I sit at the vanity, and comb through my hair. I admire the roses in the vase, and only just notice that there’s one more than yesterday. Blood red and perfectly shaped, even the sharp curved thorn on the stem has a beauty about it. As much as I have always hated roses, knowing that they’re coming from Denham changes my perspective. They are just a beautiful innocent flower. There’s nothing sinister about the beauty and simplicity of a rose petal. As with everything, it’s the intention behind them and in this case, it’s Denham showing me that, again, he’s thinking about me, even when he can’t be here.
I smooth moisturizer gently over my cheeks, and it instantly gives my skin a fresh dewy glow, replacing the moisture that has been sucked out by the heat in Las Vegas.
I take my time, just pottering around the apartment, using every minute to settle and feel relaxed. It feels good. Really good. And I think back over the short space of time that I have been here, it’s never felt any different. Even though every day seems to have brought a new challenge, for the most part, it feels right.
I rearrange clothes, admire my new shoes, and get stupidly excited about shopping for more pairs. I hum to myself as I tidy and explore. I find myself cross-legged on the bed, flicking though my designs once again. It’s where my passion lies, and it seems to call to me when I have any amount of spare time.
I pick up the soft lead pencil that feels so right in my hand. The same little pencil that has sketched most of these designs and is now really too small to use but I can’t seem to part with it. Stupidly I think to myself, what if it’s the pencil that works the magic? What if I can’t sketch with a new one? I laugh to myself, what a ridiculous notion, and really the least of any worries I might have.
I lose myself, for what might have been minutes or longer for all I know, before I’m snapped out of my little world by a knock at the door.
I hop off the bed, and half jog through the living area toward the door. I pull it open toward me, and before I can see who’s standing on the other side, I realize I’m still only wearing underwear and Denham’s shirt. But, by now it’s far too late, and a pointed white stiletto followed by a slender, tan leg appears in the gap. As the door falls open further, my eyes travel up and take in the white shift dress, worn by none other than…Amy.
Ugh. Icy cold creeps through my veins. There is nothing warm or friendly about this woman, and I struggle to see what attraction she holds for anyone.
“Arianna, dear. It’s nice to see you again.” Amy pushes past my shoulder, inviting herself in and taking ownership of the air around us. “Although, I wasn’t expecting to see so much,” she sneers, letting her eyes drift down the length of my legs.
I stand tall, trying not to be intimidated by her, trying to stand my ground in my apartment, but instantly feeling threatened by the way her body reacts to me, and the way her gaze makes me feel cold and uncomfortable.
She lifts her hand toward me, and tucks a long, red, predatory nail under the collar of the white shirt I am wearing, lifting it between her fingertips and gently brushing against my collarbone through the fabric as she does. It sends chills through me. She’s cold. Her aura, her demeanor, and her intentions are all icy and it radiates from her in steady pulses.
“I bet he likes you in this. I bet he asked you to wear it, am I wrong?”
Of course, she’s not wrong. She’s pretty much as correct as can fucking be. I swallow hard. Shards of her persona stick into me like sharp needles. Her words, like little stabs of reality, poke into my veins. She knows him better than I do. She knows what he likes, and what he doesn’t. Has he asked her to wear his shirt for him too? Has he told her to dress in nothing but heels and diamonds for him also?
The thoughts make me feel sick. But I know that she’s playing me. I’ve seen Denham’s reaction to her. I’ve seen the contempt in his eyes when her name is mentioned, and I’ve felt the tension radiate from him when he encounters her. She’s a bitch. Pure and simple.
How fucking dare she come in here and make me feel like this.I push her arm away with the back of my hand, and pull myself as tall as I can. I still don’t match her height, but I hope she feels the pissed off vibe I’m giving her right now.
“What do you want, Amy? If you’re looking for Denham, he’s not here ...”
She throws her head back and laughs. “Oh, Arianna, you’re such a pretty, naive little thing, do you know that?”
She throws me off balance a little as that wasn’t the reaction I was expecting
“You think I don’t know where he is? I always know where he is ...” She arches a perfectly tinted and plucked brow but doesn’t elaborate further. She waits. That pointed look is etched deepinto her features and I know she’s waiting for my reaction. She thinks she’s clever, and she is…to a degree. She’s also more transparent than she would like me to think. That’s the problem with people like Amy, they get complacent. She’s had so many years of being that way, that she believes people can’t see the hollow soul beneath the layers. She can try to intimidate me as much as she likes. She can goad and push and dig away at my confidence. But she doesn’t know me. She doesn’t know what lies beneathmylayers. Every blow of the past that’s beaten me down, has also forced me to be stronger and overcome it. And that is something that she’s underestimating.
I might not be fully healed, but the bitch in me is fighting back, and adrenaline is making me feel brave.
“Out,” I order, nodding my head in the direction of the door. I place my hand on the edge of the door and hold it wide open.
“I beg your pardon?” she says surprised.
“Are you fucking deaf? I said OUT.” I keep my voice even but arm it with enough assertion that she knows I mean business.
“But you don’t even know what I came here for…I—”
“I couldn’t give a flying fucking monkey what you came here for. You could have come here to tell me I’m the winner of the world’s biggest fucking lottery, and I wouldn’t care. I said get out of my apartment.” I’m calm. Calm with an undercurrent of pissed off. She straightens her shoulders indignantly, but I watch her nostrils flare and I know I’ve gotten to her. She’s pissed off.
“You’re making a mistake—”
“You see, that’s where you’re wrong ...” I step toward her and raise my finger in warning. My nails aren’t designed for clawing out eyes like hers are, and I’m sure she could remove mine with one swipe, but the determination and promise in my body language makes my posture menacing enough. “I think you’ll find it’s you that’s made the mistake, now get out.”
The elevator bell pings and we both look out of the door to the hallway. As the door cracks open an inch, it is forced open by frantic hands, and a booted foot in the gap. Denham comes bundling out, he’s a little out of breath and has a frantic look on his face.
“Arianna? Are you okay?” He crosses the hall in two strides, stops and places his hands on his hips filling the large space in the doorway. “What the fuck are you doing up here?” He spits the words toward Amy. She visibly shrinks, and I almost see something meek in her. I wonder if Denham is her Achilles heel.
Just seconds later, Spike appears in the doorway of the emergency steps. I hadn’t even noticed they were there before now, and everyone now turns to look at him. It’s almost comical. He stands in the hallway with a red face, his chest heaving with exertion and he bends down, placing his palms on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
