Janes pov
As Oscar Wilde once wrote, my existence is a scandal.
Walking down the streets of New York City, it's hard to miss the magazines. TMZ, Pop, People, Times—it's hard to miss the hundreds of copies being shelved, sold, advertised. Hard to miss my face splattered across every single one of them, my name whispered from lips I don't recognize, my story written and published by fingers that have never met me.
HEIR AND HEIRESS OF MULTI-BILLION DOLLAR COMPANIES RUN AWAY
The New York Times
TWO YOUNG BILLIONAIRES RUNNING AWAY. LOVE STORY OR SICK PRANK? HERE'S WHAT WE KNOW
People and Entertainment
'I MISS YOU' REPORTS BILLIONAIRE ALOIS IVERS IN A HEARTBREAKING SPEECH. READ TO DEEP DIVE INTO A STORY OF YOUNG REBELLION.
TMZ
YOUNG HEIRESS RUNS AWAY BECAUSE SHE DIDN'T GET THE RIGHT FERRARI
Pop Magazine
"Shakespeare was right," I mutter, sighing. My hands are gripping the papers tight, so tight that I can feel them rip between my fingers. "Hell is empty and all the devils really are here, aren't they?"
Freezing hands stained with black ink grab the papers from out of my hold before tossing them in the cart with the others. This damaged, riveting boy has bought every copy we've seen today, emptying every booth in the little city of Manhattan—and his most recent annihilation? The shelves of this supermarket."If hell is empty and all the devils are here," He muses, rolling up the sleeves of his dark blue Ralph Lauren sweater as he pushes the cart away from the aisle. "Then I'll make hell our paradise."
I roll my eyes, shoving my hands into the pockets of my plaid skirt before following him. "Even you can't do that."
He tsks, using the tips of his finger to push back his tinted round glasses, the brown freckles on his nose fading. "If Hades can make Tartarus his personal Elysium, why can't I?"
"You're not a Greek god, Hen–" I start, but cut myself off before I could out us, paranoia causing my eyes to search for any ears that could've heard. The casual clothes, caps, and dim glasses are all we have to disguise ourselves with. We're concealing our faces, our bodies, our voices, our names, to keep anyone from seeing, hearing, or recognizing. My eyes bounce from the customers around us and the CCTV cameras—a chant in my ears, because I won't go back I refuse to go back I won't go back I won't be silenced I won't go back—
"No, but I'm a man in love." He says, picking up a pack of advil. "That wicked, deadly thing is more dangerous than any god."
"Oh, philosopher Vitiello, do tell how love is more dangerous than a god?" I muse, leaning against the cart as I watch him examine the ingredients.
"The gods have nothing to live for, to fight for," He starts, his fluffy dark hair bouncing just a little when he looks over his shoulder at me. "But I do."
"And what might that be?" I play along, crossing my arms over my chest—as if in an attempt to protect my heart from the blow of his answer.
He walks over to me, his hands resting on the railing–his hands so close to my waist as he leans over, towering over me. "You."
I scrunch my nose in disgust. "You're so obsessed with me, Vitiello."
A dark chuckle rumbles through him. "You have no idea," He mutters quietly before tossing the packet into the cart.
I tip my head back to see him, biting my lip in thought before asking, "Why do you need more Advil?"
"Migraines," He mutters but stops when he sees the expression on my face. "Relax love, I'm not going to get addicted."
"You could, though." I argue, frowning. "You've been taking a lot recently—"
"Well, I've been having a lot of migraines recently." He deadpans, staring at me directly in the eyes—a major in psychology and philosophy, the art of knowledge and manipulation, and yet—I know he's hiding something. He thinks I don't notice the absence of his touch when he slips out at night, thinks I don't notice the dip of the bed or the trace of his fingers.
He thinks I don't notice the purple under his eyes, thinks I don't pay attention when he takes half an hour to wash his hands from all the ink, thinks I don't see the flight tickets in his search history. I look through him as if he's transparent, and yet, I still can't solve the enigma that is his thoughts.
I frown, about to say something before Xander makes his way around the aisle, and just like that, I can feel the moment slip from my fingers—and I don't try to hold onto it. Xander wears an old cap, hiding his newly brown-dyed hair and Tony Stark glasses. He doesn't need to go under disguise in fear of the media catching onto him, but in fear of his own father noticing he's running errands with the same people he's supposed to be finding.
Xander drops all the things in his arm into our cart—cake batter, capri suns, icing, macaroni, cereal, and candles. Henry stares at him, and Xander shrugs. "What?"
Just like that, Henry's demeanor changes. It's as if he's hit a switch, tied on a mask when it's no longer just him and I. I'm reminded that this is the same boy that's made some of the world's richest lawyers cry in a round, reminded that once upon a time ago—I too hated him for his harsh and blunt personality, for his inability to feel sympathetic. He pushes the cart towards the cashier, annoyed. "Lucky charms, seriously? "
"The best cereal ever," Xander argues just as it's our turn to check out. "It's whole grain."
"It has marshmallows in it." Henry deadpans.
"That taste like fruit—and fruit is healthy."
"That doesn't," Henry pinches the bridge of his nose before they continue to bicker, and I almost laugh at the scenery. Two fugitives and a spy. Runaways, threats to society, most wanted in the world—and here we are, fighting over cereal.
But it soon fades into background noise when my eyes catch on the TV screen above us—my smile falling. No, I can't seem to hear a thing over my father's voice as he airs out his concerns his worries his distress as if the absence of my presence pains him—as if he doesn't look for an excuse to leave a room when I enter it.
My eyes are still stuck on his interviewer when I hear the cashier tsk. "I feel so bad for him," The old woman says. "I just don't understand how ungrateful someone can be. He's given her everything she's ever wanted, and she leaves—no goodbye, no check-ins. And all for a boy?" She sighs.
Of course, I'm thinking, of course, this is the story they've painted. The cliche runaway—two spoiled kids who think they're in love, rebelling against the world they're so out of touch with. And my father, the businessman—of course, 0f course of course he'd capitalize on this. The sympathy he's receiving makes my fingers itch to search how much earnings he's earned since I made it out. "Maybe she had her reasons."
I hear a sigh. "What reason could a girl like her possibly have?"
Many, actually. So, so many that I want to scream at her, at my father, at the news. I want to scream loud enough that the whole world hears the truth but I can't—not yet. So I settle for something softer than a scream. "The truth always comes out." I whisper, and it almost sounds like a warning as I watch the camera face my father once more as he calls out my name just in case I'm watching before they switch to Henry's father. And when the lies start to spill from his lips, his blood follows. First, he coughs up blood. Then, his face turns pale. And finally, a red puddle stains his perfectly white suit and I can almost swear I feel my hands begin to wet–as if drenched in blood.
Then I feel a cool hand on my shoulder before my eyes snap away from the screen, and the concerned face of the sweetest boy I know replaces the ones of cruel monsters. Henry Vitiello might be a monster to some, but when he searches me to see if I'm okay, asking what's wrong, I realize that if he was a monster, then so was I. At least that way he's mine. My monster. And when my eyes look back up to the corner of the room—I find it vacant. No trace of blood, no trace of my father, or Henrys. In fact, there's no trace of a TV at all when I tell him that it's nothing. No trace of the cashier either when he walks me out the doors.
The sky has darkened, and the only thing I can think of as I watch Xander load the trunk of Alyssa's Porsche is that this wasn't supposed to happen. One by one, voices start to talk—some high, some low. They start talking over each other as one whispers they weren't supposed to come back, as another says they aren't supposed to be here, another yelling why are they back, until one by one they're all screaming they're back they're back they're back they're back they're back they're back—until I feel a cold, shaking hand touch mine, interlacing our fingers hesitantly, as if somehow still worried he's trespassed on some invisible line I've drawn. I look up at him, the voices silenced when he says, "Breath." And I struggle to do so, struggle to hear his voice over the rapid beats of my heart. "In and out, in and out." He murmurs even after I've calmed down, just in case I've forgotten.
Until I hear Xander's voice raise his voice as he talks to whoever's on the other side of the phone, "I'm fucking busy," He says, his voice cold–a contrast to his bright personality.
I attempt to walk away from Henry, to walk towards Xander, to see what's happening, to forget what just happened—but as I try to let go, Henry just grips my hand harder—as if refusing to let go.
Let go of my hand, I mouth, yanking on my hand.
Nah, he mouths back.
I glare, and he purses his lips together as if to stop the smile from forming on his lips. "I'll be right there," I hear Xander sigh before hanging up.
I turn to him, dragging Henry with me. "What's up?" I ask him, hiding my hands behind my back so he wouldn't see our interlaced fingers.
"The police are thinking of doing interrogations," Xander groans. "They think someone from Hendrix might know something." He checks the time, before muttering, "I need to meet my father there in thirty minutes."
I frown. "Will you be okay?"
"No, princess." He shakes his head, taking his hand to his ear as if to hear something. "The edge of a bridge is calling me."
I laugh as Henry rolls his eyes. "I hear it too," Henry says. "Sounds like you need to jump off—" I dig my fingers in his hand from behind my back and surprisingly—he doesn't restrain the tilt of his lips.
"Do you guys need a drive home?" Xander asks.
"Yes," I say, just as Henry says "No." I turn to Henry, looking up, my brows knit together. He looked down at me, shaking his head lightly. "We're not finished yet. You can go, Nguyen." He tells him, still looking at me.
Xander leaves, closing the car doors before driving away, and I raise my brow. "Where else do we have left?" I ask him as we begin walking. We went to Prada and Chanel—courtesy of Henry outright refusing to wear any of Xander's Gucci or Dolce and Gabbana—got burner phones, took a trip to the bank, and got groceries. Everything's crossed out.
"You'll see." He says, lighting a cigarette. "It's in a church."
I furrow my brows in confusion as we make a turn, millions of questions race through my brain—but only one is voiced. "You're atheist. You don't believe in god."
"I believe in you," He starts, letting the cigarette hang from his lips. "I believe in whatever you believe." He says, as if it were that simple.
"That's not how it works," I mutter as we walk down a few more alleyways—the city of Manhattan coated in a light blanket of snow.
He takes the cigarette by his middle and pointer finger before blowing the smoke out. "Isn't it? I'll dip my hands in holy water if it means touching you."
"You'd probably burn." I deadpan, unable to imagine this killer of mine in a holy place—but as he walks me around the corner and begins to walk up a staircase with gargoyles etched onto the railings of an old medieval building, I realize that I'm about to see for myself. "Why are we here?" I ask him once more as he holds the door open for me.
He nods to the receptionist. "I'd like two tickets to see Romeo and Juliet."
—
"If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep," Romeo starts, his knee-breeches ruffled. "I dreamt my lady came and found me dead—strange dream that gives a dead man leave to think!"
"Strange," Henry murmurs, lazily holding his scotch. The cool glass rests on my inner thigh—my legs over his lap, my back to the armrest of the victorian chair. "My dreams involve you under me, squirming, your hands tied to the bedpost, your own lace panties choking you—"
I punch him in the arm, and he mock flinches. "Shhh," I hush him, but he just chuckles. He bought all the private boxes for this very reason, I presume. For a semblance of privacy above the rest, an illusion of what I believe is a date. Behind these blood-red curtains, the only light being the few candles hanging on the wall—and singular chandelier hanging from the old architect of the large stage, a singular cross atop it.
"Here's to my love. O true apothecary, thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die." Quotes Romeo, before drinking the deadly nightshade—nothing in the world is ill if Juliet is well, therefore nothing in the world is well if Juliet is ill. Romeo's soul dies in search of hers, his own death more bearable than the thought of hers.
A cry sounds from the crowd of people below us and awws echo through the dark room—from me. "He didn't take a nightshade," Henry's deep, English voice rumbles through me as he leans back on the velvet chair. "He actually took potassium cyanide."
I give him a look, watching the play closely as he hardly pays attention."It's a play, Henry. Not everyone memorizes classics word for word."
"Not everyone can," Henry mumbles distractedly as he runs the pads of his fingers through every my inner thighs. I try to keep my eyes on the play as he dips his finger in his glass before running his cold fingers along the heated skin of my legs. I can feel his gaze on me, can feel him waiting for me to crack.
And when I don't, he only moves lower. Slowly, agonizingly—he drags the tips of his fingers under my ridden-up plaid skirt. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from squirming, and he gives me a look. "Pay attention to the board, love. Aren't you supposed to be a good girl?"
"Fuck you," I mutter—trying to focus on the stage where Juliet awakens in the tomb, to see her Romeo.
"What a dirty mouth," He shakes his head, as if disappointed. "Do I need to clean it for you?" And when he dips his finger in one more time—directly to my folds, I slap it away. He just smirks.
I roll my eyes, giving him the finger before turning back to the play as Juliet cries over Romeo's body. I can feel him kiss the tip of my finger, but I refuse to face him. "O happy dagger, this is thy sheath," She says, and a singular small shadow passes through the room. I look up at the chandelier but all the candles are lit.
I shake it off as a voice sounds from the front of the stage below us, a woman sobbing— and Henry groans. "They died for love," I tell him, before I feel something drop onto my cheek. "It's sweet."
I bring my finger up to my cheek to wipe the soil off. Is it raining? I almost ask. "It's stupid," He argues
The blood on my hands dry, my fingers stained red from a murder I didn't commit. I've craned my neck to the ceiling, to see the blood dripping from the cuts on the cross. I stare at the small statue that stares back at me and just as a drop falls—a scream sounds. Juliette has stabbed himself, her white nightgown stained with the same shade of red as his poet shirt.
"These violent delights have violent ends. And in their triumph die, like fire and powder. Which, as they kiss, consume." Says Friar Lawrence, before the blood-red curtains close—darkening the opera house. I look back up at the statue of the cross—at Jesus staring down at me. Except this time, his neck isn't split open. His wrists aren't cut. His mouth isn't dripping blood. I look down at my fingers, at the blood that no longer burns my skin. "For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo," finishes the actors, before bowing.
"Our story is of more woe than Juliet and her Romeo, don't you think?" Henry asks, standing—his fingers still tangled in mine as I follow him out through the crowd of people, and out the streets of New York. I squeeze his fingers just to make sure that yes, he's real. I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy I'm not crazy I'm not crazy as I make it a few feet out before he grips my arm and pushes me to his left—harsh enough to snap me back into reality. "Dumbass," he mutters and I kick his loafers.
"Asshole," I glare. "What was that for?"
"Sidewalk rule." He tells me before gripping my hand again. I try to argue but he just kisses to the tip of my ring finger—and as stupid as it seems, I can't help but realize that we've never done this before. We've never been able to talk without rumors, never been able to be seen together outside of the gates of boarding school without all the tabloids, never been able to sit next to each other during tournaments without media, never been able to hold hands—not in public. Not like this. I didn't think we'd make it, truthfully. I didn't think we'd make it past the shadows in dimly lit rooms, past secret touches under the table, past the stolen glances, past the privacy of our rooms.
This is how it should be, I realize. We shouldn't have to hide, I shouldn't have to worry about killing him. I realize that we are so very close to our happy ending—or at least, as close to one as we can get. "I like this," I tell him, laying my head on his chest, examining our interlocked hands. Even in disguise, even under the comfort blanket of darkness—this was a taste, a tease, of what we could would should have. "I like this a lot."
"Then we'll do this every day," He promises me. "What else do you want?"
"Anything?" I ask.
"Anything." He says.
I think on it, playing along to this fantasy. "I want a big house."
"How many floors?"
"Five," I tell him, waiting for him to tell me how stupid that is—but it never comes.
"And?" He asks, his voice rasp.
"And a picket fence."
"What color?"
"White," I say—envisioning the future. "With a big pool—oh, and floor-to-ceiling windows."
"I'll make it myself."
"I want to have a small wedding." I hum. "If we don't kill each other before we make it to the aisle."
A deep chuckle rumbles through me before I hear him murmur, "I've been ready to marry you since we were fourteen."
I smile, just a bit."You hated me."
He shakes his head. "I hate how much I thought of you, hated how much I liked it, hated how much you hated me. I hated everything, but I've never hated you."
His arm snakes around my waist, holding me closer. "What do you want?" I ask him.
"A bug five-story house with five floors, a white picket fence, a big pool, floor-to-ceiling windows," he starts, playing into my fantasy so seriously that when he says, "And maybe eight kids," I freeze. My eyes widen, and he laughs at the sight of me before muttering a quick, "You, Jane. I just want you."
I relax back into his touch as we continue walking down the different alleyways. "Henry?"
"Yes, my love?"
I rip the bandaid off. "I want to free the patients before our story starts."
He stiffens, and the act is so prominent that I look up at him. His hands shake as he adjusts the collar of the white button-up under his sweater. "I thought we were on the same page about this, Jane," he says. "It's too risky."
I frown. "It's always going to be risky, Henry. Do you expect us to just stay in hiding for the rest of our lives? In that manor?"
He shakes his head softly. "I was thinking we'd move—someplace where they won't find us."
My brows knit together. "But the patients—I promised them, Henry. I promised them I'd come back for them."
"And what can we do, Jane?" He asks. "We're on the run ourselves, how are you going to take care of them?"
I chew on my lip. "I don't know, but you don't understand—you don't understand the things they do to us in there. They don't deserve that."
He doesn't hesitate. "I'd rather it them than you."
My lips tug downward. "It's morally wrong—"
"My morals were never right," he says, holding my chin before tilting my face to his. "And they never will be so long as you live. You must understand that your life means more to me than the deaths of billions, and if given the option I'd choose you over them every time."
"How can you live your life knowing it's at the cost of someone else's?" I stop walking, facing him completely. "It's–"
"It's a selfish, machiavellian, conceited thing to do. But you always knew I was those things, so what's new, Jane?"
I wrap my hand around his—the one that caresses my jaw, as if to take it away. "That's not what I want."
"Try to understand?" He asks. "You're a miracle—and I've given up on those a long time ago," he says. "I can't let them take you from me again, okay? Truly, I don't think my heart could handle it."
I frown, about to argue—but he presses a finger to my lips, shutting me up. "Can we talk about this later?" He asks, his stern voice softer. "Can we pretend? For tonight?"
I sigh, nodding as he kisses my forehead. "We can pretend." I tell him, but his eyes are closed when he leans in—while mine stay wide open.
Henry's pov
I watch the Advil sizzle as it dissolves fully in my water. A cluster of empty coffee cups scatter the dining room table, Picasso paintings in broken frames hung on the tall walls. The curtains are closed for the sake of my migraines—my eyes stinging enough from the bright computer screen. It's 4:56 am, and it takes me thirty minutes to wash off all the ink on my hands—all the ink used to write pages upon pages of these dreams—no, terrors—I'm having. The pen is still tucked into my ear when I stare down at the search bar, at the word typed in. Reincarnation, I type before hitting search.
~~~
hey lol (leans on million dollar mansion to distract you from the shitty chapter).
In the words of my editor, "hate your child (this chapter) and move on." so here's me giving it up for adoption sorry for this filler :P BUT THANK U FOR 700K I DONT DESERVE IT AFTER THIS CHAP BUT LOVE YOU ALL ANYWAY