SLAM.
She is gone.
The apartment is silent, save for the sound of my heavy breathing and thedrip-drip-dripof water from my hair hitting the cardboard box.
I slowly lower the Breville box.
"I need to go to the hospital," I whisper. "I think I’m having a stroke."
Luke stares at the closed door. Then he looks at me. Then he looks at the box.
He starts to giggle.
It’s not a cool, detached chuckle. It is a full-body, wheezinggiggle. He sits down on the edge of the bed, putting his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking.
"Your dignity box," he wheezes.
"It was high-quality cardboard!" I shout, throwing the box across the room. "Don't look at me! I have been seen by the matriarch! I am compromised!"
Luke reaches out, grabs my wrist, and yanks me toward him. I stumble, falling onto the bed—and him—in a tangle of limbs.
"You're ridiculous," he says, grinning down at me, tracing the line of my jaw. "You're a nude socialite who fought my mother with a cardboard box."
"Did I win?" I ask breathlessly.
"Preston," Luke kisses me. "Nobody beats Rosa Ortiz. But you survived. That’s a win."
"Good," I manage. "Now feed me the chicken. I’m terrified of what happens if I don't eat it."
Chapter 12
The Fruit Basket and the Whisperer
PRESTON
Fear, I have discovered, tastes like pineapple.
I walk into the Residents’ Lounge on Monday morning, coffee in hand, and stop dead.
The table is gone.
In its place is a wicker structure the size of a small hatchback. It is overflowing with fruit. There are mangoes. There are pears wrapped in gold foil. There are grapes the size of golf balls. And crowning the entire monstrosity are six massive, aggressive pineapples.
“What,” I ask the room at large, “is that?”
Luke is standing near the kitchenette, leaning against the counter and eating a slice of melon with a plastic fork. He looks tired but smug.
“It’s a peace offering,” Luke says. “Or a bribe. It arrived twenty minutes ago via a courier who looked like he was formerly in the Secret Service.”
I step closer. There is a card made of heavy, manilla-coloured cardstock nestled amongst the bananas. I pick it up. The handwriting is jagged and familiar.
Dr. Silva, Regarding the… administrative discussions from Saturday. Please accept this token of appreciation for your discretion regarding the hospital overhead and certain expenses and trips. —A. York
“He sent a fruit basket,” I whisper. “He actually sent a fruit basket.”
“It’s not just a basket, Preston,” Jax O’Connell says, appearing from behind the tower of citrus. He is peeling an orange with a scalpel. “It’s an ecosystem. There’s a layer of artisanal cheese at the bottom. I think I saw a wheel of Brie that costs more than my car.”
“He is terrified,” I say, a slow smile spreading across my face. “Alistair York—the man who once tried to sue the MTA because the subway vibrations were 'aging his wine prematurely'—sent fruit to a resident because he’s afraid of your mother.”
