Page 193 of The Lies We Play

“What does that mean?” I ask, alarmed.

“Fitz has sent me to therapy,” he states. “Something about my loved ones’ trauma and adjusting to a new thing and finally grieving my loss.”

“Sounds ominous, and like a pain.”

I look toward the street. Morning has brightened against the glass buildings, turning everything expensive and cruel. I need to move. I need to become Halston Saint Claire again. Hair in place. Smile calibrated. Pulse hidden. Recovery narrative ready for consumption.

A miracle with great shoulders and a tragic backstory. Very marketable.

“I have to go,” I say.

“I know.”

“If you hear anything about Livia⁠—”

“You’ll know.”

“If anything changes⁠—”

“You’ll know.”

“If you decide to do something stupid⁠—”

“You’ll probably already be doing something stupider.”

Despite myself, I smile. “That was hurtful and probably accurate.”

“Hal.”

“Yes?”

“Stay alive.” He sighs. “We’re getting you out and safe, but be patient, babe.”

“I’ll try my best.”

“Don’t try, fucking do it. You waited ten years, wait a few more days—or months.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Livia

Now . . .

I stare at the phone in my nightstand like it might start breathing.

It doesn’t.

Which is rude, considering it has already ruined my life without so much as lighting up.

Black. New. Expensive in that silent, masculine way rich men prefer their apologies. No scratches. No fingerprints except mine. No history. Nothing in it that belongs to me except the possibility of a call I am too proud to make and too desperate not to consider.

Creed Lafontaine sent me a phone.

No. That sounds simple. Clean. Almost thoughtful.

Creed Lafontaine sent me a phone via a security company because apparently my life has reached the point where a woman in tailored black trousers can appear in my studio, place coffee on my workbench, inform me I have a bodyguard—her—and leave before I can decide whether to be grateful or mildly offended.

For the record, I chose both.