Beautifully Cruel

Chapter 21

JENNIE

The next day, I dress in clean jeans and a T-shirt, then pad barefoot through the apartment, wandering from room to gargantuan room.

The main living areas are designed in an open format. The kitchen gleams with stainless steel and black granite. The living room and dining room are separated by a thick sheet of tinted glass suspended from the ceiling. A media room sports a giant flat screen TV and triple rows of comfy lounge chairs, like a theater. The library is on the opposite end of the apartment from the master suite, and is almost as large.

I go into the library for a look around.

All my study materials, school books, and test prep aids have been placed neatly in piles on a large wooden table near the unlit marble fireplace at one end of the room. My laptop is there, too. There's no television in here, but there are rows upon rows of books in bookcases, lined up all the way to the ceiling. A rolling ladder rests against one of the cases, waiting for someone to climb.

The room is a bibliophile's dream.

He's got everything from Aristotle to Nietzsche, Descartes to Kant. From a shelf, I select a battered copy of Meditations by the ancient Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius, open to a dog-eared page, and read a highlighted passage aloud.

"Do not act as if you were going to live ten thousand years. Death hangs over you. While you live, while it is in your power, do good."

I stare at the words, perplexed. A man in charge of an international criminal empire is highlighting quotes about doing good? Maybe this book originally belonged to someone else.

I flip to the front. There's an inscription in looping feminine handwriting on the title page.

My love,

Some words of wisdom from a wise man, because you enjoy that sort of thing.

Happy birthday.

Tzuyu

It's dated August tenth, eighteen years ago.

I stare at the note with a dry mouth and the fine hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. Then I snap it shut and slide it back into its place on the bookshelf, feeling skittish, unnerved, and vaguely guilty, as if I've seen something I shouldn't have.

Maybe it was his father's book? Maybe Tzuyu was Taehyung's mother?

Another mystery to add to the list.

I head back to the long wooden table and pull out a chair. I settle in, gathering my study schedule and laptop, and try to login to the bar exam prep site I paid two month's wages for. I've already been working on the multiple-choice question portion of the exam for weeks, between school and work, but now I realize with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that I might not be able to study online at all anymore.

I don't know Taehyung's Wi-Fi password.

Shit.

Which means I'm going to have to ask Taehyung for the password.

Which means I'm going to have to talk to him.

I allow for a moment of self pity, then I crack open my study guide and get to work.

If I'm going to be stuck in this sky mansion for a month, I might as well make the most of it. I'm nothing if not practical.

Four hours later, I break for lunch.

In the refrigerator, I find a curious selection of elegant black glass containers of all sizes stacked on the shelves. I open one and find filet mignon with garlic mashed potatoes. Another holds miso glazed salmon with buttery asparagus. Still another reveals decadent-looking meat lasagna topped with shavings of black truffle.