Page 102 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
“Keep the same color palette for the penthouse and presidential suites. The presidential suite should stay in line with the aesthetic of the hotel, since it will be booked by guests.” Nash pulled out his phone, his wandering attention further confirmation he gave no fucks about this project.
“I think I have a good idea of your tastes.” Chantilly crept closer to Nash and tried to peek at his phone. “I was on the team that designed your New York City penthouse. Mary-Kate let me lead that project.”
“Right.” The light of the screen lit up his bored features. “My least favorite penthouse. Actually, second. The one in Kuala Lumpur looks like Barney threw up in it, hosted an orgy inside the bedroom, then jizzed all over to reclaim his dignity.”
Accurate.
If I liked Nash, I would have fallen back into the couch, laughter tickling my stomach. The pictures of Kuala Lumpur in the online design archives showed a magenta-themed living room and a bedroom with streaks of cum-like white in the bay oak flooring, milk wall paint, and brocade sheets.
“I didn’t lead that one in Koala Limper.” Chantilly toyed with her hair.
When she smiled, the makeup caked on her face crumbled around the eyes. For a moment, I wanted to draw her in for a hug and tell her she’s unbelievably gorgeous where it matters… but then I remembered she had put me on actual time out yesterday for trying to share the elevator with her while she talked on the phone, and the best condolence I could offer her was that she’s pretty on the outside.
(For the record, eavesdropping on Chantilly gossiping sat on my to-do list somewhere between skydiving with a broken parachute and swallowing a brain-eating amoeba.)
“Kuala Lumpur,” Nash enunciated, lashing us all with his irritation. “It’s a city, not some cane-wielding marsupial, Chartreuse. For what I pay you, I expect competence.”
So this was what blue balls did to you. Turned you into an insufferable bastard. Nash wore impatience like a second skin sheathed around him. He hadn’t glanced at Chantilly once, but she jumped back at the scorch of his wrath.
Maybe after this, she would finally stop whining to Hannah about how much she wanted to be the next Mrs. Prescott. Her dreams included marrying Nash, having his babies, and swapping her design job for a life spent in spas and country clubs.
“Right.” Chantilly nodded once and mouthed the city name. “I’ll get it next time. Second time’s the charm.”
“Romanticizing failure.” He slid his eyes my way. “The hallmark of the participation trophy generation.”
Anyone else, and I would have stood up for her. Even Hannah and her general disdain for poor people would earn my defense. I bit my tongue. Chantilly glanced between us and Nash, her lips downturned. She read the room and swallowed her retort.
Nash pocketed his phone. “If we’re done with today’s attention-seeking antics, I’m continuing with the aesthetic. The penthouse will not be rented out, so there’s more leeway there. I want earth tones in the living room and suite, minimalist furnishings, and a sculpture against the North-facing wall.”
Chantilly fidgeted with the hem of her dress and pulled it away from her body. The sequins caught the lighting, reflecting a kaleidoscope of reds across Nash’s face, yet he didn’t look at her as she asked, “Of?”
“Sisyphus.”
“Sisyphus?” It escaped my lips as less of a question and more of a gasp.
Nash’s head snapped to mine. He studied me, a dip in between his brows as if he had tried and failed to figure me out. “Yes, Sisyphus. The thief.”
“The king,” I corrected, feeling defensive for Ben, who for some reason saw a part of himself in Sisyphus.
“No.” His face didn’t budge. He stood there, an immovable boulder, much like the one Sisyphus had been forced to carry for eternity. I wanted to be the one that chipped at its edges until it cracked and crumbled to dust. “The liar. The grifter. The con.”
My dad was a liar.
A grifter.
A con.
He had hurt people. Most importantly, he hurt Nash’s dad, and I would always suffer the guilt. Was that what Nash wanted me to know? He saw me the same way as he saw my dad? Was my punishment to search for a sculpture that had somehow become a slur against me?
Worse—the knowledge that Nash considered me a liar, too, chipped away at my sanity.
I raised my chin and didn’t waver as I argued, “Sisyphus is a king. A human who rules the winds. Cunning. Intelligent. Brave. A savior, who captured Death and freed humans from his clutches. All things you are not. I can understand why you’d want him as the focal piece of your penthouse, seeing as he is a reminder of the areas in which you are lacking.”
I’d gone too far. Broaching the subject of death reached a level of taboo that exceeded the idea of screwing him at eighteen while he’d been nearly thirty. It even surpassed the wrongness of showering in front of my boss and skipping work to fuck him.
“Sisyphus is a symbol of punishment,” Nash said easily, fixing his collar. Always adjusting his collar around me. I wondered if he smelled me on his fingertips or if he had washed me away the first chance he had gotten. “Of penance. Some people would do well to remember that, especially before stabbing others in the back.”
The dig hit harder than perhaps he had even intended. I had learned long ago that there was no such thing as a truly selfless act. People are hardwired to believe charity is selfless. In reality, charity is giving to yourself by giving to others. That’s not selfless. That’s penance.
