The Eternal Knot: The Lancaster Trilogy, #3

THE ETERNAL KNOT

The Lancaster Trilogy Vol. III

T.K. Toppin

The Eternal Knot – The Lancaster Trilogy Vol. III

©2019 by T.K. Toppin

Cover Art © 2019 by Tomomi Ink

Edited by Kriegler Editing Services

All rights reserved. All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Any reproduction or unauthorised use of the material contained herein, or the cover art, is prohibited without express written permission of the Author, and of the Artist.

No generative artificial intelligence (AI) was used to create this book.

No part of this work can be used by Large Language Models (LLMs) to train their generative software.

This book was previously published by Champagne Books/Burst Books (2012) under the title The Eternal Knot.

This work of fiction is created by the Author and her 100% human imagination.

Unable to resist the lure of finding her niece, Josie sifts through the crumbs of clues left behind.

With her friend and saviour, pod-hunter Quin Aguilar at her side, she seeks out Fern Bettencourt, who is assumed to be sleeping for over a century.

When Fern’s location is discovered from an unlikely source, Josie seeks out the last link to her past.

But will Fern want to be found?

Will finding this niece be enough to bury the ghosts that haunt Josie?

And can Josie bring herself to destroy her last surviving family in order to save herself?

The Eternal Knot, the final chapter in the Lancaster trilogy: Every question answered, every truth revealed.

Will Josie finally rest in peace in the new future she lives in?

To those who have encouraged,

helped, and stayed the course with me…

My eternal thanks.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

Other books by T.K. Toppin

About the Author

Chapter 1

John Lancaster wondered, for the umpteenth time, what to get his wife for her birthday.

He’d known her for two years, and the only thing she’d ever asked for were the tattoos adorning their ring fingers instead of traditional wedding rings. This did not mean she didn’t want a present, not in the least. In the last two years, he’d learned the subtle art of surviving marriage—and a woman’s mind—like his life depended on it.

The first time he’d met her had been on her birthday. She’d been a prisoner then, accused of being a terrorist. Granted, she’d been his prisoner and he’d been doing the accusing, but that was beside the point. Now she was his wife and his existence had changed forever. To envision a life without her in it was impossible.

They were indelibly linked, and it increasingly appeared that their paths had been destined to cross. A smile brushed John’s lips as he remembered their first meeting. Josie, scared but wilful, almost arrogant. And the profanities that flew out of her mouth, so shocking it was refreshing.

Reeling his mind back to the present, John considered his predicament again. Focus! Josie’s tastes and preferences were simple and undemanding, but he wanted to get her something very special. In a few days, she’d be looking for a gift and pretending very hard not to, and there would be a very long face if he didn’t get something—even an insignificant trinket, which she seemed to treasure more.

He reviewed the gifts he’d given her to date. Several pieces of jewellery made with the finest gemstones—but she rarely wore them. Most were for evening affairs and official functions, but at the best of times her tastes were quite sedate. But she had re-pierced her ears for the diamond studs he’d given her soon after the Scrap Yard incident. She wore no rings either. In place of wedding rings, they both had intricate tattoos of the Buddhist symbol that signified an endless knot: the balance between heaven and earth, of wisdom and compassion, the spiritual and the living, the good and the bad, bound together for all eternity. It had been her idea.

Indelible, forever…

She would be twenty-seven. Well, more like three hundred and some-odd years, but that was splitting hairs. If her father, Dr Peter Bettencourt, hadn’t created the first stasis pod prototype in 2030, Josie would never have come into his life.

For seven years, John had ruled as president of the United Europe and Americas from the city his grandfather had built in the mountains of Switzerland. Called the Citadel, it had been declared the world capital and an independent country. It stood as a fearsome and impressive reminder of Dane Lancaster’s reign of terror. Now it was John’s turn to reshape the future of Earth.

That was the easy part.

Being married to a three-hundred-year-old woman, however, was not. No matter how enjoyable and fulfilling it was to be in love with her, to share his life with her, it came with endless stress, grief, and the intricacies of every day married life. But he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Between agonising over a gift for Josie, John’s mind wandered in fretful jumps from the past to the present, as it usually did when left alone to brood. Grandfather Dane’s gruesome legacy still burned him with shame and guilt. Small steps, Josie would say. Take small steps, not great big giant leaps that confuse people who can’t yet walk. He chuckled. Josie’s intuitive insight was a soothing salve when his mind burned and clogged with frustration.

Eighteen months now since he’d introduced the process where countries within the United Europe and Americas could break free voluntarily. Those who chose the path of independence were free to do so with no animosity attached. But as the months passed, none broke free, though they expressed a desire, they were still far too dependent on the Lancaster Regime, and terrified to cut loose and think for themselves. After sixty years of Lancaster rule, they had become like babies, having to learn to walk for the first time. Scared, they chose to cling to the Lancasters for support and protection.

John rubbed a hand over his cropped dark hair and leaned back in his office chair. Even slouched he managed to radiate an air of authority and power. At thirty-eight, he was younger than his father had been when he’d assumed the presidency. His father had taught him to look and act like power was an identity, and watch how it affected those around him. His mother had only asked he use his power wisely. But today, he felt old. Tired. Leadership was beginning to leave its mark on his face, even his bones. His mind always seemed full these days, overflowing. Vanity never afflicted, but noticed the fine lines deepening at the corners of his eyes and mouth, even the scattering of grey hair around his temples had spread and intensified. Josie said it suited him now that his temperament had become more sedate. In the two years he’d known his wife, she’d somehow managed to tame him.

Somewhat.

But the turmoil within was still there. Like now. John scrubbed a hand over his hair again, racking his brain for the perfect gift. He had to find one. Groaning, desperation took hold.

What to get her?

He dismissed jewellery. She didn’t wear it often, so there was no point. The gift had to represent the past year, something with a little humour. After all, Josie was full of sarcastic humour when ready. She’d appreciate that. But he also wanted to get her something truly special that would last a very long time. Something she could use or see, and each time, know that it came from him.

The past year had been a monumental strain on Josie, sprinkled as it had been with threats to her life and well-being. That aside, there were also the usual horrors of the present day. Being world president had its drawbacks if you wanted to lead a normal life. A normal, quiet life. Assassination attempts and daily threats, all before having your breakfast, would put a strain on any marriage. But where others might fall apart, theirs seemed to thrive.

Josie had also been confronted with the truth about her family. As a result of these revelations, they both now sought her brother’s daughter, Fern. She was the one who had started it all, the one who had unleashed chaos.

Yes. Fern was alive. Somewhere.

John shook his head. It was like some terrible, distorted melodrama one only heard about in some wild, fantastical story where each new twist was more outrageous and bizarre than the last. Such was the life Josie had been handed. And now, because of love, his life too.

They had learned that Fern had entered her own stasis pod. But she was a far cry from normal. So warped and deranged in her quest for immortality, she’d used and abused her body to its maximum limits. Fern had experimented on herself and created a vile abomination. She’d implanted in herself a self-fertilised egg, through genetic manipulation, to produce a clone of herself. This had been her first attempt at immortality. Of course, it hadn’t gone as planned. Instead of giving birth to herself, she gave birth to a boy.

By all outwards appearances, this boy seemed normal and healthy. And by Fern’s own admission in her video journals, he’d remained unloved and treated like the abomination he was. He’d confessed to his mother how his mind was riddled with strange images and thoughts. Then one day he killed two of his three children, his wife, and then himself.

In her journals, Fern had admitted in cold, clinical candour, how she regarded him with neutral scientific observation. Too scared and horrified at her experiment to try again, she instead resorted to cell-fusion with machines. She tampered with her body, replacing organs and body parts with machines until she was almost a cyborg. Finally, she entered a stasis pod again to prolong her life through the stretches of time.

Now, Fern was who consumed almost every waking hour of Josie’s life. So determined was she to find her niece, Josie had had John track down the renowned pod-hunter, Quin Aguilar, the very person who’d resuscitated Josie after she’d been discovered three years ago.

It didn’t take long to find Quin. He’d gone into hiding after his wife was murdered, right after Josie was kidnapped by fanatic extremists hell-bent on killing all pod survivors. The reunion had been a heartfelt and sad moment between Josie and Quin, considering the circumstances that caused them to part ways. Tears flowed that day.

Quin now lived in the Citadel as an honorary citizen. Almost every day, Quin and Josie would spend several hours studiously poring over their research and investigations. But John was certain most of the time was passed chattering about non-essential and trivial matters like teenagers.

To most, it appeared Quin had replaced Josie’s father, who she missed so much. Both Peter Bettencourt and Quin Aguilar were scientists and, according to Josie, both were so animated and enthused with every aspect of life and living that sometimes, around Quin, even John would find himself spurred on to chatter.

Quin had the most engaging and infectious personality and he made Josie laugh loud each day. And what a pleasurable sound it was to hear. Such unabashed laughter, and it filled John’s heart with happiness and love. She certainly needed it.

And when Quin and Josie weren’t laughing, they once more scoured their research banks in search of Fern. Six solid months of searching and still no trace of Fern. She could be anywhere. Having surfaced once after sleeping for a hundred years, any record of Dr Zara Sozanski—who she’d been living as at the time she’d created her son—was no longer. Apart from DNA and electronic records of her descendants in the archives in Iceland, Zara Sozanski was but a shadowy ghost, mentioned here and there in old medical journals.

When Fern went to sleep again, according to her own rambling account, she left no clue about what her new identity would be, or where she’d hidden herself. The possibility she’d already surfaced on her own and assimilated into her new life was high.

It was also possible she was dead. The logic behind this was that if, in fact, she was alive, she would’ve found some way to contact Josie. In the one hundred and thirty-five-odd years of Fern’s second sleeping, the chances of her stasis pod being found were close to nil.

But Josie and Quin continued to search.

And John Lancaster scrubbed his hair yet again, racking his brain for the perfect gift to give his wife.

Simon entered John’s office and, with a grunt, dropped into a chair before John’s desk. Ready?

John squinted one eye. What’s Simon here for again?

His good friend’s eyes widened. Anybody in there? Then he snorted. Again? Bugger it, John. You’re going to go mad trying to figure out the perfect gift. Just get her something shiny and fling some flowers in a vase and call it that.

It’s a wonder you’re still alive. Your wife lets you get away with that?

Are you insane? I’d be beyond dead.

And you’d rather I get bludgeoned? John screwed up his face. No thanks.

Well, think on it another time. We have security to discuss, remember? Simon shifted in his seat to get comfortable, and dug out his personal unit, tapped it alive, and began scrolling through. Now the—

John’s office door swung open and Josie walked in, the tail-end of a giggle trailing behind her and brightening her face.

So, Josie grinned as she drew closer. Wha’dya think?

What’s the word you like to use? Meh. Simon sniffed and looked away.

Josie snorted, ignoring Simon. For the last week, she’d prattled on and on to John about how long she’d put off dealing with her hair. After almost a year, it had grown far too long for her liking. So, she had her stylist chop ten inches off. Her hair now scraped under her jawline, with feathered layering to give her dead-straight hair the flick-factor. She strode towards John, flicking her newly trimmed brown hair with a wide grin.

John’s train of thought derailed. Josie never failed to mesmerise him or cause a hitch in his breath. She oozed charm and a snappy, crackling personality. Granted, it was old-world charm, with abrupt crassness blended in. She had a potty mouth, but it suited her.

Josie wasn’t over-the-top beautiful in the conventional sense, but she always managed to trip his heart, as did her radiant smile. Her neat and narrow face, plain and unblemished, the short, straight nose, and that full mouth, just wide enough to be considered sultry. What came out of her mouth was another matter, but he’d become used to her swearing. After all, she came from another time.

But it was her eyes that always stopped him in his tracks. A little large, set wide, and the most vibrant shade of emerald green imaginable. They drew him in, making him want to stare into them, into the bright marigold centres that were a wild contrast to the dark forest of lashes and arched brows. They completed her, giving her an air of innocence and youth while hiding her wicked sense of humour. And those eyes, they saw everything, whether they wanted to or not.

Josie strode up to Simon, gave him an aloof up-and-down stare, then shot him a deadpan look. "You’re just jealous you don’t have fabulous hair like I do. She batted her eyes for effect. I know all about how much time you spend in front the bathroom mirror, worrying over that receding hairline. Ooh, look, I can see your scalp already. Thinning much?"

At least I’ve got a mirror to look at, Simon countered with a half-roll of his startling blue eyes. You cracked yours with your hideousness.

A slap of insult flooded over Josie’s face as she scowled. John suppressed a laugh; her expression was priceless.

Huh! she snorted again. Are all redheads so ill-mannered and, and… Scratching her head for something appropriate to say, she found none. Instead, she dismissed Simon as one would a bug, with a quick toss of her head, and leaned across John’s desk to plant a loud, squeaky kiss on his mouth.

Found that funny, eh? Her tone reeked of mock sincerity. See if you get lucky tonight.

John smiled back, staying silent. She gave him a wink. Josie had learned to read him well, knowing he didn’t care what she looked like; he loved her regardless. But Simon’s comment was funny as hell, and he wasn’t about to apologise.

Not bad, John said at last, making a show of inspecting her hair. I like the bits going up.

The comment brought a broad smile from Josie. She turned her head again to let her hair swish. Yeah, me too.

Simon groaned from behind her.

Simon was John’s head of security and childhood friend. They were essentially brothers, and where John was dark, Simon was the light. Everything about him was bright and sharp, from his bright red hair—cropped close, revealing the pink of his scalp—to the rigidly straight, sharp angles of his Viking face. His piercing blue eyes were quick, seeing everything in detail, matching his lethal movements in times of battle. And one only had to look to know that Simon moved silently, like a striking cat.

Where John was quiet, Simon was talkative, his nature lively compared to his friend’s sedateness; yet, he was a ground to John’s live wire. Together, they were as inseparable as Josie was to John. The relationship between Josie and Simon was, at the best of times, sporting banter and insults. They both enjoyed verbal spars, and he’d seen them both in sour moods if they missed a day. They had come to care a great deal for one another, as evident during the incident back on the Scrap Yard, where Simon had almost died.

Your influence on John is detrimental to his image, Simon scoffed, as if offended. Now he’s talking hairstyles. Last week, it was shoes. He shook his head in dismay. What’s next? Underwear?

I prefer none, myself, John replied, bland-faced.

Simon groaned again. Never mind. Can we get back to security matters for the ambassador’s dinner?

* * *

"That ambassador?" I gaped with distaste. A sudden surge of jealous anger spiked through me like an electrical arc. I’m positive I even lost control of a facial muscle close to my left eye.

John fidgeted, cleared his throat, and pitched his voice to sound unaffected. Yes, Josie, that one. He scratched the side of his nose. A guilty action. Busted. Shall I arrange for you to sit next to him?

Why? I cocked a brow at him. "So you can sit next to his daughter?"

We were walking back to our home the scenic way, through walkways and corridors framed with overgrown shrubs and vines, which cascaded with colour. Outside, it was positively bursting with summer; even the bees buzzed with contentment as they flitted from one flower to the next. August in Switzerland was fucking amazing!

John couldn’t stop the quick grin in time but managed to turn it into a scowl of annoyance. Josie, that was eons ago. Ancient history.

I hear she’s divorced now. Got a new body sculpted, with big boobs and stuff. All jiggly and wiggly. I snorted and scrunched up my face.

Yes, she did say, John mused.

"You speak other than necessary?" Even to me, my voice sounded a little too high.

Jealousy does not become you. He grinned now, not even bothering to hide it.

"I am not jealous. I just want to know why, all of a sudden, she’s in your face all the time. This will be three times she’s been here. I flicked my new do in annoyance. Society for the Ancients, my bony ass! You have minions to handle things like that."

Elders, John corrected me.

Whatever. Society of the Elders, then. Who gives a shit?

"Josie, I’ve no interest in her. You know me better than that. What happened between Elena and me was a long time ago. A very long time ago. We were practically kids. Even then, she had issues and agendas. I’m not blind to her motives. I’m only being polite by listening to her society’s proposals. It’s part of my job, unfortunately."

Yeah, yeah, I know, I muttered under my breath. And it really doesn’t matter that she’s gorgeous. Big blonde hair, big boobs, big curves…I see your eyes going haywire-big every time she’s around.

John actually laughed, and my scowl deepened. Wasn’t it you who told me I was a man and stupid and brain-dead, and I couldn’t help myself? That I’ve got eyes, so I’ll look regardless? He looped an arm through mine and tugged me closer, giving me a kiss on the side of my head. I think it’s very sweet you’re jealous. It gives me hope that you actually do love me. And I know, since you keep saying, I sound more and more like a lovesick girl these days.

Well, you do. I pretended to ignore him.

I knew, without doubt, he loved and cared for me more than anything else in the world. Why he’d picked me still mystified me, considering I was a socially inept fool who swore uncontrollably, usually at the most inopportune times.

But still…

It didn’t stop the nasty sting, that sharp, hot stab of intense jealousy and possessiveness I felt every time she was around. And I didn’t trust her farther than I could throw a rock. No, a feather! There was something innately nasty about her. I’d told John as much the first time I’d laid eyes on her, but he’d dismissed it as me being jealous. And every time my back was turned, I could almost feel her eyes cleaving a ravine down my back.

Trust her? Not a chance!

Elena Greco, daughter of the Italian Ambassador, Filippo Greco. According to Simon, John had chased the girl for a brief moment of his young adult life. And she had more than obliged—spread her sculpted legs wide open to him! Her father had been a parliamentary minister then, and a close friend of John’s father, Baird. Even then, both father and daughter had had keen aspirations of climbing up the social and political ladder. In any way possible. And if it required his daughter bed the son of the president, then by all means, that’s what she would do.

But John wasn’t stupid. He’d known well enough the reasons, but he’d been a young man. And if a woman—a very attractive woman—obliged, then why the hell not? So he said, and I believed him. Well, not for something like that. Omit the truth, yes, but outright lie? No.

And yes, it was ancient history. I berated myself as we continued down the path, oblivious to the bright summer day all around us. Living in a private city in the Swiss Alps was absolutely breathtaking. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t see any of it.

John had never allowed himself to be taken in by the wiles of women, nor did he let himself fall in love. At least, not until he met me. I felt quite smug about it, and ordered myself to never forget that very important fact.

Elena had better watch herself. I could beat the living shit out of her if I wanted to, and she knew it. I wasn’t only the president’s wife, but known as a skilled and very deadly operative—even if it was to mask my true identity as a three-hundred-year-old relic. If the world only knew the truth! But fighting? I knew all too well how to do that. And if I hadn’t been mistaken, the last dinner she’d been in attendance, she’d almost stammered when she greeted me.

That thought made me very smug.

What? John squinted at me, bemused. He knew my expressions well. What is so funny?

Hmm? I gave an airy response. "Oh, nothing. Only… I want to sit next to Elena."

Josie. John closed his eyes for a moment. "Please do not make a scene tonight."

Me? Of course not. I batted my eyes.

John kept his narrowed. "It’s a formal dinner to welcome the ambassador and his family for the duration of his office."

Wait. How long will that be? I snapped. Well, this was news!

Just under a year.

A whole—you mean… And she’ll be staying here too? Horror made me gape. I shut my mouth fast.

On and off. John shrugged. She does have a life of her own, uh, so I hear.

Yeah, after she sucked her poor mega-gazillionaire husband dry. I hear she’s living it up all over the world. Mostly in clinics, getting work done. I’m surprised you even recognised her. As I rolled my eyes, an irritating itch began to burn under my collar. Had it grown warmer all of a sudden? The thought of Elena living within the Citadel walls left me…agitated.

Settle down, Josie. John gave me a nudge, still holding my hand. And no, you won’t be sitting next to her. I can’t risk it and you know it.

"I know. Don’t be so worried. And I’ll try not embarrass you."

Try really hard.

He did look worried. Very worried, in fact. It was quite comical. Of course, he’d recall—how could anyone forget?—the last formal dinner with whoever-it-was almost choking on his squid because I let slip a bad word. I’d been nervous, trying to impress John; so nervous I forgot to greet the dignitary in question. So, when said dignitary looked at me expectantly, I more or less told him off for staring. My choice of words could’ve been better…and he shouldn’t have been cramming his mouth full of canapés. To this day, I can’t remember his name.

Yes, I’ll try, I made a glum reply. Spoilsport.

Regaining his composure, John cleared his throat. He tipped his head up to gaze at the lush summer around us and smiled, as content as a cat. And for the record, you’re ten time more beautiful than she is. He emphasised this with a squeeze of my hand.

A wide smile spread across my face.

Chapter 2

Dressed to kill in a shimmering scarlet dress, Elena walked with a seductive sway to her hips on micro-thin stiletto heels. The split of her dress was high enough to expose her long curvy legs, which were enhanced and plumped, to give anyone who dared look an ergonomic, sensuous, daring view all the way to her upper thighs and the shadowy suggestion of her crotch.

Like an ancient alabaster statue, her skin was pale—cosmetically bleached—and blemish free. Her eyes, wide and usually light brown, were dyed a sultry violet, and her lips were stained blood red to complement the dress. A soft blush dusted her high cheekbones, and dark and smoky shadow accentuated her eyelids. Her eyelashes were extended and flared for dramatic effect at the corners, casting alluring shadows. For emphasis, she batted her eyes with lazy flutters. At the tips of the lashes, three micro-diamantes sparkled and dazzled as she blinked.

Elena Greco knew she was beautiful. After all, she paid through her soul to make sure she was. Thanks to her ex-husband’s alimony payments, she was now that much closer to achieving eternal beauty, echoing her teenage self. And if she played her cards right, she’d push aside the scrawny bitch John Lancaster was married to and take him for herself like she’d planned twenty years ago. It didn’t matter Elena was a little scared of the bitch, who was very skilled in the art of combat. But Madam Lancaster wasn’t half as beautiful as she was. How her John could even look twice at such a plain woman was beyond imagination.

With an airy grace, Elena sat down at her allotted seat. The sumptuous banquet table before her was laden with the finest china, crystal, and silverware. Mixed among real food and decorations, a holographic display of decadence played in the centre of the massive round table. She tossed her golden locks; the five unique shades of blonde had been blended purposely to catch the light from the massive chandelier above. Her stylist was a genius. He’d recreated the banquet hall and projected a hologram mock-up into his studio, where he’d had her sit for hours as he experimented with his colours.

She tossed her hair again, ensuring a lock fell over her bare shoulder. Even she could see the effects of the hair treatment as it shimmered. On cue, she caught her father’s eye—he’d been placed opposite her at the table—and let out a rich and lustful laugh. Pursing her lips, she brought both her open palms to her mouth and kissed them, then blew him an all-too-seductive kiss that raised a few eyebrows.

She’d perfect her laugh as well, so everyone’s attention was immediately riveted to her and her alone. Elena noted John flick his eyes at her then, too soon, resumed his conversation with the bitch. He even smiled at the woman!

Look at her, Elena thought. She’s wearing nothing but neutral lip gloss. And her hair? What an atrocity! Dull brown, and those ridiculous wispy ends? How outdated! Oh, how she’d love to stick a knife through the bitch’s heart and end her miserable mongrel life. Then she could rush to John and console him, shower him with so much affection he’d soon forget all about that hideous creature.

Madam Lancaster wore a simple long dress in her trademark black, with thin gold straps at the shoulders. Even though it was a formal dinner, her customary krima holster—black with intricate gold and silver designs engraved into it—was on her left wrist. Inside the holster was her weapon of choice, the krima stick. There were reports saying she preferred the mini, claiming it was easier to conceal. Unlike the regular krimas, the minis only had two three-inch beams of laser, but could still kill a person in seconds. If wielded correctly and used with skill, there was no limit to the destruction they could wreak.

How utterly common to wear your weapon to a formal dinner! Elena almost made a face. Instead, she sipped her wine and forced it down with a hard swallow.

Josie, as she preferred to be called, sat on John’s left. It made Elena ill. She’d read somewhere how John insisted his wife always position herself to his left. And to be always at his side at public functions, never apart. Josie turned to talk to a shrivelled old man on her left, and Elena took in a sharp breath. The back of Josie’s dress was cut low, revealing a long, thin scar that cut a trail from behind her right underarm, down and across her side, until it vanished somewhere near the small of her back. Elena’s eyes widened. Under the golden straps of the dress, below the left collarbone, a small pink scar from a knife wound. That one had almost killed the bitch, so Elena had heard. A pity she survived.

It was known the bitch refused corrective surgery, choosing instead to brandish the scars like medals. She was proud of them and didn’t care what people thought. And John always glowed with pride if they were mentioned. After all, if it wasn’t for those scars, John would always say, he’d be dead.

The rumours are true, then!

Elena couldn’t quite hide her distaste at the crudeness. Such bad taste, such ugliness. She suppressed a shudder. How could John be so stupid, falling in supposed love with such a vile specimen? And why didn’t the little runt enhance herself? Even a little cosmetic work would help that dull face.

She caught her father’s eye. He nodded imperceptibly, and she returned it with a lazy roll of her eyes. Then a wicked idea sparked inside her, and she once again directed her violet eyes at Josie.

* * *

The glacial weight of Elena Greco’s eyes burning a hole in my back raised goosebumps on my arm. Instead of acknowledging her, I chose to ignore her. I hoped my icy demeanour would also repel the whispered gasps and murmurs from the others around the table.

It always gave me a mild mixture of modesty and immodesty when I was in public, baring my scars for all to see. While I didn’t mind them, I also didn’t like showing them off. Were it up to me, I would’ve worn a less revealing