Page 131 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
Sciamachy.
Thanatophobia.
Useless words.
Nothing could tamp my frustration.
“We need a centerpiece!” I waved a picture on my phone of a giant abstract monstrosity we had no budget for.
This had become my hill to die on.
Destined to perish from a wound in the shape of Chantilly’s indifference, and my tombstone had better be a damned centerpiece.
Ida Marie flicked her eyes between the two of us, lips pressed together. She swallowed her saliva every ten seconds.
She agreed with me. So did Cayden and Hannah… but they also agreed with Chantilly’s point—we didn’t have room in the budget.
“We’re done talking about this.” Chantilly shut the meeting books and shoved them inside Cayden’s desk.
I shot up from the couch. “It has to happen,” I said, wondering why I even bothered. We’d all die eventually, and none of this would matter.
You are dust. Small and solid, but destined to vanish.
“We don’t have it in the budget!” Chantilly tossed both hands in the air. “And even if we did, it’s not happening. It’s all useless. Mr. Prescott doesn’t care about this location. You’re supposedly chummy with him,” she spit the words out like she wasn’t sure whether to be confused or disgusted. “Can’t you see that?”
Would speaking slower help this seep into Chantilly’s skull?
I wondered whose side Nash would take if he were here. Chantilly’s, most likely. His priorities laid with the Singapore location. Even now, he’d left for the penthouse to go over offers with Delilah.
“He may not care, but I do.” I jabbed my chest with my pointer finger. It hurt, but so did everything.
“Why?”
She could send me to Guantanamo Bay, and I still wouldn’t tell her. Not when it meant revealing just how much I knew Nash and the Prescotts.
“Because,” I began, forming my lies as I spoke, “this location is my first job, will go on all of our design portfolios, and should matter regardless because it’s our damn jobs to care. Why am I the only one who cares?”
Security interrupted our argument with Chipotle catering trays. My eyes swung to the door, but I already knew Nash wouldn’t be there. I didn’t feel him in the room. No heavy air. No heat around my body. Nothing.
The giant servings of chicken, steak, and barbacoa consumed most of the tablecloth Chantilly laid out, so Cayden opened another one next to it. I helped the guards fan out the containers of tortillas, cheese, rice, beans, guac, and salsa, but I didn’t dare grab a plate.
It looked good.
It smelled better.
I hadn’t eaten all day, and if we continued through the night, the soup kitchen would be closed by the time I clocked out.
Logic told me to eat.
My body told me to eat.
Even Ida Marie turned to me and told me to eat.
My heart refused to.
That same dumb organ jostled inside my ribcage as soon as the elevator pinged in the hall. This is why ribs form a cage around the heart. It’s an untamed animal, and wild animals can’t be trusted.
If my coworkers thought I had a serious eating disorder, none of them bothered to suggest I seek help. They dug into the food, piling glutinous layers onto their paper plates. I envied the hell out of them.
