Chapter 174
“Your three o’clock is confirmed,” she says smoothly. “Mr. Lawrence has been informed that we’re en route. Also-” she reaches into the glove box, “-Mr. Whitney left something for you this morning.”
“My fiancé,” I say, more to myself than her, my tone dry.
Amanda doesn’t flinch. She holds out a small, unmarked white bottle. “More medicine. Experimental, of course. No confirmed diagnosis yet, but Whitney Pharmaceuticals adjusted the dosage based on your last response. He asked me to tell you they’re doing everything they can.”
I take the bottle, turning it slowly in my hand, watching the light catch on its blank label. “Doing everything,” I repeat softly. “How romantic.”
Amanda doesn’t respond. She knows better.
She just drives.
I twist the cap off and lift the bottle to my nose. Amanda stiffens, just slightly like she thinks I might throw it out the window or collapse right here in the back seat. I merely hum, amused. “Hopefully this dosage works better than the last.”
Her knuckles tighten on the steering wheel. I smile faintly. “Stop at the next convenience store. I need water for my medication.”
She obeys without a word, pulling into the lot of a quiet shop off the main road. As soon as she steps out, I unzip my purse and retrieve the small plastic bag tucked carefully inside, I tip the contents of the bottle into it – all of them and after a moment’s thought, select two pills and slide them back into my palm. The rest I seal up and hide away.
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Then I reach into my bag and pour my vitamins into the now–empty bottle.
—
By the time Amanda returns, I’m sitting exactly as she left me – legs crossed, back straight, the two pills balanced in my hand like a threat or a promise. She slides into the driver’s seat and passes me the water. I don’t thank her. I simply swallow the pills and take a long drink, all while she pretends she isn’t watching me in the rearview mirror like her life depends on it.
The haze hits, as expected. A fog settling behind my eyes. Slower this time. Duller. Manageable.
I lean back. “When are my parents due to return?”
Amanda adjusts her hands on the wheel. “Mr and Mrs Vanderbilt just landed in Kigali. The negotiations are expected to last a week, minimum.”
“Mm,” I murmur, tapping a finger to my lips. A week to ensure nothing about those negotiations goes well. I let the thought sit, then add casually, “And my tests? Even without a formal diagnosis, they must have some idea what’s wrong with me.”
It’s bait. And Amanda, bless her very limited brain cells, takes it.
She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t hesitate. Just nods, clipboard balanced on her lap like a prop she’s forgotten is there. “Your results came in yesterday. There are… irregularities. Unstable levels. Mr. Whitney said it could be neurological or stress–induced, but nothing definitive. Just that it’s progressing faster than anticipated.”
I hum again, soft and noncommittal – but my pulse doesn’t miss a beat. Faster than anticipated, she says. How delightfully ominous.
I glance out the window.
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—
For all that Amanda is – obedient, efficient, practically made of paper – she’s never been smart. And in her case, that’s both an asset and a flaw. She was assigned to monitor me, to play the concerned shadow… and yet her powers of observation rival that of a forgotten spoon in a drawer. She’s never even questioned why I let her see just enough to think she’s doing her job.
Or why I’d be asking her
medical results.
—
a glorified errand girl — about my private
She simply nods along like it’s any other task.
Pathetic.
“And the symptoms?” I ask.
“The same. Migraines, dizziness, faintness. There was a mention of potential nerve involvement, but-” Amanda falters for the first time. “You’re still high–functioning, which is… fortunate. Mr. Whitney said not to worry unless you notice memory gaps.”
Ah. Memory gaps.
I smile faintly and reach for my water again. “I’ll be sure to write things down, then,” I say smoothly. “Just in case I forget to fire you.”
Amanda flinches
–
not visibly, but I see the slight pinch in her fingers.
She doesn’t speak again.
I laugh at her, pull out my phone and open my favourite app.
A live feed opens immediately
–
my fiancé’s apartment. He’s in bed
with some rail–thin model he picked up in France. Again. I roll my
eyes. Predictable. I’m not into voyeurism.
Next: Adrian’s apartment. Empty. Dull.
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More feeds flick past my screen like static, until-
Taisiya Orlova’s apartment.
Nothing in the kitchen. The living room, dead quiet. I switch to her bedroom.
And there it is.
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Chapter 175
