by Celia Crown
Months after coming home with me, she has quickly learned many tips that enhance her judgment. I adore the change; it makes twisting her words much more entertaining.
“No ulterior motives,” I promise with another distracting kiss. “You think too low of me, Nia.”
She sputters as she defends her stance, “That’s because you always scare me with your spontaneity. Who goes on a Bora Bora trip on a Wednesday?”
I click my tongue. “We did. I recall you were very happy.”
Her demeanor deflates as she scrunches her nose in embarrassment. “I was. I had a lot of fun, thank you.”
I cup the back of her neck and kiss away the small quiver on her lips. She sighs softly and tips her chin back to linger on my lips.
“Shall we?” I usher. “We mustn’t be late for the funeral.”
My tone is insensitive and cold, but it’s deliberate when I want her to hear it. I don’t care about the funeral or who is lying in the casket; I just want the flowers delivered so I can keep the rest of her day to myself.
“What if the smell stays in your car?” she questions. “We can take the delivery van.”
It’s kind of her to consider the condition of my car, but it is easy to replace the entire vehicle. It’s one of many that I own for the sake of mixing up my routine.
My work deals with intense emotions from the families of people who had their organs harvested. Emotional people tend to do emotional things. Hiring private investigators and involving the government is the least of my worries.
The most troubling and annoying aspect is that my competitors like to use dirty methods to steal my business. When I find out who they are, I turn them into reluctant merchandise.
“It’ll be alright,” I assure her. “We’re just there to deliver them to the family.”
She shrugs and gently puts the flowers down. Her hands promptly untie the knot at her back, and the apron dangles from her fingers.
“I’ll be back soon!” Nia calls out to her employees.
None of them dare to protest about anything she does. Their opinions are unsolicited, and I despise anyone who tells my little girl that she’s wrong.
She can do no wrong in my eyes.
Nia tentatively holds the bouquet and looks at me expectantly. I graciously gesture towards the entrance and my car. She puts the flowers in the back and jumps into the passenger seat with a piece of paper that gives us directions.
It’s a quiet ride with soft music coming from the radio. She prefers country music; rap songs give her a headache.
“I should’ve changed into something nicer,” she mentions as she pulls on her little sundress.
It’s a modest color, appropriately cut, and extends down to her knees. She still loves sundresses, and they have taken over her walk-in closet. Her winter clothes have been shoved into the corner.
Occasionally, I randomly find bright colors sticking out from my neutral-toned suits. Neither of us talks about it; I simply let her do whatever pleases her. If keeping her sundresses mixed in with my suits is peculiar, she can keep the reason to herself.
It’s her proclivity, one I won’t disrespect.
Nia gets out first as I pull the key from the ignition. When she lifts the flowers, the pungent scent assaults my lungs. It brings a small smile to my face as I turn towards the window, shielding the inappropriate expression from Nia.
Inconsolable individuals are closely gathered together, supporting each other with shoulders to cry on. It seems that the deceased was well-loved.
I close the door as the bitter scent is replaced by freshly trimmed grass. Nia stands close to me, her arms hugging the delicate flowers with a shuddering whisper of my name.
I guide her through the gravestones and find the cement path to the group of weeping women. The one in the middle is the bawling widow, and people use their bodies to shield her.
I scan the crowd of black and locate the son holding his father’s portrait. He’s sobbing with snot running between his pursed lips.
It’s a rather unpleasant sight.
Nia stops in front of the widow and quietly says her condolences. I offer mine half-heartedly with a sympathetic smile. Practice makes perfect; it took years to perfect this smile.
It’s challenging to fake emotions with my eyes when I’m completely devoid of them.
“These flowers were sent anonymously, ma’am. For you,” Nia says as she hands the bouquet to the woman.
Her stifled sob hits the handkerchief as she accepts them, and her raw voice catches.
“My husband smelled like flowers every day,” the woman comments with a sniff of the petals.
Her brows crease and her sorrow subside. “What kind are these?”
Nia butchers the German name. Her cheeks flush in mortification as she tilts her head up to ask for help. I block her view of the crying son and smoothly hold her shoulders while offering my assistance.
I reiterate the name with a perfect accent, and Nia shoots me a bewildered look.
Of course, I know the name of the flowers. They are specially bred and are only sold on the black market. The seeds in the stems are poisonous, and the flower represents epicaricacy.
Rejoicing at the misfortune of others.
Fitting, I mull over.
“Schadenfreude, ma’am.” I slide my hand down Nia’s back and grasp her waist subtly.
I add in bluntly, “For you.”
From your husband’s betrayal to my last laugh, I muse.
He brought this on himself. Chester was loyal to me as Nia’s personal chauffeur until he had jumped over to my competitor’s ship.
Those who work for me know the consequences. I pay them generously for their loyalty and efforts. Cross me, I will destroy them and their families.
Nia liked him, but her fondness for him did not exempt him from being downgraded to merchandise.
The woman frowns hesitantly, but she brushes it off. “Thank you, Chester would’ve loved these.”
“Pardon us, ma’am. I’m truly sorry for your loss.” I press a hand above my heart, counting the nonchalant heartbeats.
I usher Nia away from the crowd and back onto the cement path. Her silky hair caresses my knuckles as I hold the back of her neck the moment she started to look behind her.
“What did that word mean?” she asks.
“I’ll explain later.”
She’ll be distracted later, and she’ll forget the existence of Chester eventually. He should be forgotten; he became useless the moment he betrayed me.
I glance over to the bouquet on top of the casket. The flowers are glaringly disgraceful yet so elegantly beautiful, the bitter fragrance trickling away like old memories.
It’s a tribute to his service and a mockery of his value.
“Ready for our date?”
Nia nods with an ignorant smile.
Finale
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