the comb from her hair and slices it open. The gown spills from the box in a ripple of silk, lace, and diamonds, wet with shine.
Vivian’s head snaps toward me, mouth parting, and her eyes turn glassy. “Really?”
