She shrugs.
“Well, I like to form my own opinions.”
Then, after a pause, she nudges me lightly with her elbow, her voice dropping conspiratorially, “And between us? Most of the people at Eulogia are in desperate need of a reality check.”
I let out a surprised laugh. “In that, we must agree.”
The elevator dings softly as it reaches my floor. Just before I step out, Dale calls after me, “You should come by sometime. I have a feeling we’d get along.”
The doors slide shut before I can answer, leaving me standing in the dim foyer, something about her lingering.
I pause with shock when I step into the room.
That morning, in my Advanced Critical Theory and Literature seminar, a single green apple had been waiting at my desk. Perfectly smooth, impossibly flawless. I’d picked it up withoutthinking, turning it in my hand before sinking my teeth in. The taste had been bitterly sharp, the kind that made your tongue curl and your jaw tighten. But I’d eaten it anyway, like a stolen treat, convincing myself someone had simply left it behind by mistake from the class before me. Not for me. Definitely not for me.
But now, as I step out of my elevator and into the silence of my private floor, my stomach turns. A basket of them sits on the foyer table, their waxed green skin gleaming under the soft lighting. Each one identical, too perfect, too deliberate.
My hands go cold. No one has access up here. No one but me.
My pulse ticks at the base of my throat as I stare at the basket piled high.
My mind flickers back to the apple in class.
I’d told myself it was nothing. A coincidence.
But this? A whole basket of them, sitting here, in my private foyer where no one should have access?
A chill snakes down my spine. Did Archibald do this?
The thought coils in my stomach, tight and uneasy. My fingers curl before I even realize I’m moving. I snatch the basket off the table, the apples shifting with a soft, muted rustle. I don’t want them here. I don’t want to look at them.
I storm into the kitchen and dump the whole thing into the sink, the fruit clattering against the copper basin.
I don’t know what I expect, something to skitter out, a note tucked between them,anything, but nothing happens.
Just silence.
My hands shake as I run back to the entryway and look around, but nothing remains other than my gasping breath and heaving chest. Without any idea of what to do next, I reach for my wine glass. I throw it back in one swallow, the burn rushing warm down my throat, but it doesn’t chase away the unease curling in my ribs as I run to my bedroom.
My room is dimly lit when I enter, the antique sconces casting soft golden light against the dark wood paneling.
The doorman wouldn’t have let anyone in who wasn’t one of my brothers, and Archibald practically is one. He has to be who’s behind the apples.
I think of the apples in the sink, my chest rising and falling too fast. Bitter beneath the skin. Just like the one from this morning. Just like me.
People see what they want. I’m simply a perfect, polished heir to a fortune. But inside? Sharp. Sour. Never sweet enough.
My stomach knots. I can’t call my brothers, who knows where they’re off to now. If I call the suite we were just at, I’ll be told they’ve left, I know it. I don’t know where Archie is going, so there's no use calling his room.
Archie couldn’t have read my diary. There’s no way. But this—this feels like a taunt, like someone cracking me open just to watch me flinch.
I’ve always kept a diary under my pillow. A private way to let the festering thoughts inside me bleed out somewhere. The only odd thing is that it’s only just gone missing yesterday.
I had laid down, and unlike every night, I didn’t feel the comforting lump of it when I skimmed my fingers under my pillows. The housekeeper knows to leave it under the pillow, never forgetting to slide it back underneath after freshening the bed. I thought maybe it had fallen behind the bed. Possibly lost, misplaced? No one in my family would care about the scribbles in there. Huntington-Russells don’t exactlydofeelings.
Ithasto be Archie.
I kick off my loafers and shed my cardigan, draping it carefully over the chaise lounge before collapsing onto my bed and staring up at the vaulted ceiling.
