Page 160 of The Lies We Play

Creed’s voice moves through me before I can shield against it.

Then I’ll remember for both of us.

I stand too fast.

The chair scrapes the dark wood backward, and the sound is indecent in the silence of the room. I press both palms to the desk and lower my head.

Do not fall apart.

Not here.

Not in this room.

This room is not mine, no matter how many times my stepmother has insisted otherwise. It was furnished for me after the accident by people who had opinions about appropriate color palettes for recovery.

They like pale rugs. Pale walls. Clean-lined furniture with no history. Art chosen for its market value and emotional restraint. A bed large enough for a man who sleeps alone and formal enough to punish him for it.

My phone sits on the desk beside the notebook. Now I call it the estate phone—not mine. The one with approved apps, approved contacts, approved everything. Last night, I searched for Creed Lafontaine on it. Fitzhenry Everhart.

Then I called a number I believed belonged to a lawyer and reached the only man in the world who could say my name like it hurt him too.

It was stupid—reckless.

But so fucking necessary.

I unlock the phone, open the notes app, and stare at the search bar.

Maybe I could search for her, Livia.

I type only the first letter before stopping myself. I don’t even have a last name. I could also put her in danger if anyone knows I’m looking for her. Isn’t that what they’ve been trying to do all along? Make sure I don’t remember my past.

I’m so focused on what’s happening that a knock startles me.

I go still.

There are two more knocks in a certain sequence that I know—it must be Everett. He knocks like a man granting permission to the person inside to believe the room is private.

“Halston?” he calls. “You awake?”

I stare at the desk. It’s a mess. The open notebook stares at me. Then there are the scraps and the picture . . . fuck.

Everything here proves I am no longer behaving within acceptable parameters. I’m no longer the person they need me to be, and that is unacceptable for the Saint Claire family.

I move as fast as I can. All of it goes into the drawer—not the obvious one. The bottom drawer of the built-in cabinet near the closet, behind cufflink boxes my stepmother bought, and I only wear during galas.

“Halston?”

“Give me a minute.”

My voice sounds normal.

That is something.

I close the drawer and walk to the bathroom. Splash water on my face. Look in the mirror.

The man looking back doesn't appear to have spoken to his . . . what were we?

He mentioned he loved me. Were we lovers? I then remember those hands, the way they caressed me. The weight of his body—hers. The three of us tangled together. I stare at the tattoo we all have. We were something more than casual lovers.