CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
“Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned,
Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.”
~William Congreve
I went straight to my old room, leaving the bag for Dante to handle.
It was a huge old house, with ten bedrooms and several living spaces, but while I heard people working (cooking, cleaning, preparing) somewhere in the house, the kitchen and dining room I assumed, I didn’t pass by one soul as I made my way through, which was a relief. I wanted a brief respite before I went straight into battle again, especially here, where every unchanged thing I saw brought back bittersweet memories. From the entryway to the old den where we used to spend hours our senior year of high school watching movies.
All of it was bad, but my old bedroom was the worst. The second I walked in the door, I had an almost overwhelming urge to flee.
I shouldn’t be here, I thought to myself, staring at the dresser that remained exactly as I’d left it, covered in sweet, little knickknacks, almost all of which had been gifts from either Gram or Dante. Every one of those things had meant something to me once upon a time. Years’ worth of Valentines, birthday, and Christmas gifts from the boy that had broken my heart and the woman who had tried to save it.
No matter the circumstances, I should not be subjecting myself to this, I thought, eyes fixated on a small silver key strung across the corner of the mirror.
“Uncanny, isn’t it?” Dante’s voice came from the doorway, mere inches behind me. “She didn’t move one thing. Ten years later, and she was keeping it for you exactly how you’d left it.”
“Like a tomb,” I murmured.
“Or a shrine,” he returned, moving past me, brushing against me like it was nothing, and setting my suitcase onto a large ottoman at the foot of a comfy armchair in the corner by my old bay window.
He didn’t look at me on his way out, but he did stop at the door, clearing his throat, his back to me. “If I were you, I’d search that dresser before my mom gets to it. She’s going to clean this place out fast, mark my words, and everything in this room is yours by right, so claim it now if you want it.”
I waved my hand, dismissing the notion. “She can have whatever she wants. I won’t be taking any of it with me.”
Only his head turned as he leveled me with a hard stare. “You’re going to want to double check that dresser, just to be sure. Trust me.”
I didn’t trust him. Never would again, but I nodded at him that I understood and as soon as he left, closing the door behind him, I went to the dresser and began to shuffle through it.
I knew, or at least some part of me did, what I was looking for. I don’t think I really believed it would be there, but it was a thought somewhere in my mind.
Still, when I found the small, white velvet case I staggered a bit where I stood.
And, as I opened it, I had to sit down at what I found.
How? Why?
He must not have known what was in this dresser, I told myself. He couldn’t have.
And, while I could be a spiteful bitch, I was not a thief, so the first thing I did was track him down to give it back.
I heard his voice before I saw him, but no one else’s, and so I stumbled into them without any time to brace myself.
Blindly I reached one hand out, holding myself up with the wall, the other gripping the small, white box hard enough to imbed an imprint into my palm.
She was facing Dante, her back to me.
He saw me right away, and whatever he was saying trailed away, his attention properly caught at my presence.
At least I had that. No matter what he’d done, how he’d betrayed me, at least when I was there, he couldn’t look away from me.
Not even for her.
She caught on quickly that they were no longer alone, but I had enough time to recover before she turned and saw me.
I hated her like every creature since the dawn of time has hated its natural enemy.
Blind, fear-induced, debilitating hatred that never let me see past the moment to the big picture.
She was a threat, my gut told me now.
My gut had been telling me this since I was fourteen.
She needed to be eliminated—was all my mind could ever seem to process when it came to her, because one undeniable truth had always resonated through me—her existence meant the end of mine.
The end of everything I cared about. The end of the only thing I used to care about.
Still, I’d been so shocked when I’d been proven right.
A part of me, some pathetic thing deep down in my soul, still couldn’t believe it.
I gave her a lie of a smile. “Tiffany,” I said in greeting, my voice fake friendly.
“Scarlett,” she returned; her soft voice even and unaffected. She must have known I was at the house. She’d had warning.
I hadn’t been given the same courtesy. It was an effort not to glare at Dante for that.
“How’ve you been?” she asked, sounding like she actually cared.
Perhaps she did. If I was doing terribly, I knew she’d love to hear about it.
I studied her for a time, not answering. I hadn’t seen her in years, but she hadn’t changed much. She was still beautiful. It was an icy blonde, wintry blue-eyed beauty that appealed to men with a taste for the unattainable.
She was slight, rail thin, and petite, but somehow all the more intimidating for it, a delicate princess of a woman.
She, like Dante, was raised with money, and it had always been apparent in the way she dressed, wearing designer clothes even as a teenager. It was no different now. Her elegant black dress undoubtedly cost a small fortune, and her lavender stilettos were on point.
I hated her for it. And I hated that I was still wearing the comfortable, torn-up, old jeans, plain white tank, and worn to death gray Toms I’d traveled in.
I hated that her hair and makeup were done so heavily and precisely that I knew she’d had a stylist do it for the occasion.
I hated that my hair was a messy mane down my back, and my makeup was minimal and what there was likely smeared from travel.
Basically when it came to Tiffany, there was no end to things I found to hate. About her and myself.
The most toxic relationships in life are defined by the way they make us feel about ourselves. She and I were the worst of that. Whatever I was, always felt diminished by what she was.
“Just peachy,” I finally answered. “You?”
She smiled wistfully, like the question brought her joy, and turned to glance up, up, up at a much taller Dante.
Seeing them next to each other, especially standing so close, made me want to wretch.
It brought out the worst in me, seeing him with the woman he’d thrown me away for.
It made me feel, yet again—story of my life—like trash.
“I can’t complain, can I, Dante?” she asked him.
My eyes shot to him. I didn’t bother to hide the hate in them from him.
He was still staring at me. As far as I could tell, he hadn’t so much as twitched since he saw me enter the room.
I almost smiled, not a happy smile, more of a you made your bed now die in it, you fucker smile, because this had to be even more uncomfortable for him than it was for us, and that didn’t make me sad for him.
I almost felt a twinge of pity for him though.
Imagine the burden of being the only person that hateful little me had ever trusted.
Now imagine betraying that trust in all the ways that would hurt me the most.
Hell hath no fury.
Every hard thing inside of me turned harder still against him. Went from steel to diamond hard.
“I need a word,” I told him coldly, turned on my heel, and walked away.
He could follow me or not, but I couldn’t take even one more second in a room with the two of them. I’d do something violent if I had to endure any more.
He chose to follow, though I didn’t acknowledge him until I was back in my room, door closed behind us.
I held up the little white box. “This was in the dresser,” I spoke quietly. God only knew who was eavesdropping.
Not a muscle moved in his face. “Yes, I know. I’d put it somewhere safe before my mother shows up here if I were you.”
I just stared at him.
He shrugged. “It’s yours. Gram wanted you to have it. That much she made clear to me. It was hers to give. So take it. Like I said, keep it safe if you don’t want my mother to take it from you.”
I was shaking my head, but I said, “I can’t believe your mom didn’t already take it. It wasn’t even hidden.”
“Yes, I know. I put it in there right before you showed up. I’m well aware of how my mother operates. She no doubt ransacked the place before they’d even taken Gram’s body away.”
I took a few deep, bracing breaths and thrust the small object at him. “I don’t want it. You take it. I have no right to it now.”
He took a weighty step back, one so impactful I swayed where I stood. “You’re the only one with any right to it,” he said, tone dull, lifeless. “Whether you want it or not, I won’t take it. Either you keep it, or my mother will. I’ll let you decide.”
Without another word, he left.
I sat heavily on the bed, staring fixedly at the tiny thing.
I didn’t have a clue what to do with it, but one thing was for sure—I’d never be letting Dante’s mother have it, not if I got to have a say.
If for no other reason than pure spite, I’d keep it at least from her.
I began to unpack, hanging the few clothes I’d brought in the near empty closet.
I knew Dante had meant it literally about his mother ransacking the place, that even my luggage wasn’t safe from her grasping hands.
Luckily I’d packed a bit of jewelry for the trip. I found a small gold chain that ironically, but not surprisingly, Gram had given me, looped the object through it, and strung the thing around my neck, tucking it into my cleavage. The dress I was wearing would cover even the chain.
I hid the box in one of my shoes. If his mother found that much, it wouldn’t be good, but at least all she’d be getting was an empty box.
I began getting ready for the funeral almost right away. Nothing made a girl want to look her best more than facing a room full of her most despised enemies.
I spent nearly an hour on makeup, going full out—smoky eyes, red lips, the works. I looked my best when polished to killing sharpness.
My hair was easier. I left it down. It was long and thick, a wavy, streaky brown mane down my back that needed only a bit of taming to look like I’d just come from a rather graceful tumble between the sheets, which suited me just fine.
I wore a form fitting black dress with a high collar. It was polyester made to look like silk, and it almost succeeded. What the dress did succeed in was accentuating every single one of my outrageous curves, the skirt hitting just above my knees.
I wore the red Louboutins Dante had given me (damn him) though it had been a struggle with myself to do so.
It was a testament to how much I hated the other people that would be attending the funeral that I’d let Dante see I hadn’t thrown them away, to let him see me wearing a gift he’d given me.
But desperate times called for desperate measures, and nothing made me feel more confident than a killer pair of shoes.