But Mischa’s love was never a lie.
Everything about my past with Donatello Vanici was. A brutal, terrifying, horrifying lie.
I blink rapidly, expecting him to disappear—but he doesn’t. I pinch myself, willing him to vanish. My eyes burn but with every tear to fall, blurring my vision, he stubbornly remains.
Oblivious, he tilts his head, allowing the glow from a hanging chandelier to illuminate him in painfully stark detail. He’s the man I remember from my childhood, only aged exactly seven years, dressed in a suit that strains against the bulk in his forearms. Dark stubble speckles his chin, and his eyes scan the room as watchful as ever.
Beside him stands another man I recognize despite him having grown several feet, sprouting into a near copy of his uncle. Vincenzo.
“Will?” Eli stage-whispers. “What’s wrong?”
His voice snaps me back with a chilling realization that has me gripping the railing, in danger of pitching over it—this isn’t a dream.
Or, even more terrifying—I’ve finally gone insane. Around me, the walls melt, forming a puddle that obscures everyone and everything but him. He’s untouchable by the chaos, standing as tall as he did the day he dragged me before Nicolai Baryshnikov and left me for dead.
“Do what you will with her,” he’d said. “I don’t care.”
I don’t care…
And apparently, he hasn’t, frolicking like a man without a care in the world, here to attend the birthday party of a girl he thinks he’s never met. Does he assume that Willow Stepanova will be as easy to charm as Safiya Mangenello?
As I watch, he goes rigid, his eyes flashing. A vicious sense of triumph roots me in place. I hope he sees me. Notices me. Remembers me…
But without ever looking my way once, he heads for the exit of the ballroom, pulling Vincenzo after him.
I turn away so quickly I nearly trip over the skirt of my gown. There’s no way down from here. I can only stagger forward, craning my neck for a view of the figure retreating toward the front of the house.
“Will, what’s wrong?” Eli is already by my side, using his hand to steady me. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”
But I have. There isn’t any way to explain the truth to him.
My fingers are shaking too badly to form any coherent reply. It’s too hot. The air is too thick. Suffocating.
“Is it the dress?” Eli asks, padding after me as I tear into the upstairs wing. “I’ll get Aunt Ellen, and she can—”
I grab his hand, shaking my head no, though I barely register his worried expression. It’s like the walls of this home fade, and I’m a child again, unable to see anything beyond the figure retreating from me. I can’t even cry out.
All I can do is hate him.
Chase him.
Follow him to the boundaries of a slamming door and watch him leave. Again. I’m shaking as I reach the top of the staircase, waiting for him only to find the foyer devoid of anyone but my father’s guards. Then I remember that it will take him minutes to reach this part of the house from the lower level.
“Will?” Eli tugs at my skirt. “What’s wrong?”
My fingers are moving before I even realize what I’m signing, I need you to do me a favor.
He cocks his head. “What kind of favor?”
Cover for me. Surging past him, I cross the wing, entering my room in a rush. I set the knife aside, pacing circles as my mind races.
“What do you mean?” Eli demands, right on my heels. “Where are you going?”
It’s the same question I’m asking myself. I don’t know. I can’t think…
It’s like someone else possesses my body, making me claw at the fastenings of my gown Ellen had so lovingly done up. With sheer brute force, I unhook it enough to wrench myself free of the massive skirt. The fabric falls to the floor with a pathetic thud, resembling one of the many roses decorating the main hall.
“Hey!” From the corner of my eye, I see Eli turn his back to me, his neck beet red. “If you didn’t like the dress, you could have told them before the party,” he scolds.
I can’t apologize. I’m too busy reaching for my closet. Throwing open the wooden doors, I rummage through the few items left hanging. I only brought a few things home from school—assorted shirts, skirts, and jeans. Apart from those items lurks one lone black dress at the very back of the cabinet.
My heart pangs as I grab it by the hanger. I wore it to the older Ivan’s funeral with a sweater over the top for modesty—it was the only thing in the store that suited my height without requiring inches to be taken off the hem. On me, the dress came just past my knees.
Observing it now, it suits a far different purpose than mourning. It’s tight enough to run in. Or stab someone while wearing it and obscure any bloodstains. In a sense, it’s the polar opposite of the white dress I’d been given after being abandoned.
This…is a fitting dress to kill Donatello Vanici in.
Teeth bared, I slip it on, still wearing my new white heels.
Why? My brain is on autopilot, racing ahead too quickly for my body to keep up. I keep seeing him, his back to me. Leaving, always leaving…
But following him now would be foolish. Pointless. Unless…
I can find him alone. Unguarded.
To do what?
Silver on my dresser catches my eye, and I lunge for the object, testing my thumb over a sharpened edge. Eli’s knife.
“Will…” His voice, trembling with alarm, grates on the anger, making me falter.
I turn to find him watching me, his blue eyes fathomless in the dark. “What are you doing?”
Guilt chokes me for the fear in his gaze. I have to take care of something, I sign to him. Please, just cover for me.
“Cover? How?”
A part of me knows this is wrong. My fingers are moving anyway. Make a distraction.
Pushing past him, I reenter the hall, heading for the staircase. A figure walks by, too perfectly timed to be real. I’m imagining him, storming past two guards stationed near the front door. In this hallucination, I hear him clearly. “We’ll return to the hotel.”
Rather than descend the main staircase, I skirt around to the servant’s wing and out a door that leads to the side of the house. The fact that I run into no one is a testament to the scale of the party Mischa planned. It feels as though everyone, from the servants, to the security detail, is positioned outside to manage the flow of guests.
Only one car awaits out front now; however, its headlights painting the driveway gold against an ebony sky. I crouch behind a row of hedges, inching forward until I’m just paces from the manor’s entrance. The car is close enough to touch, a black luxury model.
As if on cue, two men exit the front of the manor and approach the vehicle. The tallest of the pair gestures for the driver and hands him a large box that the man promptly brings to the trunk.
He opens the compartment, placing the box inside, and I don’t know what possesses me to grab a rock from the lawn and throw it. The skittering noise draws the driver’s attention, and he walks toward it just long enough for me to slip from between two hedges and climb inside the trunk entirely.
Admonishments run through my mind. There’s no way no one saw me. What the hell am I doing?