Page 6 of The Lies We Play
“Historically significant.”
“Temporary,” Halston murmurs, lifting my hand to kiss the ring. “Only until we fix the world.”
I turn his face toward mine. “That might take a while.”
His eyes soften in a way I still don’t know how to survive.
“Then we’ll be busy.”
I believe him.
God help me, I believe all of it.
That paperwork can be corrected. That families can be handled. That money can be refused, redirected, or burned to the ground if necessary. That love this strange and bright and alive can keep its hands on us long enough to become ordinary.
We don’t even need the money. Not really. The money is not the point of us or why we committed to each other. It has never been.
The promise is.
The promise Halston made to Cornelius St. Claire before the old man died. The promise tangled in inheritance clauses and family rot and the rotten little legal details rich people use when feelings are too honest.
It will be fine, I think.
We have time.
Then, suddenly, the memory is gone.
The hospital returns in fragments.
White ceiling.
Plastic rail.
Tape pulling at my skin.
My hand twitches again on the sheet.
A doctor stands over me now with kind eyes and a face trained to deliver unbearable things in portions small enough to swallow without choking.
Mom stands behind him with her hand pressed to her lips. Dad is in the hallway, speaking to someone in a voice clipped with fury, the way people sound when they mistake control for love.
“Livia,” the doctor says. “You were in an accident. Do you remember anything?”
I stare at him.
That is not an answer, but what else can I do? All I remember is the bed and . . . I feel as if I keep waking up to different versions of myself. All of them leave my body feeling foreign and my mind drifting.
“We need to talk about your injuries first.”
“No.” My voice barely exists. “Halston.”
My mother makes a small, broken sound. She reaches for me, and I flinch before her fingers touch my arm.
I don’t mean to.
Her face crumples anyway.
“Baby,” she whispers.
