Dying, I Left His Ruthless Bed

de

en

sixty-eight ho

oo quiet. Usually, there was the faint sound of Isabelle moving through the halls, the soft click of her heels, or the dis

with unblinking green eyes. It hadn't moved in hours. It looked at me with t

I muttered, running

mpressed, and curle

igned by me, of course-and the ring on the nightstand like a dramatic teenager. She thought this stunt

I didn't chase. I waited. And when she realized how cold

zed on the d

, putting it on sp

oice was sharp, cutting through the stale air of the office

id, leaning back in my chair. "She

"I had one of my men check. She's been locked in there all week,

st. Crying. Sick. Good. That meant she wa

learn that tantrums have consequences. When

ed the Elder involved in your marital squabbles. Tonight is the St. Regis Charit

there," I

me. Isabelle was breaking. It was only a ma

ndeliers the size of small cars hung from the ceiling, casting a glittering light over the

vet-covered railing. From here, I could see everything, but no o

m behind me. He was my most trus

crowd below. I was scanning for threats, fo

are here, near the bar. And..." Ma

frowning.

ted a gloved hand toward the center of the room, near the massive

e woman in the red dress, by the fo

od ran

d she was sick. She was supposed to be cu

ed Marco

that clung to every curve of her body-curves I thought I knew, but which looked dangerously foreign in t

crying. She

as la

xposed, as she smiled at a man stand

in my hand

ut. All I could feel was the inferno igniting in my chest. The lie my mother

ing. She was p

d, my voice sounding

stairs, my vision tunneling. The world narrowed dow

d to be s

he whole world saw