Instead of responding to me, she answers Ty.
Alice: Beignets are a must, and I’ll be ending the night with a blackened filet mignon. I’ll probably eat my way through the city.
I study her message, dissecting it. “Beignets are your favorite, so that means you’re safe? And blackened filet mignon—Noire—that means you’re with me?”
“Impressive.” She tucks the burner away, pleased that’s the end of it.
It isn’t for me. Not only did she, Ty, or both of them deem it necessary to have a code for me, but …
“What did the part about eating your way through the city mean?”
She swallows—it’s sticky and loud and a sign of her distress, which is the last fucking thing I want. “Um …” She hedges, jittery, so unlike my confident Mercy. “It means I haven’t decided if I’m staying.”
At least she told me the truth. That’s something. But it sounds like she’ll always have one foot out the door. Since I’m snuggling Remy, I don’t bombard her with the profusion of questions that have been eating at me for years or grind my teeth as fiercely as I’d like.
I simply say, “Thanks for telling me,” as my phone buzzes with a text.
Ty: You followed the bank transfer.
Me: Of course. Thank you for taking care of it and her. She’s in good hands now.
Ty: I believe she is, but I’ll be in touch.
Well wishes, wrapped in a subtle I’ll-be-watching-you warning.In-laws.
Me: I got this. You worry about my sister.
Ty: Always. Dinner soon?
Me: I’ll take it under consideration and be in touch.
Ty: I guess I deserve that.
After I slide my phone into the holder beside my dice, I catch Mercy’s repentant stare. It’s tentative and anxious. So, I reachover and clasp her hand, like I did a thousand times throughout our friendship. But neither of us reacts to it that way. My skin sizzles with greed from the contact. And she appears confounded when her eyes lock on to it, which is due to more than my pronouncement that we won’t be friends.
From the outside, we’d appear to be a perfect little family, just like the contract calls for. And I know she’ll do a stellar job, selling that story for me. But from the inside, we’re a disaster. Broken, wounded, and resentful before we’ve even begun. My lips have never touched hers, and yet we have baggage that most twenty-year marriages would struggle to survive. Maybe she’s wise to be scouring for an exit route. And maybe I’m insane because I’d rather be chained to our pain than live in any reality without her.
She might view this as a prison, but I’ve lived the alternative. It’s a coffin I refuse to return to. And this is the kind of captivity with marble pillars, champagne toasts, and a ticket to her dreams. So I win.
“I’m not the same person,” she begins. “It’s not about a name change. It’s the parts you knew. I’m not sure those exist anymore. I … I don’t even know whether I’ll be good at being a lawyer.”
Her eyes dart around the plane, like she’s searching for clues to something before parking her focus on the space she put between us. “Maybe it’s better that we aren’t friends. I’m not sure I’d be very good at that anymore either. So, I don’t know what to tell you about whether I want to be here. Despite my distaste for yourhostile takeover, I don’t want to hurt you. But the truth is, I’m not sure where I belong, and if I figure it out, I’ll fight for it. I’d really like to fight for something other than anonymity and survival.”
There are so many things I could pluck from that. She’d probably classify that confession as her sharing her strugglesand brokenness. But I hear that there’s hope, that she’s willing to claw her way toward something she wants. At present, she’s using that as an explanation for her desire to leave New Orleans, therefore admitting that I’m not what she wants. That might have been a dagger to the heart at one time. But she’s already gutted me. I was prepared for this.
Ashes. Oak. Champagne and delusions.
“You might not know who you are, and that’s perfectly understandable. I’m sure a lot has changed. The same could be said for me. I’m not the man you knew. And yet I am. Because there’s more to us than occupations, interests, trauma, or animosity. There’s a deeper thread that weaves through every version.”
I stop to assess her response, and once her brown doe eyes lift to mine and she seems to accept that, I sweep my thumb over her silky skin, release her hand, and finish with the steadfast assurance she craves. “Your thread is brilliant and worthy and a survivor. Unstoppable. That’s the part I know. That’s what you fight for. Let go of every other expectation and trust it.”
You’ll always be mine.
Two hours later, Bernard, Gentry, and our security team meet us at our private entrance for a formal escort. We have a personal parking garage, located beneath the North Tower of La Lune Noire, where we store our cars and toys. It also provides us with a covert route in and out of the resort. Necessary since it doubles as our home.
Mercy folds into herself as we sit in the back of the town car, so I wait until she shares what’s going on. Remy is rapt with awe for the sports cars. He’s been slack-jawed since we entered thecity and chattering incessantly with excitement since we pulled onto the grounds. He’s surely never seen anything like this—the resort or the vast array of luxury vehicles. I can’t wait to take him down to the French Quarter one afternoon, when it isn’t at its most scandalous. He’ll light up for the music and parades, much like his mother does. La Lune Noire is about five to ten minutes from there, depending on traffic.
“What do people know?” She side-eyes Remy—silently urging me to be cautious with my answer—as soon as the driver exits the car.
