Pretty Perfect Toy - Angel Payne Page 0,39
son has been involved with.”
Ergh. It is a meaningless swat at a mosquito of vexation, despite knowing she meant her words as praise. Why the damn insect has continued to grow, I cannot explain, even after last night.
Wait.
Maybe because of it?
Knowing now who Lily was—exactly what she was to Cassian—swings a new spotlight onto the relationships Cassian has had in the four years since. Seven models, three CEOs, a couple of professional athletes, and a princess. Yes, I have looked up each one. Probably know more about them than he does—because I know exactly how long he was “involved” with them. Involved. The word is an easy grab for Mallory but chomps into my psyche and sucks blood, just like that mosquito. From the photos that made it to the internet, one would presume all those relationships were happy and romantic, comprised of dates to both high-profile events and low-profile retreats, marked by plenty of hand holding, cute kisses, and that dimple-framed smile a woman could become obsessed with all on its own.
Every relationship looking exactly like what I have with him—
Except that all of those women were fifty times more polished than me. Five hundred times more glamorous. A thousand times more elegant.
A million times worldlier.
And none of them lasted more than ten weeks.
So, yes…ergh.
“Hey.” Mallory shakes our joined hands like she’s flicking a bullwhip. “In case you haven’t noticed, Mishella, that’s a good thing.”
Her tenderness is my undoing. My nose wrinkles and my eyebrows arch. “And having a child around the house is a good thing too, yes? Until it paints the dog pink.”
“What’s wrong with a pink dog?”
“Maybe you should ask the dog.”
She gives that two seconds of a scowl before her face firms into more thoughtful angles. Serious intent.
Very serious.
She spends at least half a minute ensuring I am fully aware of that point, before speaking with just as much quiet tenacity. “He’s never taken anyone else up into that tower before last night. Not even me.”
Thank the Creator the wind has gone still. If it even whispers across the terrace again, I will be flat on the Italian stones at our feet. “Wh-what?”
She jogs her chin up. “He told you. About her. Lily. Didn’t he?”
“Yes.” Speaking it is probably unnecessary. Certainly, she can read it on my face already. That is the easy part. The questions that still remain—those are the hard part. When waiting for the answers about Lily, at least I knew what the questions were.
“Mallory…” It is my turn to lift a steady gaze. “Lily is not the only part of it all, is she? Of why Cassian lashed out last night?”
My hunch is confirmed when the woman’s shoulders hunch with tension. The stress travels down her arms and into her grip. I soothe fingers over her knuckles, taking the right to be her strength as she has been mine.
“I met Kathryn Robbe not long after arriving here.” I murmur it carefully, still not understanding completely why. “She told me that Cassian has been battling…ghosts.”
Her forehead furrows deeper. I backtrack, overriding my initial intuition. Careful is not the right call. Bandage. Wound. Whether removed slowly or quickly, the blood is going to be plentiful.
“Through these weeks, I have kept that in mind,” I go on. “How she phrased it. Ghosts. Plural. Then last night, after he revealed everything about what Lily did, I thought—well—that—”
“The ghosts were she and the baby.”
“Right.”
She squeezes her eyes shut—exposing the glitter of fresh tears along her tawny lashes. “I’d already started thinking of names,” she whispers. “Funny thing was, they were all girls. Madeline, Chloe, Elizabeth…” She shrugs and pushes out a laugh. “I was selfish. Never had the chance to do the girl thing. Imagined this perfect little person with Lily’s dark hair and Cas’s dimples…getting to do princesses and ponies and tea parties, you know?”
My throat squeezes around my breath. “Of course.”
We sit with that sadness for long minutes, each dealing with broken hearts from imagining Cassian with his heart wrapped around the delicate pinky of his gorgeous, grinning daughter.
Suddenly, even more about him makes sense. His mantra of motivation and religion of a work ethic. His brutal physical workouts. Even the way he usually sets aside most cocktails before they are half-finished. Nothing that will even crack the unwavering dominion over his own emotions.
Unwavering—until last night.
Mallory and I collide into a hug. Seize each other like buoys in a storm, letting our tears softly fall and our heartbreak quietly blend. “I am sorry,” I