Page 5 of For Flag's Sake
On a beautiful June day, I married my best friend. On Flag Day, the most romantic day of the year, I committed the most romantic act a person can commit.
A tear threatens to form as bitter despair trickles through the cracks of my anger.
“It would have been perfect,” I whisper hoarsely, fisting my dress in my hands. The stars dig into my palms, stinging and painful. I push harder into their spikes. I don’t know what I’m punishing myself for, really—maybe for letting myself be fooled? For letting myself be broken-hearted by mywedding, of all things? It’s laughable, this situation I’m in, but not at all funny. I married the love of my life at the wedding of my dreams, and all I feel are the aftereffects of a nightmare. It should have been perfect. Itwouldhave been perfect. “Flag Day. The floating candles. The stars. The moon.” I laugh, but it holds no humor. “The croquembouche. The tablecloth.” My head shakes, and a tear falls. “It would have been absolutelyperfect, Ivy.” My wet gaze meets his, and I see terror and regret swirl together in his jade eyes. I almost feel bad. I almost don’t finish. But in the end, I need him to get it. Ineedhim to understand, so I continue, “It would have been perfect, if only you’dasked.”
Then I throw my suitcases shut, zip them as much as I can, and make my exit, all the while pretending I’m not crying—pretending that he isn’t crying too as he watches, silent and still.
On the stairwell landing, outside of the weight of his presence, I hesitate.
I live with Ivy.
My brother, too, lives with Ivy, working for him as his personal chef, as members of our family always have. A Valor works for a Swallow, and a Swallow takes care of them.
My parents live with Ivy’s parents, working for them astheirpersonal chefs, fulfilling their portion of our generational fate.
I have no other family. I have no other friends outside of the ones I share with myhusband.
I’m a runaway bride with nowhere to run awayto.
Another tear falls before I pull myself together, set my jaw, and sayflagthat. I’m not sitting on any man’s staircase crying and lonely because he decided to act stupid. If Ivy wants to create problems? Then Ivy can very well solve them.
A plan forms in my head, and I let it satisfy the petty, vengeful part of me. Should I reach for the petty and vengeful? Probably not, but it’s better than the angry and pitiful I’m currently feeling, so I do it anyway.
Grabbing hold of the emotional reprieve like a lifeline, I enact my new plan.
I head down the stairs, through a maze of hallways, and take a random set of his keys from a line of them hanging just outside the garage. I double check that I have the emergency debit card connected to his bank accounts in my wallet, and, finally, once I’m certain I have everything I need, I make my escape.
On Ivy’s dime.
Chapter Three
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Maple
It isn’t too hard to find somewhere to stay when you have literally billions of dollars to work with. The true challenge is in finding somewhere to stay that won’t alert Ivy the moment I’ve paid for it.
Luckily for me, I’m creative.
“I’d like to reserve a room on each floor, and I’d like them on separate charges,” I tell the front desk girl at the first three-and-a-half-star hotel I come across. Not the best, not the worst, but it will be clean, safe, and willing to take my new husband’s money withouttoomany questions. In other words, it’s perfect.
The girl in front of me blinks, taking in my wedding outfit, my wedding hair, and my wedding lack of husband. She opens her mouth. Closes it. Clears her throat.
She’s cute, in a flabbergasted, mildly horrified sort of way. She’s petite and blonde, with bangs she seriously pulls off framing crystal blue eyes. She wears a navy blue hotel uniform that further highlights her eyes, despite the outfit being dead ugly. Her lips are a particularly bold shade of pink for not seeming to have any product on them, and I realize why as I watch her pull them between her teeth to worry them uncertainly. “That’s a lot of rooms,” she says.
I slap Ivy’s matte-black titanium credit card on the counter. “Separate charges,” I repeat. “All on this card.”
A middle-aged woman in a similar-but-different-in-that-it’s-slightly-less-ugly-than-what-the-other-girl-is-wearing outfit appears out of nowhere, bumps her subordinate out of the way,and introduces herself as “Etta, Director of Rooms.” In the interest of spending as much of Iverson’s money as quickly as possible, I ignore how very made up that title sounds. If Etta says she’s the Director of Rooms, then the Director of Rooms she is.
“One on each floor,” I repeat. “Please.”
“Of course, miz…” She pauses to read the card, bending over the counter to hover above it rather than pick it up. Dark, thick curls fall across her shoulders as sharp brown eyes flick up at me. “Swallow.”
“That’smissus,” I correct sourly. I push the card closer to her side of the counter. “Separate charges.”
She nods, eyeing the small black rectangle with equal parts greed and apprehension. Like this is a dream that could turn into a nightmare at any moment. Highly intelligent, that fear, and I’m jealous she has the foresight to anticipate the possibility of it. Some of us are out here being blindsided, but not Etta, Director of Rooms. I can’t decide if I hate her for it, or if I want her to teach me her ways. Maybe a bit of both. “We don’t have free rooms on every floor,” the younger attendant—Mary, according to the name tag pinned to her chest—whispers to Etta, as quiet as a bullhorn.
“We’ll make it work,” Etta assures her through clenched teeth.
