šŸ’” Sutoscience by Amy Suto

šŸ’” Sutoscience by Amy Suto

🌁 let me be your ghost

🌁 chapter nineteen: better to reign [let me be your ghost]

ā€œBetter to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven.ā€ -John Milton, Paradise Lost

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Amy Suto
Oct 09, 2026
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ā€œBetter to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven.ā€

-John Milton, Paradise Lost

previous: about | chapter one | chapter two | chapter three | chapter four | chapter five | chapter six | chapter seven | chapter eight | chapter nine | chapter ten | chapter eleven | chapter twelve | chapter thirteen | chapter fourteen | chapter fifteen | chapter sixteen | chapter seventeen | chapter eighteen

The lie I left home on was four words long.

ā€œDevi needs me downtown.ā€ Signatures, filings, the tabloid cleanup—boring, bureaucratic, safe. Eze was half into a board call when I said it, one ear in a war he was fighting for my name, and he squeezed my hand and mouthed take Xavier, and I said I would, and I didn’t, and the four words worked the way lies work on people who’ve stopped guarding against you.

It was the first thing I’d taken from him since the island. It cost more than everything I’d taken before it combined.

I drove myself to Los Altos in an estate car with, at my request, Tini’s own eyes on the brake lines that morningā€”ā€œyou think I don’t check everything with wheels now, escritora?ā€ā€”and the gates swung open the moment my plates were read, and Poseidon reared over his fountain in the noon glare, and Dorian Ashcroft received me on his limestone terrace in linen the color of nothing, delighted, unsurprised.

ā€œNo Ezekiel,ā€ he observed.

ā€œYou said ā€˜just Lola.ā€™ā€

ā€œI did. And here she is, on time and unaccompanied.ā€ He smiled at some private math resolving in his mind. ā€œHe doesn’t know. Oh, that’s much better than I’d planned for.ā€

Security processed me at the door like an airport with taste—phone surrendered into a velvet drawer, a wand, a young man with oatmeal linen and dead eyes going through my bag. He lifted the tape recorder out and his eyes posed a question at his employer.

ā€œI’m a ghostwriter,ā€ I said, bored. ā€œYou invited me to discuss a book. I record interviews. It’s in every profile your people compiled on me, which I assume runs to volumes.ā€

Dorian laughed, waved a hand. ā€œLet her keep her instrument. Writers without their instruments get restless, and everything in this house is swept on the way out anyway.ā€ His eyes met mine, warm as an autoclave. ā€œEverything.ā€

Noted, I thought, and followed him into lunch.

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