Chapter 64

• REMY
• Danielle just sat timidly on her chaise, biting her lower lip and plucking at the buttons on the cushion she clutched like a corde de sécurité. At that moment, she reminded me of Anne Boleyn awaiting her execution. They had many similarities, both were liars, risqué adultères and maîtresse de manipulation. Danielle Morgan was not who I thought she was. Deluded person that I was, I thought she was everything good and pure. Her sweet innocence to sacred for the likes of someone like me. To think that I put her on a piédestal and worshiped at her altar. I told myself she was too good for me and that I didn’t deserve her. That I would taint her with my darkness and my la laideur. My ugliness. La méchanceté. My vileness. Fool that I was, I thought my black soul was not worthy of her love.
• “Say something?”