She nods, then lets go, arms wrapping around herself. I’m about to step away when she speaks, low and scared: “What if I don’t remember anything? What if I’m just this new person, forever?”
I want to pull her into me, bury her face in my shirt, tell her she was always meant to be mine. Instead I put my hands on her shoulders, gentle, and look down at her. Her skin is soft, warm, her big breasts a distraction so close to me.
“You’re going to be okay, Daisy. If you need anything, I’m always here for you.”
She looks at my mouth. For a second, I think she wants me to kiss her. I think I want it more.
I step back before I do something stupid. “I’ll check in on you soon.”
She smiles, not trusting herself to speak.
I turn and walk away, my hands balled into fists.
Downstairs, I step into the men’s room and splash cold water on my face. There are harsh streaks on my cheekbones, and my eyes are too bright. I stare at myself for a long time.
“Monster,” I whisper, but the word tastes good.
I check my phone. No messages from my mother, nothing from the police, not a single soul in the world looking for Daisy except me.
I text the concierge: “Please ensure Daisy’s comfort and safety. Introduce her to the club, but slowly. She doesn’t need another shock.”
The reply is instant: “Understood.”
I leave the club, step out into the cold air, and feel the guilt fade, replaced by something darker, deeper. I know I should tell my stepsister who she is. I know I should fix this. But instead, I find myself planning my next visit, the next time I’ll get to sit across from the luscious blonde and watch her eat, watch her laugh, watch her remember me with her body if not her mind.
I imagine her waiting for me, dressed in lingerie, lips stained red with desire.
I tell myself it’s for her own good.
I tell myself a lot of things.
But mostly, I think about the way she looked at me, innocent and trusting, and I know: I’ll be back, no matter how much I want to stay away.
Some appetites never die.
And some mistakes are too delicious to correct.
4
CHAPTER 4 – A TOUR OF THE CLUB
Daisy
I’ve been in my suite for a few hours now after the meeting with Veronique earlier. She promised that I’d get a tour of the club, but didn’t say when it would be happening. So I wait patiently, the quiet enveloping me.
It’s not a normal kind of quiet, either. This is a luxurious quiet, so thick you can hear the faint echo of your own heartbeat, the hush of dust motes floating under designer lighting. The only sound in the suite is the soft fizz of seltzer from a cut-glass carafe on the tray beside the bed, and the almost imperceptible hum of hidden electronics. Outside, nothing but city sky.
I haven’t moved in forty minutes, except to change into a pale cashmere sweater and some slinky lounge pants from the closet. Both pieces are soft enough to be spun from clouds and probably cost more than my entire wardrobe back home—if I had a home. I try not to think about what I don’t remember. It only makes my head ache and my heart race.
Instead, I lie on my stomach, peering over the edge of the bed at the view beyond the window. The skyline is all glass and steel, mirrored towers so tall they must have been assembled by titans. The city below is unfamiliar, but something about the endless grid feels like a map to my old life, if only I knew how to read it.
I’m on my second glass of seltzer when there’s a knock—polite, but so perfectly timed I jump anyway, sloshing ice onto my bare foot. I scramble to mop it with a pillowcase before calling, “Come in?”
The door opens and in walks Veronique. The older woman’s heels make no noise on the thick carpet, and her lips spread in a red smile.
“Mademoiselle Daisy,” she says. “It’s good to see you again. I trust your accommodations are satisfactory?”
Her voice is a pureed accent—French, maybe, but sanded down to a fine, cosmopolitan polish. She carries a lacquered tray set for tea: white porcelain, scones with little pots of jam, fresh lemon slices in a crystal bowl. If she notices the chaos of sheets in the bedroom, she doesn’t comment.
