Ruin: Slay Two

by Laurelin Paige

  But now she was asking for more, and I rarely denied her when she asked.

  When I didn’t say anything, Camilla prodded me. “Are you going to let it sit like that or are you even going to try to explain?”

  I couldn’t. That was the problem. I couldn’t even explain to myself why I’d deviated from my plans, why I’d kept Celia on this island, why I’d taken to giving her gifts and wheedling out her demons and caring.

  I had nothing for my sister. I turned my gaze back to the ocean.

  Camilla sat down on the wicker love seat, the furniture scratching as it adjusted to her weight, informing me of the action. “What I’ve been wondering most is what does she get out of this? You married her to get access to her father’s company. I didn’t approve, but I can understand that. I see the logic, though how her shares give you access, I can’t quite fathom. I’m not the business-minded of the two of us. But why did she agree to marry you? And why is she living out here? Why is she redecorating and remodeling and making herself comfortable on your island? I can only think that...that…”

  “Think what?” I swiveled my head toward her, pressing when she didn’t continue.

  “Either you’ve trapped her into this arrangement by some dubious means or you’ve fallen in love with her.”

  Camilla was more perceptive than I’d given her credit for.

  “Which would be worse, in your opinion?”

  “If you didn’t already know, you wouldn’t have asked.”

  And that was why I was still standing on this rooftop after thirteen days of wanting to be elsewhere. Because I did already know which Camilla felt was the worse of the two options.

  I almost believed she’d feel the same if she knew the original plans for my wife had included murder.

  “Have you even made any move yet to infiltrate Werner Media?”

  She knew the answer. What she wanted to know was why I hadn’t.

  “It’s not the right time,” I said with finality.

  “Bullshit.”

  She was right, but I started to defend the decision anyway, only to be cut off. “I’ve never needed this like you have, Eddie. What’s been done has been done, and I don’t believe seeking retribution will change any of the ways I’ve been damaged, but you have. It’s been the only thing in your sightline since you took me in. And now? What’s going on with you?”

  I felt the scowl pulling my lips downward despite intending to remain emotionless. “Nothing’s going on with me. My goals haven’t changed.”

  “Then why take this detour?” She sat forward, her hazel eyes pinning me in place the way our mother’s used to. “Look, I’m not going to hold anything against you if you abandon your plan. If you were doing any of it for me, it’s not necessary. I don’t need that. That said, I’m not able to sit back and watch you get in bed with the enemy. Either she’s part of your plot or you have nothing to do with her.”

  “Is that some sort of ultimatum?” I could feel the thrum of my pulse in my veins.

  “I suffered, Eddie. I wear the scars like tattoos. Scars in the shape of cigarette butts and hot pokers.”

  “She’s not the one who put them there.”

  “I wouldn’t have been put in that situation if it weren’t for—”

  “Weren’t for him,” I finished for her, in case she was going anywhere other than the truth with the statement. “Not her. She’s not who we want to ruin.” The words surprised myself because the plan all along had been to ruin him by ruining her.

  Had that changed?

  Camilla stood up and crossed the short distance between us. “I can’t separate them like that,” she said, her shoulder practically touching mine as her gaze drifted over the ocean. “I’m astonished that you can. ‘We inherit what’s been done to those before us.’ Those are your words. If that’s true then it stands to reason that we inherit the sins of our ancestors as well.”

  Did we really, though? Weren’t we flawed enough carrying our own sins, and we had to answer for others as well?

  “I’m not sure I want to believe that.” But I’d been carrying the weight of my father’s wrongs for more years than I hadn’t.

  “You might not want to believe it, but you do,” she said, echoing my thoughts.

  A squeal of laughter drew my eyes over the roof wall to the patio where Freddie played with Joette. She dragged him around, pretending to not be able to find him, with him clutching onto the back of her leg. She’d filled the role of grandmother, a role he’d desperately needed. I smiled despite myself, glad he was here. It was good for him to be here.

  “Divorce her,” Camilla said, a thick cloud covering a lone ray of sun. “Walk away. From all of it, even your revenge scheme. We win if we’re still standing, and we are right now. I’m not sure you will be if you pursue this further.”

  I couldn’t tell her that it was too late, that I’d already said and done too much to be able to divorce my wife without repercussions. Celia would never let me walk away now.

  I definitely couldn’t tell her that I wasn’t sure I wanted to, even if I could.

  It was less than twenty-four hours later that I made my way down to the cabana. The flight crew had already arrived, and the plane was being prepped for take-off. This couldn’t be delayed any longer, whatever this was. I’d spent half the night tossing and turning, trying to figure it out.

  I felt caught.

  Caught between Celia’s lies and her brutal truths. Caught between my sister and my wife. Caught between a past that deserved retribution and a woman who could be…

  Could be…what? A future?

  It wasn’t as laughable as I would have once thought.

  But there was too much to be sorted in the present to think about anything beyond, and the only way to sort through the present was to speak to Celia.

  I hesitated at the door, wondering if I should knock. Then, reminding myself that it was my property and that I was the one in charge, I walked in.

  She was stretched out on the sofa, her hair up in a ratty ponytail, wearing only a thin camisole that highlighted the beads of her nipples and shorts that made her legs go on for miles. Even lounging around, she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

  Someone had given in and brought her one of the kids’ portable DVD players, or she’d stolen it on her own. I’d left specific instructions that her entertainment be restricted to not include screens, and my orders were generally followed, but even Joette had made her disapproval of my treatment of Celia known over the last two weeks, so anything was possible.

  The small player sat balanced on her stomach, and I watched silently over her shoulder as Moana sang about how far she’d go, the movie only recognizable because of the countless times Camilla had played it for Freddie. Celia gave no indication of having heard me come in, until, without turning her head, she said, “If you came to tell me you’re leaving, that was unnecessary. Tom already told me you’d be gone today.”

  “That isn’t what I came to say.” Though it had been the excuse I’d planned to tell her for coming over in the first place.

  She paused the show, and spun her head toward me. “You’re not leaving?”

  The note in her voice was so purely recognizable as hope, I hardly dared to answer.

  “I am,” I said, after a beat, and before I could say more, she turned her focus back to the movie, hitting a button to resume play.

  “What I meant…” I trailed away when it was obvious she wasn’t going to pause the show again.

  Stalking behind the couch, I pulled the plug from the wall, praying the machine didn’t have batteries. Instantly, the picture disappeared from the screen, and she glared in my direction.

  At least I had her attention.

  “What I meant is that’s not all I came to say.”

  She pulled her knees up and crossed her arms over herself. “Go on then. What is it you need? Don’t be all day about it.”

  They were the same prickish words I’d said to her t
wo weeks ago, said in what she must have thought was a British dialect.

  I had to fight a grin at her paltry attempt.

  And then I remembered that I hadn’t yet worked out what I meant to tell her, and the urge to grin disappeared entirely. “I came to tell you that I heard you,” I said, managing to sound sure of myself through the earnestness of the words.

  Her arms relaxed and her expression softened, urging me on. “I heard what you said, and I want you to know that I’m willing as well. I commit to this. I’m determined to give you...” Everything. I bit back the word, surprised it had even entered my head. “More,” I said instead.

  Fuck, even that...what was I intending with her?

  Celia’s eyes glossed over, but she quickly blinked the hint of emotion away. “But you’re not staying.”

  “No, little bird. But I’ll be back.”

  She shook her head dismissively and put the DVD player down on the couch before standing up and spinning to face me. “Your words have zero bearing without something to back it up, Edward. I put myself out there. I waited for you for three months. Add two more weeks on top of that, two weeks where you were five minutes away, and you couldn’t bother to stop by, not once.”

  Her hurt was evident, and I was torn between shame for inflicting it and awe at her willingness to let me see it. I also wanted to touch her, more than I’d ever wanted to touch anyone in my entire life.

  “I don’t have energy to give you another three months on top of that,” she went on. “I deserve more for what I’ve put into this.”

  “You do,” I agreed, wishing that there wasn’t a couch between us or a sister waiting at the house or a business to be run across the ocean. “I’ll make up for it. I promise. But I can’t right now. This visit has been what it’s been, and it’s done now. I can’t change that, and I have to be on that plane in thirty minutes. All I can do is promise that next time will be different.”

  Her thigh bounced as she considered, her brows knit tightly together. “Thirty days,” she said finally.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You have thirty days to come back.”

  I nearly laughed. “Thirty days isn’t possible.”

  “I have nothing left to say to you then.” She picked up the player, pulling the cord with it and turned as if to find another outlet to plug it in.

  “Two months,” I said, refusing to let her shut me out. I’d booked my calendar months ago with quarterly visits worked in. Two months would be difficult, but I’d make a weekend happen.

  “Thirty days.”

  “Six weeks.”

  “Thirty days.”

  “Two months, and I’ll give you an entire week.” I could see my schedule in my head, see how impossible it would be, even as I offered it.

  She wasn’t budging. “Thirty days.”

  “I’ll give you two weeks.” And I smiled, because in all our previous negotiations, she’d been easy to bulldoze. She’d stood up for herself, certainly, but always stepped away when I pushed.

  She had changed. And it was a good part because of me.

  “Thirty days,” she repeated. “One day longer, and this whole deal is off.”

  There were too many important meetings on the books. A gala and a wedding and a critical trip planned to Turkey. “I’ll see what I can do,” I said, knowing that I’d just agreed.

  Knowing it too, she beamed.

  There was a field of energy between us, a magnetic pull that wanted me to go to her and draw her into my arms and scandalize her lips.

  But there was another force, equally strong, holding me back. A force comprised of promises and blood loyalties and stubbornness and habit and the matter of the sofa between her body and mine. And I was still who I was, and she was still who she was, and the only thing that had been sorted was that there would be more between us, and that was enough to send a flood of relief coursing through my veins.

  It was with a lighter step that I started toward the door. “But when I return, you participate,” I said, turning back. Needing to have another word. The last word. “No passive-aggressive punishment for wrongs you think I’ve committed against you. No hiding. No petty stories. No games.”

  Her body had rotated as I had, and while she still stayed standing in the same spot, she also still faced me entirely. “We aren’t a game,” she said fervently.

  In three strides, I was in front of her. I grazed my knuckles against the side of her cheek and pulled her in with my other arm. My lips hovered above hers. “No, we aren’t,” I agreed.

  Then I kissed her, and while the kiss on our wedding day had been sincere, this one sealed us in a way that one hadn’t, and for the first time since we’d married, when the plane took off over the island, I ached. No matter what my sister understood, I wasn’t leaving behind Celia Werner.

  I was leaving behind my wife.

  Twenty

  Celia

  His shadow hit me first, the shade stretching over the catalog full of baby decor that I’d been perusing. Marge’s baby Liam was only just over one, and she was already four months along with another one. She’d returned from the doctor in Nassau only the week before with the news that it was a girl this time.

  Of course I’d offered to design the nursery. Though I’d never designed anything for children of any kind, it would be something new and the challenge was welcome.

  Right now, however, with the fall of his shadow, my interest in the task was eclipsed. My heart all of a sudden felt like it was in my throat, beating a thousand times per minute, and I couldn’t look up at him for fear of what my expression would show.

  I threw the catalog on the table in front of me and glanced, instead, at the sky. The sun wasn’t even directly overhead yet. My guess was closer to eleven a.m.

  “You must have left at the crack of dawn,” I said, still not able to look directly at him.

  “I would have left last night at the end of the business day, but I wanted to cut it close.”

  And close it was. In two hours it would be thirty days exactly since I’d last seen him.

  My gaze shot to his, and I caught the gleam in his eyes. He was teasing, but not really. He wanted me to know his position in this relationship still stood, that even though I’d been granted a moment of strength with his adherence to my demands, he still held the power.

  As if I could forget.

  As if I wanted it any other way.

  “You’re a dick,” I said, fighting the smile that wanted to burst out on my lips.

  “But I’m here.”

  He was here and I felt all sorts of things about that. I’d believed he’d come back in the time frame I’d given him. Our last encounter had felt too real for him to not. Then, as the days had passed and got closer to the thirty-day mark, I began to doubt. I’d expected him to reach out with some confirmation that he was returning, not that he’d ever shared his plans before. Just, he’d said he committed, and that was new, and because it was new I’d thought everything would be different.

  And then everything was exactly the same, and I wasn’t so sure about what had occurred between us anymore. It was possible he’d been fucking with my head. It was likely, even. Wasn’t that the best way to destroy me? Let me believe what was going on between us was genuine, and then pull the rug out from under me. Wasn’t that how I would have chosen to do it?

  It would have been a fitting sort of karma.

  So even as I believed he’d come back by today, I’d held space inside for the possibility that he wouldn’t.

  Now, with him here in front of me and two hours to spare before the deadline, I could let that space go and all the emotions I’d crammed into a dark corner now had room to stretch and show themselves and there were so many. Apprehensiveness and happiness and desire and disbelief and gratitude and humility and a little bit of suspicion and panic.

  Mostly, though, what I felt was relief.

  He pulled out a chair next to me and sat, and I hurried to gather up the
notepads and catalogs that had been strewn over the table, both an anxious gesture and a show that I was ready to give all my attention to him.

  The movement, though, caught his interest. “What are you working on?” he asked, his eyes already scanning the catalogs and notepads.

  “Nothing important.”

  “I say what’s important. If I ask, I want to know.”

  Another display of his dominance, and my skin vibrated in tune with the show. His authoritarian arrogance was annoying on many levels, but there was something soothing about it too. And arousing.

  Still, I always had to take a beat and decide if I wanted to fight him or submit.

  I decided to lean in. “Marge asked me to design a nursery for her,” I said, bending the truth a bit. I assumed he knew about her pregnancy, since he knew everything. He didn’t communicate with me during his absences, but he sure communicated with someone, telling staff what gifts and allowances to bring me and how to orchestrate my days.

  “She asked or you offered?”

  He nodded and reached for my sketch pad, and I forced myself not to make excuses about the rush the drawings had been made in or the quality of the ideas. As if I weren’t already nervous.

  After he flipped through all I’d drawn so far, he made a low rumble of appreciation in his throat that echoed between my legs, then put the pad carefully back where he’d taken it from. “I’m glad you’re doing this. I like to see you using your talents.”

  I was simultaneously giddy over his approval and indignant that he didn’t deliver more effusive praise. Brusqueness won out, as I recalled the negotiations we’d had over our marriage. “Oh, yes, hobbies are fine as long as it isn’t a career. I remember now.”

  “Did I say that?”