Page 106 of Sweet Venom

22

VIOLET

The place I live in is an overwhelming extravagance and bigger than anything I’ve ever stepped foot in, let alone called mine.

Every inch of this penthouse screams wealth and power and is way beyond my dreams, let alone reality.

The decor is a blend of beige, deep black-blue, and layered shades of blue, probably Dahlia’s doing. She must’ve told Kane that blue is my favorite color.

Despite my acting strong being on my own, like when I abandoned our movie night the other day, I’d rather have her than this place.

I don’t know how to describe it, but when we used to live in shabby, creaking houses with black mold and health hazards, I was happy knowing she was sleeping under the same roof.

That I wasn’t alone.

That, no matter how hard it gets, she’s just there, trying to make me laugh, and buying me ginger ale while tasting the food I cook.

It’s not that we don’t have that anymore, and I can still spend time with her, but she also has her own life and a dashing boyfriend that I don’t want to annoy, because he’s only treated me well.

But as I walk around the new home that doesn’t feel like home, I just miss my sister.

The walls are smooth, the lighting soft, casting a moody, elegant glow over pristine floors that never creak and furniture that looks too expensive to touch.

The kitchen is a chef’s wet dream, fitted with state-of-the-art appliances, glossy marble countertops, and large cabinets. The island is massive, a centerpiece of luxury, but it’s cold because no one has ever leaned against it, laughed over coffee, or made a mess of flour and sugar.

Or ginger ale.

I close my eyes, refusing to get consumed by that memory.

It might seem ancient in real time, but the months I spent sleeping feel like a couple of hours in my brain. I still can’t force myself to think of that time as months.

My feet are sluggish as I walk out of the ensuite bathroom, draped in a towel. I throw one last admiring glance at the jacuzzi set against a backdrop of ivory marble, brushed gold faucets, and sleek glass panels that reflect too much of my unsightly body back at me.

The bedroom is even more extravagant, draped in soft, rich fabrics and subtle gold accents that glimmer under dim lighting.

Beyond the bedroom, the balcony stretches into a massive terrace, offering an uninterrupted view of Graystone Ridge’s skyline.

From up here, the town is breathtaking—a sprawl of glittering lights, the sky vast and endless in a way I’ve never seen before.

It should feel freeing and beautiful.

But as I slip into the oversized bed, journal and pen in hand, all I feel is discomfort.

The sheets are too soft, the silence too heavy, the air too still.

Because, no matter how stunning this place is, I don’t want to get used to it.

It’s not mine.

And I’d trade it for my old life with Dahlia in a heartbeat.

My eyes skim over the lines I wrote a couple of days ago.

I saw him today. Jude.

It was the first time I’ve seen him since I woke up.

All this time, I’ve waited for him to barge in uninvited and I’ve been…on edge. No, I’ve been hopeful?