I turn on the water to make it seem like I'm only washing my hands, and grab a couple of pieces of fancy folded white paper to stuff them under my armpits, where I'm about to sweat right through my shirt.
It isn't enough. I thrust my hands under the stream of cold water until they burn from it, then I press them both to the back of my neck and immediately feel a little less like I want to be sick.
I only leave the bathroom once I'm sure my mask won't slip again, and I've completely gaslit myself into believing that Ambrose probably wasn't even looking at the necklace, and I imagined the whole thing.
I'm careful not to let the charm slip from my blouse a second time as we sit through course after course of fine food that I only pick at, forcing myself to chew and swallow without tasting anything. Ambrose explains that after dinner he'll have his assistant, Linette, take the appropriate samples of my hair and saliva. He explains that it normally takes weeks for results, but that for him, we should know within a day or two.
I smile through it all as if I'm not screaming on the inside, reminding myself how good I am at this. I've spent years at a time wearing different masks. I only have to wear this one for a couple days.
"I'm so full," I say with a huff of a laugh when the server brings a molten chocolate dessert that Iwillvomit back up if I dare take a bite.
I swallow back bile and give an apologetic smile to Ambrose. "Actually, I'm sort of exhausted from the flight. Do you mind if I?—"
"Oh yes, how inconsiderate of me." Ambrose is quick to dab his mouth with this cloth napkin and stand. "Let me escort you back to your room."
"You don't have to do that, I?—"
"I insist."
"Okay."
Ambrose exchanges some whispered words with the server, and then we're leaving. I only need to stay in his presence for a few more minutes. Just a few more fucking minutes.
"I noticed you didn't eat much," Ambrose comments as we walk from the restaurant.
I come up with an excuse on the spot. "Flying doesn't really agree with me."
"Ah. Yes, well, you'll get used to it in time."
When the elevator doors open, Ambrose's hand finds my lower back, gently ushering me into the gleaming silver box. I bristle at the contact, my stomach roiling until he drops his hand to clap them together at his front as we're whisked upward.
"I'll tell Linette to hold off on coming by to take the samples until morning," he explains as we exit the elevator on one of the topmost floors. There are only two rooms on this level, and he waves a key card in front of the panel on my door to sweep it open for me.
I mean, of course he would have a master key as the hotel's owner, but seeing him pocket the key card that opened the door that leads to the room where I am meant to sleep doesnotsit well with me.
"I'll be right across the hall here if you need anything."
Amazing.
I smile, but it it's more like a grimace. "Thanks."
He catches my hand before I can turn away, pulling it to his vile mouth before I can even register what he's doing. Ambrose De La Rosa presses a soft kiss to the back of my palm. "No, thank you for coming. It was a lovely evening, no matter the result of the tests."
I slide my hand from his and nod. "Good night."
He tips his head. "Rest well, Miss Bellerose."
I only wait long enough for the door to click shut before I'm rushing to the bathroom, which is all the way across the fucking gargantuan suite. Once inside, I close the door and hurriedly undo my blouse. With hands trembling violently, I rip the mic from between my breasts and bury it in a pile of towels in time for the bile to rise in the back of my throat.
My knees knock against the tile a second before it all comes up. Every tiny bite I managed to consume in the restaurant is violently expelled from my stomach until there's nothing left. Until my body sags against the porcelain and I can breathe again.
Ambrose De La Rosa isnotmy father.
I rip the necklace from around my neck and throw it across the bathroom, not wanting to have it against my skin for another second. My head spins, and I rest it against the rim of the toilet bowl, remembering the way Elijah looked, tangled and sweaty, in his bed after a night terror.
He's not my father.
I take deep breaths in through my nose and remember Julian in the moments where he started to lose his grip on reality, out by the pond.
