The flashbulbs were blinding. Edlyn smiled until her cheeks ached. She clung to Arno's arm like a decorative vine. He was charming, engaging, the perfect host. He guided her through the crowd at the gallery, his hand on the small of her back. His touch was firm, possessive, and completely devoid of affection.
Genevra Roman approached them, holding a glass of champagne like a weapon. She wore a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Arno," she said, kissing the air near his cheek. "And Edlyn. You look lovely. I was just reviewing the quarterly reports for the family's philanthropic ventures. The costs for your father's care facility are... quite the line item. It's wonderful that Arno is so generous."
Edlyn kept her smile fixed. She squeezed Arno's arm, the fabric of his suit suddenly feeling like a cage.
Arno laughed. "It's important to curate one's surroundings, Aunt Genevra."
He didn't defend her. He confirmed her status as a liability he chose to carry.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it, his expression tightening for a fraction of a second.
"Excuse me," he said, detaching himself from Edlyn. "I need to use the restroom."
He walked away, disappearing into the crowd.
Edlyn waited. Ten minutes. Twenty. The smiles around her began to feel like grimaces. She needed to find him.
She checked the restrooms. Empty. She walked toward the VIP lounge at the back of the gallery. The door was locked. She heard a low voice inside, but she couldn't make out the words.
She gave up and returned to the party, enduring Genevra's gaze for another hour.
When they finally returned to the penthouse, Arno didn't speak. He went straight to the walk-in closet, claiming he needed to change.
Edlyn went to the bedroom to remove her makeup. She sat at the vanity, wiping the red lipstick from her mouth.
A sound drifted from the closet. It was a low, rhythmic sound. A murmur.
Edlyn froze.
It sounded like... a monologue.
She stood up, her bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. She crept toward the closet door, which was cracked open an inch.
Through the gap, she saw him.
Arno was sitting on the velvet ottoman in the center of the closet. His shirt was unbuttoned. He was holding a tablet. The screen cast a ghostly blue light on his face. His eyes were wide, intense, focused with an unnerving stillness.
Edlyn shifted her angle. She saw the screen.
It was a live video feed. A hospital room. A woman sleeping in a bed, hooked up to machines.
Serena.
Arno wasn't touching himself. He was scrolling through pages of complex medical data-charts, vitals, drug dosages. He was muttering, his voice a low, analytical drone.
"Increase the potassium drip by 0.2 milliequivalents... the T-wave is flattening. Unacceptable." He zoomed in on a monitor displaying a waveform. "Tell Dr. Chen to recalculate the sedation levels. I want her RASS score at negative two, not three."
Edlyn felt bile rise in her throat. Her stomach churned. It wasn't infidelity. It was something far colder. He wasn't obsessed with the woman; he was obsessed with controlling her life, her death, down to the last decimal point. He was micromanaging her existence from afar, a god playing with a spreadsheet of a human soul.
She took a step back, her heel hitting the wooden leg of a shoe rack.
Thud.
Arno stopped instantly. His head snapped toward the door.
"Who is there?"
His voice was a blade.
Edlyn turned and ran. She bolted into the bathroom and turned on the faucet full blast. She gripped the porcelain sink, heaving dry sobs into the basin.
She looked at herself in the mirror. The perfect accessory.
No more.
