The soft click of the door unlocking finally snapped me out of my trance and into crisis-management mode.
I didn’t think. I simply grabbed my bloodied heels from the entryway, scanned the living room for any traces I might’ve left behind and, satisfied there were none, ducked behind the floor-to-ceiling drapes.
The door opened, revealing a glimpse of gray hair before I fully ensconced myself behind thick red velvet. My palms curled, slick with sweat.
I hadn’t planned on running into my family today. I wasn’t mentally prepared for that, and though I wasn’t a particularly religious person, I prayed with everything I had that they were too tired to do anything except go straight to sleep.
“We should’ve stuck with our regular spot.” Caroline’s clipped tone echoed in rhythm with her heels. “This is what happens when you give so-called rising stars a chance, George. They’re rarely up to par.”
“You’re right.” My father’s deep, familiar voice rumbled through me like thunder on a Friday night when I was tucked in bed with a book and a flashlight. Equal parts comforting and ominous, it chipped at the wall I’d erected long ago until a sliver of nostalgia escaped.
It’d been years since I heard his voice in person.
“Next time, we’ll go to the club,” he said. “Rhea, order room service for us. We barely ate anything at the restaurant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And why are the drapes open?” Caroline’s voice grew louder. “You know they must be closed immediately at sunset. Lord knows who could be looking in right now.”
No one because you’re on the twelfth floor and not facing any other buildings.
My snarky mental reply didn’t prevent the taste of copper from filling my mouth when my stepmother’s footsteps stopped in front of me. I stood frozen, staring at the swath of velvet that was the only thing separating me from disaster.
Don’t look behind the drapes. Don’t look behind—
She grasped the curtains with one hand. I pressed my back against the window, but she was centimeters from my face and I had nowhere else to go.
Thud. Thud. THUD.
The ominous drum of my heartbeat intensified with each passing second. I was already devising multiple plans and backup plans for what I would say, what I would do, and who I would hire to help if Caroline found me and shipped Pen off to some remote location where I couldn’t see her.
Caroline’s hand tightened around the drapes. For a heart-stopping moment, I thought the jig was up.
Then she dragged the curtains closed, hiding me completely, and resumed her complaints about that night’s dinner.
“Honestly, I don’t know how Vogue could’ve named him one of the best new chefs of the year…” The sound of her heels faded along with my father’s murmured response and the click of a door closing.
Neither one asked about Pen or acknowledged Rhea again.
My body sagged, light with relief, but when Rhea pulled back the drapes, I didn’t waste time loitering. George and Caroline could come back out any minute.
I squeezed Rhea’s hand in a silent goodbye and escaped out the front door. She smiled, her eyes worried, and I didn’t breathe properly until I hit the sidewalk outside the hotel.
The shock of unexpectedly being in the same room as my father again disoriented me for a few minutes, but the cool October air poured over me like an ice shower, and by the time I reached the corner, the buzz had vanished from my ears and the streetlights no longer blurred into an orange stream.
I’m fine. This is fine. I hadn’t been caught, I’d spent time with Pen on her birthday, and now I could—
My phone buzzed with a news alert.
I glanced at it, my stomach plummeting the minute I saw Perry Wilson’s distinctive blog logo.
I clicked into the article, and a crimson haze wiped away any lingering unease over my narrow escape from the hotel.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Two hours. I left him alone for two hours and he still couldn’t follow simple instructions.
I shoved my phone into my bag and hailed a passing cab. “Neon.” I slammed the door shut, causing the driver to wince. “I’ll give you your biggest tip of the month if you get me there in ten minutes.”
Every second counted when I had a client to strangle.
CHAPTER 4
Sloane
The society papers called them The Modern Jet Set. The trashier gossip columns derided them as Heirs and Spares—the children of the rich who squandered their days drinking and partying instead of doing anything useful with their lives. I simply called them Xavier and Friends (derogatory).
Eight minutes after I left Pen’s hotel, I strong-armed my way into Neon, where Xavier and Friends had taken over the VIP room. The scene was almost a replica of the photos splashed across Perry Wilson’s latest blog post.
One of Xavier’s friends was snorting cocaine off a bottle girl’s stomach, another was giving someone a lap dance, and a half dressed couple was basically having sex in the corner.
Lounging amidst the hedonism like a king surveying his court was Xavier, one arm tossed over the back of a velvet banquette while the other held a bottle of tequila.
Xavier, who was supposed to be at the awards gala happening this very second.
Xavier, who desperately needed more of an image cleanup than usual after Perry Wilson’s hit piece about his birthday party gone wild in Miami a few months ago.
