"Goodbye, Rafael."
She turns and walks away, and I stand there in the smoke and the ruin with blood on my hands and her ring at my feet and nothing left inside me except the hollow certainty that I have just lost the only thing that ever mattered.
I watch her fade into the smoke and the sirens and the chaos of a life that is burning from the inside out.
And I do not follow. I can’t, as much as it hurts I keep myself planted among the falling ashes as I watch her walk away. I have to, because for the first time in my life, I love someone enough to let them go.
Seventeen
Persia, three months later
Ninety-two days of waking up alone in a bed that does not smell like cedar and smoke, of learning how to be a person who belongs only to herself, of building something from the ashes of everything I burned when I walked away from Rafael Milano in a haze of sirens and firelight.
The morning sickness hits before my eyes even open, a rolling wave of nausea that has me throwing off the thin cotton sheets and stumbling toward the bathroom of my tiny apartment above the French Quarter bakery where the scent of fresh beignets mingles with the humid New Orleans air. I barely make it to the toilet before everything I ate last night makes a violent reappearance, and I kneel there on the cool tile floor with my forehead pressed against the porcelain rim and my hair sticking to the sweat on the back of my neck.
This has been my morning ritual for the past six weeks, ever since the two pink lines appeared on a pregnancy test I bought at a pharmacy three blocks from the Gilded Key Society with hands that would not stop shaking.
Rafael's baby grows inside me, a secret I have not told a single soul, and every morning when I am done emptying my stomach I press my palm against the barely-there swell of my belly and wonder if I made the right choice by leaving.
The wondering never lasts long. I know I did. I know I needed to become someone other than a pawn or a prize or a pretty thing to be collected before I could ever be a partner worth having. But that knowledge does not stop me from reaching for the phone he gave me, the one I have kept powered off but always within reach, just in case I grow weak enough to hear his voice.
I have not turned it on. Not once in ninety-two days.
But I carry it everywhere like a talisman against loneliness, and that probably says more about my heart than any words ever could.
The nausea passes eventually, leaving me hollow and shaky as I brush my teeth and splash cold water on my face.
The woman in the mirror looks healthier than she did three months ago, the bruises long faded and the shadows beneath her eyes softened by regular sleep and the kind of peace that comes from knowing no one is going to hurt you today. My hair has grown past the middle of my back now, and I wear it pulled up more often than I ever did before, no longer afraid of what people might see if they look too closely.
The scars on my back are still there. They will always be there. But they feel less like chains now and more like proof that I survived something that should have destroyed me.
I dress for my evening shift at the Gilded Key Society in a simple black dress that skims my curves without clinging too tightly to the stomach I am not yet ready to explain. The walk from myapartment takes fifteen minutes through streets that smell of pralines and river water and the particular magic that hangs in the New Orleans air like Spanish moss from ancient oaks.
Magnolia is waiting for me at the staff entrance, her blonde curls piled atop her head and her smile warm enough to chase away the last lingering effects of my morning sickness.
"There she is." She pulls me into a hug that smells of vanilla perfume and expensive champagne. "You look better today. More color in your cheeks."
I do not tell her that the color comes from spending twenty minutes with my head in a toilet. Instead, I return her embrace and let myself sink into the comfort of friendship that expects nothing from me except my presence.
Magnolia saved me when I stumbled into New Orleans with nothing but the clothes on my back. She offered me a job as a hostess at the Gilded Key Society, no questions asked. In the weeks since, she has become something I never expected to find in this city of secrets and sin — a real friend who does not care about my last name or the chaos I left behind in Chicago.
"Busy night ahead," Magnolia says as we walk through the service corridors. "We have VIP members coming in for a private event on the second floor. I need you to make sure the Oleander Room is set up perfectly before they arrive."
I nod, grateful for the distraction. The Gilded Key Society operates on a tier system similar to the Scarlet Thorn, and the Oleander Room is reserved for Key Masters who pay astronomical fees for privacy and discretion.
The main floor of the Society is already filling with the evening crowd when I make my way toward the grand staircase. Crystalchandeliers cast warm light across velvet furnishings, and the air is thick with expensive perfume and the low hum of careful conversations.
I climb the stairs with practiced ease, and for a moment I let myself remember the feeling of Rafael’s hands on my skin and his voice in my ear telling me I was beautiful the first time I used these stairs.
The memory aches, and I press my palm against my stomach as I continue toward the Oleander Room.
I am almost there when my phone buzzes.
Not the phone Rafael gave me — the cheap prepaid one I bought when I arrived, the number known only to Magnolia and my landlord here in New Orleans.
I pull it out and find a message from Magnolia that makes my heart stutter in my chest.
Change of plans. The VIP event has been moved to the Chapel Room. Make sure everything is perfect. This one matters.
