Secrets? Never.

10. When In Rome

"Ems- I thought you'd never call. I've been waiting with bated breath!" he laughed, seeming pleased with his sarcastic comments. "Would it be at all presumptuous to assume that the fires of vengeance have been reignited in that black hole you affectionately refer to as a soul?" "Hello to you too Nolan." "Don't worry- there's no need to reiterate, as I'm sure you were about to; I'll be over in a matter of minutes." With that, he hung up the phone, grabbed a jacket, and his laptop, and rushed out the door, excited to resume the long postponed revengenda.

A slim woman with white blonde hair tipped the ashes at the end of her cigarette into the ashtray on the table next to her. She leaned with one elbow onto the table outside a café along a sun-speckled Manhattan street, looking at the world pass her by from behind her ridiculously oversized sunglasses. People of every shape, size and description passed her by without so much as a glance in her direction. She had missed that; the anonymity associated with not having your name plastered all over every magazine and newspaper in the city. As she tapped her matte black fingernails on the table seemingly impatiently, she gazed over the world which had eaten her up and oh so unceremoniously spit her out, with a look of distain she usually kept to herself. She crossed her legs on the other side, bobbing her foot up and down impatiently, letting the passers by catch mere quick flashes of the bright red underside of her shoes. She looked over at her coffee mug, and, realising it was all but empty, tipped the last trickle of it into her mouth and replaced the mug on the table.

After bringing the significantly shorter cigarette to her lips once more, she inhaled, letting the smoke fill the emptiness that resided within the shell that was once recognised by the most elite in society as her. She exhaled, releasing the grey puff of smoke from her lungs, before she snuffed out the orange embers at the end if the nub if a cigarette in the ashtray, listening to the satisfying sizzle of the cigarette extinguishing itself, and rose from her seat, emerging from the shade, into the sunshine, making her way down the street, letting the sun hit her arm on the numerous occasions when she caught herself without the shade of the tree boughs overhead.

She clicked down the street in her three inch heels, her hair flying behind her as she strode, as if she were a runway model (when in fact, she was anything but) trying to look formidable. She couldn't let anyone see the cracks in her crumbling façade. She kept in mind something someone she once upon a time considered a close friend (or even, at one time or another, a best friend) once told her about not letting people see your weakness, as they're the first thing they'll use against you (she laughed internally as she recalled this person referencing 'she-wolves' when speaking of the other women they considered friends, trying to stifle a smile as she did so). And she sure knew a thing or two about weaknesses, as hers were myriad; she knew more, however, about how to exploit the weaknesses of others.

She lifted her sunglasses as she entered the lobby of the hotel in which she was staying, blinking increasingly rapidly in the harsh, artificial light, she began surveying the room, looking everyone up and down- eyeing them up, trying to piece together their individual stories, as most of us do, to better help us to arm ourselves against threats (of which she had many more as of the last decade or so).

"Hello, I'm staying in suite 305," she addressed the small redhead behind the front desk with an all-too-false smile "and I'd like another room key made." "Of course Ms. Davis, just one?" "Yes," the blonde replied "and please, call me Lydia."

© Sarah Egan 2014 - 2015. All rights reserved. This story is subject to copyright and may not be copied or reproduced without the express permission of the author.