Just one more year and they’ll be out.
Kasien
Present
Lucien: Why did my money fly in with two dead bodies?
Me: They pissed me off. I added a hundred thousand for the troubles.
Lucien couldn’t care less about his people, thankfully. We sent the dead twins with the money, hoping he would accept the extra cash as an apology.
Lucien: I’ll fly out in a week. Keep the journalist alive till then, I want to see her.
Fuck. Fucking fuck.
Her new identity is almost ready. She was supposed to be gone anytime soon now.
Shit.
I pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration. This is getting more and more complicated.
She was supposed to be gone soon.
I wasn’t supposed to obsessively watch her through the cameras.
I wasn’t supposed to jerk off and spray my shower wall three times a day with a picture of her upside down on that sofa in my head.
And I most definitely wasn’t supposed to make her cum all over my hand last night. That was a huge mistake.
Also, it was the best thing I did in years. I couldn’t help myself. Jesus.
This is getting so out of my hands. I always follow a plan, and she always fucks it up. I can’t even concentrate when I feel her cunt on my hands all the fucking time now. That wasn’t supposed to happen.
Why the hell does he want to see her? I could tell him she’s already dead, but he would want proof, and I haven’t arranged that yet. That’s too risky. If I don’t reply to him in two minutes, he’ll call me.
Goddammit. Think.
Okay, he’s flying in for the charity ball. I’ll take her there. Lots of people, lots of witnesses. I can sneak lots of my men there too. He’ll just play with her and that’s it, but if it goes sideways, the charity ball is the perfect place for it.
Me: I’ll take her to the charity ball then. See you there.
Lucien: Perfect.
Okay, we have a couple of days to finalize her new identity, papers, and fake her death.
That’s doable.
?
I’m standing in front of a mirror in our closet, trying to fasten my tie. Adrien is next to me, doing the same, but his hands are shaky and he struggles. I turn around, close the distance between us and fasten his tie with one controlled movement.
“What did you take?” I ask him, trying not to sound like an interrogator.
He just scoffs at me and rubs his hands on his face, then messes up his curls. He seems on edge. Again.
“Nothing,” he says, putting his hands on his hips before finally looking at me, his eyes a little bloodshot, dark circles under them. “Fine, I did one line. I was tired,” he admits and shrugs as if it was nothing.
I hate this. I hate that I can’t send him away like my sister, give him a normal life. But he would never let me, he would never leave me in this shithole. If I ever tried, he’d kill me before he’d ever leave me.
