A fictional story.
The room was blissfully silent. Sun barely peeping through the curtains that were yet to be drawn. The Hermès throw shuffled at the end of the California king. Last night's clothes were scattered across the floor. On the headboard behind her, two short glasses and a bottle of 1942 rested against fresh spheres in the ice bucket.
As she coerced her eyes open, her chest ached and vision spun. Her body willed itself upright, feet landing on the ground, and she stood. After swaying for a second, she grabbed hold of the bedside lamp and sluggishly stumbled over to the bathroom–only to regretfully look at herself in the mirror.
Lexi Cain rinsed off in the shower and returned to bed, awaiting the arrival of her husband. Now and again, she would glance over at the clock beside her. Without anxiety, merely to amuse herself with the thought that each minute passed made it more likely he'd catch her.
There was a shallowness in her aura. A lack of concern for the man sleeping next to her. Her wedding ring–twenty karats and only a single year old–was already opaque and touching a blue-faced Rolex on her nightstand.
When the clock–the grandfather clock that she bought at a Sotheby’s auction last fall–struck a quarter to seven, punctually per usual, she heard the humming of their helicopter. It landed on their rooftop gently. A minute later, the penthouse’s elevator door dinged open. Footsteps passed along the imported Italian marble. A key turned in the lock. Her ring returned to her finger, the Rolex and its owner now under her bed. Lexi was motionless, waiting for him to kiss her as he came in.
"Good morning, my love," he said.
"Good morning," she answered.
She took his coat and hung it up on his side of their walk-in closet, grabbing the bottle on the headboard to pour drinks–a double for him, a single for herself. She returned to bed, and he got in next to her, holding the short glass with both hands, rocking it so that the melting sphere tinkled against each side.
For her, this was never a euphoric time of day. She knew he didn't want to speak much until the first drink was finished, and she was content to sit quietly and scroll through her phone on her side of the bed. She always forgot how even just his presence warmed her. She loved him for how he looked the morning after a long night, how he could undress her with just his eyes, and how he so elegantly moved across the room with his long strides. Especially for how he winced while sipping tequila–her drink of choice–and how he tried to make her happy, even when he was exhausted.
"Tired?"
"Very," he said. "Very tired."
As he spoke, he lifted his glass and downed it in one go without a single flinch… She was still scrolling and did not even think to glance up. She knew what he had done because she heard the ice sink to the bottom of the now-empty glass when he placed it on his nightstand. He paused for a moment, stretched his arms up above his curly, dark hair, and let out a yawn as he reached up the headboard for a refill.
"I'll go get some fresh ice," she mumbled, moving slowly out from under the duvet.
"No need," he said.
When she gazed in his direction, she noticed that his new drink was filled to the brim.
"Can I get you anything else, my love? Or, perhaps I can have Beatrice whip you up some breakfast?"
"No."
She watched him as the liquid gold began to drip between his lips. His glass was so full he barely made a dent.
"I think it's a shame," she said, "that even a CLO comes home exhausted after being on his feet all day long."
He didn't respond, so she turned her head back down and continued to get lost in her scroll, but each time he lifted his glass, she heard minute clinks against its side.
"My love," she pestered. "Are you sure you don’t want Beatrice to whip you up something to eat? How about an omelet?"
"No," he groaned.
"I know you're tired," she continued, "and it's early. But, I have leftover lobster–shipped in from Maine and your favorite caviar–from that place we went to off the Caspian coast. You can have any and all of it right here without moving a muscle."
Her eyes looked for his. She waited for a grunt, a smirk, a nod, anything. He loved lobster. He loved that caviar–even more than he loved lobster. Still, he didn’t even flinch.
"Anyways," she exclaimed, "I'll buzz Beatrice to bring you options."
"I said I don't want it. I don’t want any of it," he answered.
She tensely shifted on her side, her blue eyes searching again for his. Only finding his olive-skinned forehead.
"You have to; you’ve been traveling for hours!"
She tipped her lamp over, pressing the intercom hidden beneath it.
"Beatrice, could you ever so kindly bring Vince and me some omelets? Maybe leftovers from last night as well… Oh, and mimosas for the two of us; I have a few bottles of Dom Perignon in the cellar; please use the ‘96 Rose Gold Methuselah… Yes–that would be lovely. Thank you, sweetheart."
"Look at me," he said. "Just for a minute."
"Look at you? You haven’t taken your eyes off that glass since you walked through the door!"
Fear began to build in her chest.
"Go on," he said.
"No! Just tell me whatever the fuck is on your mind, Vincent!"
She sunk deeper into her pillow, watching him and his sharp blue eyes as they stared into his second empty glass. She noticed a little muscle twitch near the corner of his right eye.
"I’m afraid, my love, this may come as a bit of a shock to you," his voice calmed. "But I've given it a great deal of thought, and I've decided the only thing to do is tell you right away. I hope you will forgive me."
And he told her. It didn't take too long, maybe a minute or two tops. She remained eerily still through every second, processing his pastier-than-usual skin, the dark bags concealed under his beautiful eyes. And he was tired. So, so tired.
A dazed horror filled the air as he described the extent of his cancer–stage four.
"So that's it," he finished. "I told Beckham a few months ago, and the same with Beatrice. I know it is poor timing with your charity events and dinner parties. But I simply couldn't hide it any longer. Of course, as you know, you'll be taken care of when I pass on. Beatrice will protect you no matter what, just as I would. And there won't be any red tape. What's mine is yours, my love. You'll have your trust. The penthouse. The firm. The cars. Everything. It will be finalized with my executor in the morning when I take Beckham out of my will," he paused.
"I know you have been sleeping with him," he paused again, with tears running down his face.
"But, I can't be mad at you. I've been distant, removed, and miserable since my diagnosis. So I understand why you did it. However, I don't understand how he could betray his only brother like this and take advantage of you."
Her first instinct was to reject it all. Was she dreaming? Had she, in fact, been so brutally hungover that she imagined the whole thing? Perhaps, if she went about her day and acted as if she hadn't heard a word, then later, Vincent would appear through the elevator door again the next morning with a bouquet of Jeff Leatham’s white roses–the ones that complemented his smile so exquisitely. When she’d awake again, she might find her Vince again. The cancerless one. The one who had no idea she was fucking his brother.
"Oh look, there’s Beatrice," she mustered up, and this time he didn’t stop her. Beatrice rested their breakfast on the bartop at the far side of the room and exited with a smile.
When Lexi got up out of bed, she leaned on the top of the lamp beside it. As she tried to move across the bedroom, all she felt was the cold, hard marble paralyzing her feet; and a desire to vomit. Before she could will herself to walk, she caught a glimpse of the blue-faced Rolex peeking out from under the bed. She shifted her right foot just enough to tap its gold edges. Right as she did so, it slithered back into the darkness.
Everything turned automatic–Vincent moved over to the bar, placing his pillows on the floor at his bedside, and began to feast. The bed shook from underneath a bit, knocking the 1942 right into the pile of pillows. The hand with the blue-faced Rolex snatched it, taking it underneath the bed and into the darkness a second later.
"Wow," he said without looking up from his plate. "You were right–I needed this, Lex."
She was glaring into the window. Out of its reflection, she saw his back was still to her, face immersed in the plentiful breakfast spread Beatrice had preoccupied him with. She shifted more of her weight on the bedside lamp as if she were going to crush it. Then, the man with the blue-faced Rolex appeared in the reflection, quietly walking up behind him with the 1942 in hand. Without hesitation, he wound the bottle up behind him like a baseball bat and followed it through as hard as he could on the back of Vincent’s head.
He took one step back, waiting, and oddly enough, he remained frozen for a handful of seconds. Then Vincent tipped off of his barstool, collapsing on the marble.
The fall's violence–the noise of the stool crashing to its side, Vincent's plate overturning as his arms collided into it, and his head, gorgeous and curl-filled, smashing against the ground – brought her out of shock. Lexi turned from the window. The cold floor sent chills through her feet, her knees, and up her spine. Vince laid still between the bed and the table. Blood soaked his hair, pooling around his head, the dark red taking over the white marble.
"Lex," Beckham said. "Are you okay? I know that must have been hard to watch."
The room was blissfully silent. It was remarkable how clear her mind became all of a sudden. Thoughts and adrenaline surged through her. As heiress to the most lucrative law firm in Los Angeles, Cain & Cain, she knew quite well what the penalty would be–even if she wasn’t the one holding the bottle, that was Beckham. But it made no difference to her. She was completely fine with it. In fact, she felt relieved.
She walked over to her bar, sat in its single chair, and took a bite out of her untouched omelet. Then she returned to her bathroom and looked at her smiling face in her mirror. It was rather peculiar. She didn’t care. She stripped her pajamas and hopped in her shower.
"Hello, Beckham Cain," she said brightly, aloud, as she watched Beckham place his blue-faced Rolex on the countertop and join her.
The voice sounded a bit peculiar too.
"Hello, my love,” Beckham said as he gently placed his hands around her waist.
That was better. Both the smile and the voice felt like they would come out better now. She knew he didn't want to speak much, and she was more than content with that. They had schemed a loose plan for this months ago. They confessed their love for one another. They agreed they could not tell Vince. He would destroy their reputations. Instead, they had to get rid of him for good. But, they never followed through, so she assumed he had changed his mind.
Still, at this moment, she longed for his warming presence, his skin on hers, the way he looked deep into her soul with his light blue eyes, the way he so elegantly moved along every inch of her. Yet, she couldn't help to wonder if he only planned to do it today because of what Vince said about the will. Maybe Vince told Beckham about that before he told her?
Beckham stepped out for a minute and returned with a fresh bottle of 1942.
"To us and all our riches," he said.
"To us," she reluctantly agreed, flinching as she sipped her liquid gold–Beckham’s drink of choice too.
They looked at each other for a moment, then exited the shower. He grabbed the clean towels that were folded neatly in the closet, wrapping her in one and himself in the other. Goosebumps grew, scaling every inch of her body. Then the two returned to bed, greeted by Beatrice, who looked up from cleaning up their mess longer than she needed to.
Beatrice reached her right hand into her apron, frantically moving it around as if searching for something urgent. It was a gun. She quickly raised it, steadying it with her left hand. Her eyes met Beckham's. And before he could move out of the way, Beatrice pulled the trigger. The bullet nailed him directly in the center of his forehead.