I ignore her and begin to examine the pieces carefully, one by one. They are all black, as I requested. Lace and pearls and silk are too beautiful for the likes of Ivy Moreno. Yet she will have one regardless. No wife of mine will marry me in tatters, but I will surely take pleasure in seeing the destruction of her beautiful dress once the ceremony is over.
“You’re actually buying her a gown?” Mercedes scoffs. “Why?”
“Because she will be my wife,” I growl. “And I will not have her tarnish the De La Rosa name by wearing anything I don’t approve of.”
“She will be a De La Rosa in name only,” she snarls. “Who cares what she wears when her blood will stain the floors of The Manor? If it were up to me, I would do it at the ceremony in front of her family for all to see. She should have to walk naked over fiery coals to deserve your hand in marriage.”
“That’s why it isn’t up to you.”
“I still don’t understand why you have to marry her. Just torture her and be done with it.”
“You don’t have to understand.” I dismiss her coldly.
The room falls silent, and I can feel Mercedes watching me as I pick apart each dress. There is still much to be done, and her presence is only delaying my efforts. But sending her away now would only add to the salt in her wound.
I reach for the finest dress in the selection and hang it on the end of the rack. After I call for the sales assistant and tell her to package it up, Mercedes mutters under her breath.
“She doesn’t deserve to wear something so beautiful. Fucking Morenos.”
“Perhaps not, but it’s not your decision to make.”
She watches me carefully as I roam the store, seeking out a pair of heels to match. The jeweler will be here soon with a selection of rings. The rest I can send my staff to pick up. Flowers. Candles. Hairpieces. I pause in front of a lingerie display, swallowing the knot in my throat.
“You must be kidding,” Mercedes hisses. “Don’t tell me you actually plan to bed that awful woman.”
I finger the black lace and try to imagine what Ivy would look like in such a display. My enemy and my soon-to-be wife. The woman twelve years my junior. I have not seen her up close in years. Not since the explosion. But I have watched her. I know her curves, her softness, her impossibly girlish dreams of escaping this life. She will be mine to do with as I please. Mine to take. Touch. Torment.
And horrify.
As if I’ve been burned, I yank my hand away and reach for the pen in my pocket. Too late, I realize Mercedes continues to watch me like a relentless hawk, devouring my every move and silent thought for her own motives she will undoubtedly remind me of later.
“What is that?” Her eyes flick over the pen curiously.
I return it to my pocket and ignore her. A potentially dangerous move when it comes to my sister. She has a habit of unearthing information, and my reaction will only serve to intensify her curiosity. I know her well enough to understand this one universal truth about her. The woman is nothing if not determined.
She only discovered my suspicions about Eli’s betrayal because she went rifling through my office herself when I wouldn’t give her the answers she wanted. After she uncovered my files on the Moreno family, she was like a python chasing a rodent. Unstoppable. Even now, she’s practically frothing at the mouth, and I know I will have to be vigilant about the rules when it comes to Ivy.
Mercedes might want her vengeance, but she also understands her place. I am the head of the De La Rosa household. It is me who controls her life. Her destiny. And she knows better than to even blink without my approval first. It will be the same with Ivy.
Sweet, poisonous Ivy.
“When will you kill her?” Mercedes asks, her voice tinged with the need for reassurance.
I ignore her and pick out a pair of heels for my bride, much to my sister’s annoyance.
“If I didn’t know any better, I would think you actually want to marry this woman,” she accuses.
I glance at her so there can be no misunderstandings between us. “What I want is to destroy her. Make no mistake about it. It will be done.”
“Then tell me how?” she begs, her voice betraying a raw grief she rarely displays. “Tell me how you will kill her.”
I have only one answer for her.
“Slowly.”
3
Ivy
At a little after two in the morning, we turn onto the cul-de-sac where our home sits. Well, home is a stretch. It’s the house I grew up in. I know Hazel felt the same way, and I suspect Evangeline does too.
At least I’ll get to see her. My little sister is just thirteen years old. I’d been thirteen when things changed for me. That was the year The Society stepped into our lives in a way they hadn’t before.
The Moreno family is pretty low in the hierarchy as far as desirability in what I’ve always considered as being about a step away from a cult. There’s almost a sort of caste system, one upon which my father’s side of the family didn’t rank well.
My mother is a different story.
My father had a wife before her. He never mentioned her when we were growing up. I don’t even know her name. In fact, I’ve only ever seen a photo of her once. That was when I was late one morning on the way to school and needed to grab lunch money, and Dad’s wallet was the only one around.
I missed the bus that day because when the small thumbnail-sized photo had slipped out along with the dollar bills, I’d been surprised. My father had a picture of a stranger in his wallet. He didn’t even carry photos of his kids.
She was beautiful, I remember, in a very different way than my mother. She had the same dark eyes my brother does, except that hers shone bright. Hers held a warm smile inside them. His? His are dead. Have been for as long as I can remember.
I’d quickly shoved the photo back into the flap of the wallet when I’d heard my mother’s high heels rushing toward the kitchen as she yelled at me that I’d missed the bus. She’d made me walk the six miles to school in the pouring rain.
I hate my mother.
As we pull onto the long driveway of our house, the single light that’s on in Evangeline’s room goes out.
Abel mutters something about her not listening under his breath but drops it.
I look up at the house. It’s the first time I’ve seen it in half a year. It’s a sprawling, once beautiful home in a cul-de-sac on a quiet street just outside of the French Quarter. And as I stare up at it, all those feelings I had growing up come churning back, leaving my stomach in knots and my hands growing clammy.
“Home sweet home,” Abel says as he kills the engine of the Rolls Royce.
“Why didn’t you have Joseph drive you?” I ask when he opens his door. I find it curious he drove himself since my brother is all about appearances and climbing that social ladder of a society that doesn’t want him.
He has one leg out the door but stops and turns to me. “I’ll hire my own driver. I don’t need Dad’s leftovers.”
“He’s not a leftover. He’s a human being. What is he, seventy years old? Did you fire him?”
“Joseph isn’t your problem, Ivy. Let’s go. I’m tired, and we have a big day ahead of us.”