The Devil's Favourite Obsession

Chapter 195: Unpredictable

Was Cixi supposed to say something against Rafael?

The question sat at the back of her throat while Emily kept pacing. Cixi had met Rafael twice. She had heard him announce, at a dinner table, that he intended to marry her as a joke. She had not enjoyed the announcement. She had not enjoyed the way his eyes had moved across her body in the seconds before he said the words.

But this was Emily’s anger, not Cixi’s. This was Emily’s and Crown Empire’s, and had nothing to do with her even though she had a 15 percent share... Why would he give her so much? One per cent would also have worked, in her opinion....

Did Emily really want Cixi to sit here and feel sorry for her? Emily had not, in any of the days since Cixi had moved into the Palace, behaved as if Cixi were a person whose feelings she was interested in receiving.

She had not replied to Cixi’s message. She had not answered Cixi’s call.

And now she was inside Cassian’s suite, pacing in front of a woman who was, by every account of her own racing pulse, three minutes from another panic spiral about the possibly alien baby growing inside her, demanding sympathy for a chairmanship.

"Why are you here?" Cixi asked again. There was a small, irritated edge in her voice that Emily had not expected.

Emily stopped pacing. "Because I am pissed."

"You did not reply to my message or call." Cixi reminded her of the message in the same flat tone Emily had used for pissed.

Emily’s face shifted immediately, realising she had ignored Cixi before because she was mad at her for threatening her and her family. The shift was the kind that appears when someone has been caught knowing exactly what the other person is talking about and would prefer to continue pretending otherwise.

"Which message?"

"The message I sent four days ago was important. I asked for just ten minutes of your time, but you did not reply. I tried calling the next morning, but you didn’t pick up. I called again that evening, yet still received no response." Cixi wasn’t heartless, but Emily needed to understand that she couldn’t barge into her room after ignoring her. "While your family was insulting me in the dining room, you remained silent. You didn’t even glance in my direction. I needed your support because you were the only person I knew in the Palace, and you knew that too. But you chose to avoid me. Yes, I admit I threatened you, but you know very well it was just empty talk; I would never have harmed you."

Emily’s mouth tightened. "I have been busy." Her voice sounded unsure.

"We both know that’s a lie, Emily!"

Emily looked at Cixi carefully. She had walked into the suite expecting the soft, frightened, pregnant fiancée who was waiting for Cassian. Yes, they did form a good friendship, but that was broken when Cixi threatened her in her own office.

"Cixi."

"Yes."

"I did not reply because I did not want to reply." Emily decided to be honest.

"That is at least honest." Cixi smiled instead of feeling insulted.

"I was angry with you," Emily said. "But I also cared about you, especially when Rafael started hitting on you and you, like a naive girl, were trusting him. That gave him the opportunity to talk about marriage the moment he heard you had a fifteen percent share. Honestly, I think he would have considered marrying me too, knowing I held that much power."

Cassian’s jaw tightened at the mention of Rafael. His fingers patiently tapped against the armchair as he contemplated what punishment Rafael would deserve for his actions.

Cixi blinked in surprise. That was not the answer she had anticipated. Why did she have to mention Rafael right now, especially with Cassian in the next room? Beads of sweat began to form at her temples as her heart raced. Here she was, desperately trying to prevent Cassian from harming his half-brother, and this woman had just thrown fuel on the fire.

’Why can’t life ever be easy on me?’ Cixi truly pondered.

*

Same afternoon, at Marion’s house.

It was Marion’s day off from the Warm Land Cafe. She had cleaned the kitchen after lunch. Madeleine and Michael were in their bedrooms upstairs. Melisha was supposed to be in hers. Marion had finally settled onto the couch with the half-read paperback that had been sitting on the side table since the previous Sunday when the doorbell rang.

She looked at the wall clock.

She cursed under her breath, gently, the way one curses when a piece of time one has finally given oneself has been taken away by a stranger at the door. She pushed herself off the couch. She walked to the door. She opened it.

She was left speechless.

Binge was standing on the front step with a small white paper box of sweet treats in his hand.

Marion immediately turned to look back into the house. She wanted to see whether any of the children had come out of their rooms.

Melisha had.

Her youngest, all seven years and her father’s brown eyes, was standing at the foot of the staircase with one hand on the banister and her face turned toward the open front door. She was looking at her mother. She was looking at the man behind her mother. She was, in the slow, careful way Melisha did everything, deciding whether the man on the step was a friend or a problem.

Talk about bad timing.

"Melly. Please go inside your room."

Marion used a strict tone. The strict tone was the tone Marion used twice a year, and Melisha, who could read the tone the way other children read picture books, did not argue. She let go of the bannister. She turned. She ran back up the stairs to her room.

Marion turned back to face Binge.

"What are you doing here?"

She did not say it warmly.

"I came here with a sweet treat. For you and the kids."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to."

"What do you want, Binge?"

"A company."

A glare.

The glare carried, in the small, careful place behind Marion’s eyes, every conversation she had ever had with Binge that had ended in this same flirtation, on this same doorway of every previous house she had ever lived in.

Binge raised one shoulder.

"Well. I felt alone. So I thought of you. And I came to ask how your loyal husband is doing."

Marion was left speechless.

She blinked hard, several times, before she found the words.

"I am not interested in you. Or in your information."

"Neither am I."

Binge said it honestly.

Marion did not know what else to think about this man.

"Listen, Binge. This is my family. This is my private time. I do not have time for a stranger. And definitely not for a mafia man. And I am sure my husband would not like any men coming to this house in his absence."

Binge nodded, as if he understood her perfectly.

"Well. I understand your husband very well. Even I would not like it."

He let the pause sit at the threshold of the door for a long, uneven moment.

"He is such a noble man," Binge said. "I felt he deserved to be awarded for it. My men told me he has been taking care of the needs of certain young women who are helpless. Giving them cash. Giving them gifts. Spending as much of the time between his jobs with them as he can manage, so that they will not feel lonely."

Marion did not move.

"He is such a noble man," Binge went on, "that tears began to come into my eyes the moment I thought about your loyal husband and his love of social service."

Marion could not register what he had just said.

Her mind, the careful organising part of it that handled the reception of news from strangers at her door, filtered his words. The filter caught everything except two.

Loyal husband.

She stared at him. Her eyes were very wide. "What are you saying?"

The question arrived in the doorway, lost and small. She had heard the sentence. She had understood it. The asking was the only thing her body could still do.

Binge smiled.

The smile was small. He had walked the long, careful path to a doorway. The silence that had followed his sentence had invited him, in the slow, careful manner of all such silences, to step inside.

It was his cue.

"Let us talk inside. My legs are aching."

Marion could not stop him this time. She did not know which part of her body she was supposed to use to stop him. Her hand, which had been holding the door, did not move. Her mouth, which had been forming the question, did not produce a second one. Her feet, which had been at the threshold of her own house, took a step back of their own accord.

Binge stepped inside.

She could only look at him.

He crossed the small living room. He walked without hurry, like someone who had never been required to ask permission for any room he had ever entered. He stopped at the coffee table. He placed the small white paper box of sweet treats on it. He looked at the couch.

He sat.

He arranged himself on the couch with slow comfort. He had been planning, the easy posture of his body suggested, to settle onto this couch for some weeks. One ankle crossed over the opposite knee. One arm lay along the back of the cushions. The cushions, which Marion had plumped that morning, accepted his weight without comment.

Marion walked in a daze.

She did not, in the uneven seconds between the door and the chair across from him, register the floor beneath her feet. She did not register the wall clock that had marked the start of her afternoon. She did not register the children upstairs.

She sat down across from Binge.

She placed her hands in her lap. She placed them carefully. She did not, at this moment of her life, trust any other part of her body to remain still.

Binge looked at her for a while.