"Do you have the key?" I ask Xander, looking over my shoulder to see if anyone's around. It's almost time for Hendrix Academy's yearly Christmas Charity Event, and most of the staff are helping prepare for the ball.
"I do." Xander says, but kicks open the door anyway.
I stare at him. "Seriously? That was so unnecessary."
"No, it was very necessary. I feel like James Bond in this tux, sneaking into the file room." He says, trying to flip his bleach-white hair.
I walk in and start searching immediately.1990, 1991,1992,1993,1994, ah, there it is. 1995. I take out the file, and start searching through the contents; students, grade averages, statistics, fundings—yearbook. I take that out along with a list of students. I search until I land on V and the first thing that comes up above Henry's fathers name, Kai.
"Has he asked you to be his date to the ball?" Xander asks me from the doorway, keeping watch just in case.
"No," I say, distracted. I search for his schedule, but the handwriting is a tad confusing. I start searching for Adelines too, and put them side to side. They had English lit together. So Kai had to have crossed paths with her at some point before the day he killed her.
"Good, because I'm accepting your offer." Xander tells me as I take a picture of their schedules side by side.
"You don't already have one?" I ask him. Xander, though he never dates, has multiple flings. I'm sure someone else had asked him.
"None that I like." He tells me. "Plus, this is like pissing on my territory." I glare at him for his choice of wording. "You were my best friend way before you had stopped hating each other."
"If you call me territory, or say you're pissing on me again, I'm going to stab your dick." I tell him, giving him a sweet smile before packing the files back where they were.
He leans against the door, watching me. His hazel monolid eyes light up. "Keep the threats up, it'll make him jealous." I roll my eyes before we head out, locking the doors behind us.
—----
I massage the shampoo on my head, rubbing my roots to make sure it's seeped in. I close my eyes as the hot water washes the product out of my hair and eyes, but when I open them again, I scream.
There's blood all over. On the glass walls of the shower, on the floor, the faucet is a smooth red. The water that I thought was cleaning me, is staining my skin. I hurriedly get out of the shower, wrapping a towel around myself, trying to get the blood off. Get it off get it off get it off. This is when I catch my reflection in the mirror. She stares back at me, her expression unfazed. A contrast to my hectic one. "You didn't listen." She says. "They told you; You love him, he dies."
"He knows." I tell her–myself? "He knows, and he still wants me."
"He's suicidal, of course he wants a tragedy." She rolls her eyes. "You're a compulsion to him, Jane."
I shake my head. "No."
"And what about the second thing they've told you?" She asks. "What about that? Are you going to ignore that warning, too?"
"Whose they?" I demand from her. I want to know who is warning me, and why they think they know how we'll end. "The fortune tellers?"
She sighs. "You don't believe the threat? Just look at how Adeline turned out."
My brows knit together. "What about her?"
"Her and Kai. Both dead. A reoccurring theme, isn't it?"
"That's not fair," I tell her. "What Kai and Adeline had isn't the same as what Henry and I have."
She scoffs, shaking her head. "The loose floorboard beneath your bedside rug." She tells me, and before I can ask what she means, it's me staring back at myself. The real me. Except, when I blink, when I open my eyes, I'm back in the shower. The shampoo is still washing off my hair. Clearwater is running down the faucet. No trace of blood on the walls, the floor, or me. I close my eyes and sigh. I'm so tired of feeling like I'm fucking crazy. So tired of the blurred lines between my mind and my reality.
When I finish my shower, I change into my robe before heading to my bedside rug. I put weight on each individual floorboard before I finally hear a creak. Bingo. I try to remove it with my hands, but soon give up, using the knife. When the floorboard opens, there's a box. I place my hair behind my ear before pulling the box out. It's an old Chanel box, a thin but one. Pictures, I think. But when I open the worn-out cardboard papers fall out. Papers and papers of words upon words. Letters, I realize. I read the first one.
Dear Adeline,
The tint of my cheek hasn't died down since you kissed it. And my mouth hasn't been able to shut up about you, my hands haven't been able to stop writing for you.
You had asked me that night if I'd do it again, had I known it'd end with my heart stolen and a wound to replace it. The answer is yes, I would. A million times again, I would.
The end is near, my love. The plan is in action, and we will see each other again. I will hear your soul speak to mine once more. A month after you, I will join you. Whether it's in hell or paradise, save a spot for me, okay?
I miss you already.
Yours,
K.
I quickly turn over the letter and read the date on the back. May second, 1995. Only a few days before Adeline was found dead in her dorm. Only a month before Kai had killed himself. Henry, is all I can think of. I need to tell Henry.
I send him a quick text before taking the letter, hiding the box under the floorboard, putting it back where it was. I try to reign in my time management skills. Hair. Makeup. Dress. I curl my hair and pick out my stilettos as I walk to the mirror, checking my appearance. I paint my lips red, the same shade as my dress—the color a pretty contrast to my tan skin and brown hair. Mid-lacing up, a knock sounds from my door. I open it to find the devil himself staring back at me.
Except he isn't a red man with horns, or a tail. He has a pale complexion, sprinkled with a few faded brown freckles and pink eyebags. He has curly dark hair, and dangerous gray-blue eyes. The devil used to be god's favorite before he became a fallen angel, and I can see why he was favored. He wears a black Alexander Amosu tux with a dark red button-down, and matching black pants. His look is disheveled as always, the first few buttons were undone, his tie loose, his hair a mess, yet, by how well it fits, the way his taut chest muscles and biceps are accentuated, I can tell it was made just for him. The architecture of Henry Vitiello is a gorgeous, dangerous thing.
His eyes rake down my body, and I turn my back on him by the intensity of them. I walk back to the mirror and try to zip up my dress, watching him lean against the doorframe through the reflection. "What was it you needed to tell me?" He says.
I give him the letter and try to focus but the way he looks at me makes me feel things I've never been told I could feel. Feelings were always presented to me as fake and artificial but there was nothing fake in the way he affected me at this moment. And he didn't even do anything. All he did was look at me like that. Like I'm the only thing he considers worth looking at. "They were in, I don't know, love? I think—Kai and Adeline." I tell him. "Had you known anything about him being in love?"
"No." He says, his voice rasping, his eyes leaving mine only to read the page. "My father never talked about him. Whenever he did, it would only be to call him a fool."
"Do you think," I tell him, trying to brush out my hair. "Do you think they planned their deaths? Both of them?" I ask. "The plan is in action, he wrote. We'll see each other soon."
Henry nods. "We've studied Shakespeare sonnets together, Jane. To analyze this is nothing. Use that pretty brain of yours, and tell me what this reminds you of." He tells me, waving the letter between his scarred fingers.
I turned to him. "Romeo and Juliet. That's what this reminds me of."
He walks up to me and I watch as he reaches for my bare shoulders, his touch is fire as he caresses them ever so slightly, his fingers running along my back, turning me back to the mirror. "It's stupid." He tells me.
When I look at him in the mirror, he looks innocent. But there's nothing innocent about the way his hands accidentally brush my bare skin, or the way he zips up my dress so deliberately slow. "Two people dying in the name of love isn't stupid."
"Did anything ever come of it?" He asks, watching me through the mirror. "They died for love, sure, but how could they ever know they'd see each other in the afterlife? What's the point?"
Without my heels on, he towers me. His lean-muscular built still envelopes mine. "Who knows," I say, looking over my shoulder at him. "Maybe, in another life, they found happiness."
He lets out a dry laugh. "If reincarceration is even real."
I glare at him for a little bit and his eyes shine back. Just as I'm about to turn away, he kneels in front of me. My eyes widen. "Henry–" His hands caress my leg, the curve of my knee, my calf. He stops at the heel of my foot, and bends my knee to slip on my stilettos. "Why do you keep grasping for science?" I ask him
He takes my other foot in his hands, and looks up at me, something about the way he looks at me–the way he looks on his knees in front of me, makes me wish I could hate him. But fuck, he's corrupted me. The devil on my shoulder talks louder than the angel. "Why do you keep grasping for magic?"
He slides on my other heel. "I beseech you on my knees." He quotes the book as his hands slide to the slit on my dress and I throw my head back slightly at the way the caresses my leg, the way he touches my thigh.
"These violent delights have violent ends." I quote back as he wraps something around my thigh, and slides something in, and I can feel a cool medal against my warm skin. "A knife." He tells me, caressing the back of my knee, and kissing the tip. "My favorite one."
—--
Henry and I walk in union into the ballroom, and I can hear Xander trying to catch up behind us. My knife is hidden beneath my dress, Henry's gun is concealed behind his suit, and Xanders is in charge of disposing of the body. My chest still aches at becoming what I've been fighting for so long–a murderer. Henry wanted to teach me to defend myself, to know my way around weapons. Still, I refuse to kill, and Henry doesn't want it to come to that, either. He doesn't want me to see myself the way he sees himself. But Dr. Martinez killed me long ago, I'm just returning the favor.
Xander and I head to Jayden and Alyssa, leaving Henry at his favorite place; the bar. When Aly spots me, she gives me a tight hug and I can spot Chief Nguyen in the corner of my eye talking to the headmaster. They've been in charge of security here at Hendrix, and it suddenly makes sense. It's scary, just how well connected everything is, the history of the order in things, how much silence money can buy. It's like a chess game, and we're all raised to play the pieces our parents did—the pieces handed down to us. Money is a game, and billionaires? we're the deadliest players.
Once more students arrive, Aly and Jayden go to the dance floor, and Xander offers his hand to me. I take it, and we start to do a simple waltz—a class that's required to take here. His hand in mine, my hand on his shoulder, and his hand on my waist, I watch over his shoulder as Michael Riley makes his way to the dance floor with a new girl. "What's the plan?" I whisper to him, my eyes following Michael whose talking to a boy. I wouldn't be interested in who he was talking to had his appearance not sparked something in me. Something in my memory.
Xander spins me. "You're leaving for the psych ward tomorrow, right?" He asks, because I'm supposed to go back every weekend. "When are we getting you out, princess?"
I shake my head. "Tonight. I have to be there by midnight." He pulls me in, and we turn. "The plan is to corner her on the second night." When he nods, I ask him. "Do you know that guy besides Michael?"
"Where?" He asks, trying to be discreet but failing. When I nudge him in the direction, his brows are still knit together. "What guy, princess?"
"The one in white," I tell him. "The one he's talking to.
He looks at me weirdly, and whispers, "Did you take your meds? There's no one there." At the words, my face falls. His tone was playful, joking. He didn't know the severity of them. No, I wanna tell him. No, I haven't been taking my meds. They make me feel weird, feel something other than myself. Henry says it's okay that I don't take them, I tell myself. He said I don't need them.
"Seriously?" I ask him. "Are you being serious?"
He slows down a bit. "Are you being–" And this time, when he spins me, I'm no longer in Xander's arms. But in Michaels. Over his shoulder, I can see Xander's irritation and I can see Henry's eyes follow us, his grip on the glass of what I assume is scotch tightening.
"Haven't heard from you in a while." He tells me.
"I've been busy," I try to catch my breath. There was no man there. Two hallucinations, in one day? My words aren't a complete lie. Got arrested, being framed for a murder the boy I love committed and going out of my mind. Normal things. "Plus, I don't think we really hit it off."
He chuckles. "That's where I think you're mistaken." He spins me. "You're the heir to a multi-billion dollar diamond company, Jane. You're top of all your classes, friends with almost everyone—smart of you, the connections. I think you and I would have a great alliance."
I roll my eyes at him. "I'm sorry, Michael, but being with you taints my image. I don't relish the idea of being with someone I could buy." He pulls me tighter, and I can feel his hands grip my waist harder, but I keep going. "I'd rather not be with someone who just relies on being an heir, and I don't really want a stay-at-home husband. If I wanted that, I'd get a dog."
He pulls on a tight smile, and we spin once more, our feet going in patterns. "See that's where you're wrong," He tells me. "I think I have something that'll change your mind."
"That's sad." I give him a fake smile. "Disrespectfully, no amount of money could make me want to be with you."
"Money? No," He dips me. "Secrets."
I still, and he pulls me back up. We're supposed to change partners, but he continues to ignore the pattern of students, funders, and staff. "What secrets?" I ask him.
"Word hasn't gotten around to everyone yet that Henry was interrogated," He tells me. "But it's reached me."
I freeze up. "He didn't do it."
Michael laughs, "I don't care whether he did or not, and neither will the news outlets. How much money do you think I'd make if I gave them exclusive information about their beloved heir?"
Reputation. It would ruin his reputation. If the world wants to see a cruel weapon, then what's the point in being anything more than that? Henry had said. I didn't like it then, and I don't like it now. "What do you need from me?"I ask. He might not see a future for himself, but I do. If he didn't care for it, then I would.
He smiles. "That's more like it," he holds out his arm and I take it, following him to the back of the bar. He orders a drink and continues to walk with me down the corridors. "I need an alliance, one good for my company. You're right, the predicted statistics aren't ideal." He stops me, mid-walk, and points to me. "You're going to help with that, otherwise I'll show them this." He plays with a flash drive between his two fingers.
I nod, playing my part. I don't know what I'm doing, but I'm playing it as I go. I might be new to this, but I'm not new to manipulation. I was still the same girl who managed to win awards from sexist, racist judges. Was still the same girl who runs a percentage of her father's business, who worked for it, who has a web of connections lined up. Still, the only girl who could rival Henry Vitiello. I was counting on being a fast learner. "What's in there, anyway?' I ask him, pointing to the drive.
"Photos, a few written transcripts." He winks. "Imagine if this got out to the public."
"They'll know he's been released." I remind him, fiddling with the fabric of my dress. "They'll know he didn't do it." Even if he did.
"He'll still get the backlash, Jane. He's being watched closely, anyway." He goes on as we continue to walk, the corridor darkening. God, where is he? Henry should be here by now. Or Xander. Either of them. "They already fault him for drinking illegally, but this?" He shakes his head. "This, on top of the fact I tip them about just how often I've seen him drink?He'd be under it. I wonder if anyone would go as far as to harm him."
It sounds stupid, but they would. People often think us billionaires are untouchable, as if we aren't the same species. They've done terrible things—paintball, riots, assault, break-ins, etc before as if forgetting we too get affected. I try to calm my hands, squeezing the fabric of my dress, playing with the slit to keep them busy. I can see it now. The news outlets would pay millions—millions that Michael needs—for a private story about murder and money. The Vitiellos were well known and ran multiple tech businesses, originating back to Russia. All the old money, old fame, and never once has their name been tarnished. I couldn't let it start with Henry. For his image's sake, for his trust fund, and for the dangers if he disappointed his father. I couldn't. I wouldn't.
"You know, even now, it's tempting to take it to the media." He tells me.
"What do you mean?" I ask him, keeping him busy as I look over my shoulder for any sign of life. Playing with the fabric strapped to my thigh, my fingers rest on the hilt of the knife. A knife, oh god. Something deadly, that I don't even know how to hold properly. But my fingers touch the hilt anyway.
"There's something satisfying about having the power to ruin someone's name, nonetheless, someone who you're always compared to. Do you know what I'd do to have his father?" Michael asks, and lets out a dry laugh. If only he knew, huh? I wonder if I've ever idolized his father, if Henry had just sat there and taken it. I wonder if he still looked up to him. "To have parents who pushed you? It's always been 'Oh, look at Henry.' or 'Henry won this.' or, sometimes, 'Can't you be more like him?' Do you know how batshit annoying that is?"
As he takes a swing of his drink, this is when my hand grips the hilt, and this is when he says, "I want to see the fall of him." Those, are the words that compel my hand to stab him in his abdomen.
He lets out a pained sound, but he's too shocked to scream, too intoxicated to think right, to process. Shocked at my own actions, my eyes meet with Michael's widened ones. Both of our mouths are open, but just as his vocal cords seem to take action, I see a pair of gloved hands cover his mouth, and move to his neck. Just before I can witness his neck being cracked, arms turn me around and I'm staring at Xander. His brows are high. God, oh my god. Oh my god. Did I just kill him? Did I just hurt him? Oh my— "Badass." Xander says, impressed. Clearly not catching the terror on my face. "I mean, a little much, but pretty cool nonetheless. Your first time?"
I hear a thud behind us before Henry's deep british voice sounds from behind me. "Do your job, Nguyen." He orders, and next thing I know, Henry's body is enveloping mine, my wrists in his hands. I don't speak, can't seem to talk. I'm still hung up on stabbing him. Still hung up I killed him— "You didn't kill him, Jane." Henry mutters, his lips brushing my ear, as if reading my thoughts.
He turns on the faucet of the bathroom and starts scrubbing my hands, even though there's minimal blood on them. "He was going to rat you out," I say, frantically, trying to convince myself of my reasons, or him? "I stabbed him. I did it–"
"It was my knife, so it was my fault." He tells me, as if it's perfectly reasonable. He squirts more soap into my hand, gently rubbing in between every finger, massaging every joint. I shake my head, I try to tell him it was me, I try to tell him why, but, "Shhh," he'd say. "It's my fault, love. I don't want to darken your soul with mine."
I shake my head again, and he rinses off all the soap, dries it, kisses it, and puts hand sanitizer on me. "He was going to rat you out." I tell him. His brows knit together, and I frown at him. "You're not the only one who can make sacrifices for, you know, this." I point between the both of us. "You're not the only one who has to do that."
My chest caves as he kisses my forehead. "Nonetheless, he didn't die from being stabbed, Jane. He died because I twisted his neck. It's my fault, and the loss isn't on you. Understood?"
His words, his reasoning. He doesn't want me to bear the sin, so he makes it his own. I almost want to kiss him, and that just confirms my insanity. I shouldn't, but fuck, I really do. I nod, and he leads me outside. We're right next to the floor-to-ceiling windows, but the curtains block us from being viewed by everyone inside. The classical music is loud enough for us to hear from here, but still pretty faint. I watch the shadows of people inside, the bypassing dancers. I watch them and yet my mind is still on Michael Riley. Stabbed him, and had Henry not been there, he would've died from my hands. From bleeding out. My hands, at my will. I guess I should start getting used to it, shouldn't I?
I panic, and for a second, I'm panicking about everything. About my life. About my choices. Of how different everything was only a few months ago. I panic at how vulnerable I've become. "I'm strong," I tell him, even if he hadn't said anything to warrant it.
"I know." I hear him say behind me.
"I don't need a man."
He hums. "You never have, and you never will."
"Then why do I feel like I need you?" I ask him. Codependent things we are, and I don't even know how it started. I needed him long before I could admit it, but down the road, when was my heart stolen? When had I stolen his? How did it happen without my knowledge, my permission? I feel cheated out, as if he just walked through the wall I've spent so hard building.
I felt Henry's shaking fingers grip my chin lightly, and force me to face him looking down at me as I look up at him, and something dangerous sparks. The dim lighting from inside the building illuminates his face and his full lips part. "Do you dance?" I ask him, changing the subject.
He shakes his head. "No."
"Oh," I say. "It would ruin your bad boy reputation, wouldn't it?"
"Terribly." He says, but after a while, he adds, "But ask me anyway."
"Will you dance with me?" I ask him.
"Yes, love. Only with you." He promises. "It is destroying me that I cannot ask you to dance in there, in front of everybody, in front of my father's friends." He tells me, holding out a hand I take."You've only just started to look at me like I'm not a monster, and I want to give you more than I can. You deserve more than I can give you, you deserve someone good, and yet all I can do is bad. But you're all I can think about." he chokes out. "You plague me, and I never want to be treated."
"You," I breathe as he pulls me into him, and I rest my free hand on his shoulder. "are a mess."
"And you," he says, resting his hand on my waist. "are beautiful."
"Beauty is terror." I quote as we sway to the soft music, the voices of all the guests inside. "Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it."
"I'm trembling before you, and still, I've never been scared of you." He confesses, resting his chin atop my head. No, no he hasn't. He's never questioned me, my mind, my sanity, my reality. He knows all of me, and still, he trusts me. Despite the odds. This boy who relies on facts and science, was going against all reason—for me.
"Poet Henry Vitiello, everyone." I say.
"Seulement pour toi."He reminds me, and our sways slow. Only for you.
That's when I remember what happened this morning, the hallucination. That's when I remember I didn't tell him about it because I couldn't help but hate feeling vulnerable. Because, even if he's laid himself bare for me over and over again, I still fret about my baggage. About how heavy it might be for him to carry. I'm still losing my mind, and I don't want him to see that, but I know he doesn't care. I know he'll tell me he'll fix it, even if he can't.
"They said it again," I tell him, looking up. "They told me I shouldn't ignore the notes, Henry. What if you really could die because of me?"
"I'd die happy." He says casually. When I glare, his lips twitch up. "To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die."
"So not funny," I tell him. "It's like you want me to kill you."
"I want you to do a lot of things to me." He deadpans, smirking. "You're so afraid of hurting me–"
"Killing you." I correct.
"If we stay together, right?"
I nod. "But I'm too selfish to leave you."
"Good. I wouldn't let you, anyway." He tells me.
I sigh, as if disappointed, but we both know I'm relieved. I'm relieved he won't let me let him go. It's a terrible thought to have. He starts humming to I wanna be yours, and I listen to him with my head on his chest, listening to the vibrations of his voice as we sway some more. "Henry?"
"My love?"
"I'm afraid of losing my mind. Of losing myself." I confess.
"I won't let that happen." He promises, and I want to believe he's right. But, who could save me from myself? Not even him.
Nonetheless, in his arms, dancing slowly to the hum of his voice under the moonlight, I felt...fine. I wasn't fighting what I felt for him any longer, and there was no point in doing so, either. He was a smart man, both academically, and smart in the studies of me. I never thought I could feel it, and I never thought someone could feel it for me, either. If my own father didn't love me, what's the chance any boy would? But here, he was. I was slow dancing with a murderer, and I could hear the beats of his heart, could hear how it beats in equal time with mine.
—-----
Once the clock ticked past midnight, I made my way to the cab, the one that would take me to the psych ward. Except, this time, I wasn't scared. I wasn't scared of what they'd do to me, because they should be scared of what'd I'd do to them. They should fear me the way I'd feared them. As I walked into the hospital, I began to play my role. I pretended to take my meds, pretended they worked, and pretended them drugging me was actually helping me. I said nothing as they strapped my body to a bed, said nothing as they started to put their syringes in me.
But when Dr. Martinez walked into the room, I almost broke character. Almost. I held so much hatred for this woman that replaced me with her dead son, who made me believe any of this was normal, that drugging me enough to say yes was consent. I was going to kill her. I told myself. For the both of us, I promised Jamie. For what she did to us. I was going to kill her, and I wasn't going to regret it. On the second night, I was going to kill her.
~~~~~
This feels so rushed sorry 😭
hope u liked tho !! Don't forget to vote +comment <3