“Twelve, you said?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s a young age to be orphaned. You went into the system, then?”
She shakes her head confidently. “My grandmother took me in. She looked after me for a while, then died the year I turned eighteen. I’ve been on my own ever since.”
Lies. More fucking lies.
“Must have been hard.”
“It was.” She lifts her glass slightly, as if jokingly going for a toast. “But it all led me here, so…”
Annoyance bubbles under the surface, but I keep it locked tight. I wasn’t meaning to share tonight, but when I did, it was real. Actual pieces of me, things I hadn’t yet told anybody.
And while I’m certainly not expecting her to bare her heart to me and come clean, being fed bullshit after being nothing but honest with her… It’s fucking irritating.
But this is the game we’re playing,I remind myself. A game of lies and deceit. A race to whoever breaks first.
And it sure as fuck won’t be me.
I raise my own glass. “To us, then.”
Sima’s surprise is quickly replaced by a smile. An actress’ smile—all lips and no teeth. “To us.”
We toast to each other’s lies.
21
SIMA
After dinner, Petyr takes me to his penthouse.
He leads me into a snazzy skyscraper. I’ve never been in one quite like this, but fantasies are free, and I’ve often wondered how it would be to see the world from here. To come back home tothis.
Turns out, it’s even more unbelievable than I thought.
The elevator doors open straight into the penthouse. My jaw drops hard. “Youlivehere?”
I wander into the space with my eyes peeled. The interiors are essentially decorated, modern to the bone. I walk past a sleek leather sectional, a gleaming coffee table, heaps of abstract paintings with vaguely threatening auras.
“I live at the mansion,” Petyr says, like I’ve suddenly turned stupid. “You’ve been there.”
“But I mean, like, you own this, too?” I sweep a hand at the stunning windowed walls at the other end of the apartment. “Like, it’syours?”
“Yes. Feel free to pocket an ashtray.”
I should be insulted, but honestly? I’m tempted. Real fucking tempted. I could fund my apartment rent for years just by pawning a single one of those claw-footed lamps.
I trail behind him in the kitchen, still basking in the clean lines of the place, the warm glow of recessed light bouncing off polished floors. There’s a glass bar stocked with liquor I can’t pronounce, and the air smells faintly of pine.
And winter snow.Hisscent.
A thought surprises me right then: This apartment, with its airy atmosphere and lighter looks, feels much more like him than that crypt of a mansion he brought me to. That house—it feels like a tomb, all dark wood and velvet coverings.
But this place… It just fits him better. Feels more like something he’d choose for himself. Less of a museum, more of a home.
“Maybe I will steal an ashtray,” I decide, poking my hand into the liquor cabinet and plucking an expensive-looking bottle. “And this. Whatever it is.”
