The Architecture of His Lies
Language: en
I was carrying a steaming bowl of ginger-scented hangover soup when Derrick Hayes announced his engagement to the only woman who had ever truly owned him. The ballroom of the Hayes estate was a sea of tailored tuxedos and champagne silk. Through the crowd, I saw them: Derrick, his arm wound possessively around the waist of a girl dressed in pristine white. Serena Cross. The industry’s newest darling, the pristine screen siren, and the ghost that had haunted every single corner of my four years with Derrick. They whispered something to each other, and then Derrick pulled her in for a long,…