Page 12 of Because I Killed Him
I pull away with a frown. “Why not?”
“Because if you do, they’ll ask questions. It might even lead them to the court—”
“I won’t tell anyone,” I say, suddenly understanding.
The court records, sealed because I was a minor, contain video evidence of me killing the Blue. If that footage ever comes out, my claim of self-defense won’t matter. My life at Grandmaster will be over before it even begins. No one will care that it was kill or be killed. They’ll only see blue blood.
“I don’t plan to cause any trouble, Dad,” I say. “I promise I’ll keep my head down, even after I get the restriction overturned.”
“Good.” He pulls on his coat and hat. “I have to go now, honey. I’ll call you after the vote.”
He kisses my cheek, his breath warm against the cold rain that’s beginning to fall. Then he climbs into the back of the hovercar parked at the base of the steps. The rain pounds louder on the portico roof, dripping through the leafy branches of the trees as the vehicle glides down thecobblestone drive, passing the pool house and tennis courts, the fruit orchard and stables, the private shooting range, and finally the four-story compound where I trained for public life from the moment I could walk.
So much wealth, and yet come tomorrow, none of it will matter.
“We’re well off, Loredana, but most people are,” Dad once told me. “Never forget: the only meaningful power comes from blood. No matter how much money you have, it can’t buy freedom, and it sure as hell can’t buy time. Guillotines made of gold still cut off heads.”
By the time I get back to the dining hall, dessert is already being served. Vivian smokes a cigarette between bites of cake, avoiding eye contact with Hillaire, who’s scowling at the smell, which she callsthe perfume of lowlifes. With a grunt, Hillaire pulls a small, transparent mask from her pocket and puts it on. The mask glows faintly with each breath, filtering out the smoke. Across from them, Mom pours herself a glass of wine with perfect posture. She watches the clock on the mantle as she drinks, her expression impenetrable.
I try to imagine what she’s thinking, but I’ve never been good at reading her. The only person who sees beyond her cold, quiet glamour is Vivian. They share the same shrewdness, the same flair for elegance, and the same double-edged ability to turn heads with a single step. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why Mom took a job as Dad’s public relations manager, working tirelessly to avoid the spotlight. She always hated the way men looked at her for her beauty until she met Dad, who she says was the first to see beyond it.
Near the end of dessert, a luxury hovercar coasts into the driveway, its ornamental grille and gullwing doors gleaming in the downpour. The vehicle adjusts its hoverfield, then powers down near the portico.
“Harry.” Vivian springs from her chair, leaving her napkin crumpled on her plate.
“May I be excused?” Hillaire glares at the window, as if she can see Harrison standing outside.
“No,” Mom says. “You will greet Harrison with Loredana and me in the foyer.”
Hillaire clenches her dessert fork until her knuckles whiten. “Yes, mother.”
When we reach the foyer, Vivian and Harrison are stepping out of the rain, breathless and laughing. His arm rests on the curve of her waist. She walks on the balls of her feet, whispering into his ear.
“Wait until you see it first,” he says with a teasing smile. “Then we’ll see if you still want to thank me.”
Harrison’s charm, like cologne, hits you before he speaks. He’s tall and wears a peak-lapel suit that’s tailored to his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His hair, short and always well-styled, is fiery red, but it’s his eyes that draw you in: poison green, bright enough to strike a punch. I know he’s proud of them, mainly because Vivian gushes over them all the time.
Harrison flashes a ready smile at Mom before greeting Hillaire and me. When he leans in to hug Hillaire, she shoots him a scowl that stops his arms midair. He pulls back, grinning, and playfully taps her chin with his knuckles instead. She wipes the spot he touched, as if the contact left a stain.
“Thanks for letting me fly with you, Harry,” I say. “It’s just you and me, right?”
He exchanges an uncomfortable glance with Vivian. “Actually, there’s one other passenger.”
“Who?”
“It’s… Miss Deering.”
“Charlotte?” The name comes out like a curse.
He nods. “I know you’d rather not see her, but—”
“Why can’t she use her dad’s plane?”
“The interior is being renovated. If you’d rather not see her, Lore, I can tell her to fly with someone else.”
Every part of me wants to let her scramble for another ride, or better yet, leave her stranded. After the way she ditched me, she deserves to feel at least a fraction of what I felt.
“It’s fine,” I say, even though everyone knows it’s not.
