Sylvie’s mouth tics. “You were great. Sorry, I had to step out, otherwise I would’ve handled her.”
The steamer hisses as the fabric smooths. “Thank you. But she’s only a littlescary to me now.”
The afternoon trickles by. My body switches to autopilot when it can, the tension loosening only when I’m busy. But the taught wire of my life hums under it all: the villa expecting obedience, the boutique demanding performance, both marching forward like competing armies.
I check the clock and feel adrenaline crackle. It’s 4 p.m. If I don’t leave now, I won’t be back before six. I don’t know what the penalty is for a first-day miss, and I don’t want to learn the hard way. I finish steaming, hanging the red with its backup in the hold closet.
“Sylvie,” I say. “Is there?—”
“Go,” she says, already reading my mood. “It’s dead after five. I’ll close with Marisa.”
“You’re a saint.”
“I’m a manager,” she corrects with a wink. “There’s supposed to be snow tonight. Text me when you get home. I’ll feel better.”
I love her a little bit for that. “Yes, boss.”
Outside, SoHo flirts with twilight. The cold bites cleanly, the sky the color of polished steel. I pull my coat tighter and head for the station, my bag light on my shoulder, my mind heavier than it should be.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a text from an unknown number.
ETA?
Mrs. Kozlov, I assume. I stare at the text for a second, then type.
On my way. Before five.
Good.
It shouldn’t feel like a judgment, but it does. I tuck the phone away and take the stairs. Ten days. A party, a surgery, a promise I made with my sister’s warm hand in mine.
The train roars in. I step on and find a pole, steadying myself as the car lurches forward.
I hold my breath, thinking about the line I’ve drawn for myself today. Back before five, ready for the evening. No scenes, no slips.
I hope.
CHAPTER 6
CASSANDRA
Ishouldn’t be here.
The train spits me out at the edge of Bed-Stuy and Crown Heights, my breath coming out in white clouds.
The air smells like engine oil, fried food, and something sweet from the bakery on the corner. Murals of saints, rappers, and a butterfly stretching its wings paint the brick walls. Neon hums from the bodega while “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” drifts across the street from a lone saxophone player.
This is my neighborhood—hip, nostalgic, but still a little dangerous.
I tell myself I’ll only stay at the apartment for ten minutes. Grab some clothes, my phone charger, maybe a sketchbook. But really, it’s the photo album I’m after—the one filled with pics of Clara and me from when she first got custody of me. I don’t know when I’ll be back again, not with Damien’s rules almost certain to tighten by the day.
It’s worth the risk. Even if it means cutting it too close.
The five-minute response window thrums in my head. The new phone still sits in its box on the desk back at my suite, waiting to tether me.
I feel a buzz in my coat, probably spam. I don’t look. I just want to enjoy my old neighborhood.
I feel the hair stand up on the back of my neck, an alert to danger. I try to ignore it, the way the city teaches you to tune things out or you’ll never leave your apartment. But it sharpens, digs in.
