He chuckles and pushes himself off the railing towards me, stepping deliberately into my path and making me huff. "That’s a shame. Thought you might want some company, especially considering the lovely news that’s bound to ruin your weekend."
I pause just before the entrance, my spine straightening. "What couldyoupossibly know?"
Archibald exhales slowly, his grin widening. "Daddy dearest has plans for you."
This insolent, gossipy, no-good, rotten,asshole. My composure chips away quickly with Archie, a byproduct of knowing him for two decades. I should slap him for being such a bother.
Instead, I bite down the sharpness forming on my tongue. "Surprised you're so worried about my future, Archie, when you can barely handle your own. Your fights with your father have always been legendary.” I could stop myself, but I just can’t seem to. He makes me so angry sometimes, “Does it ever get tiring, constantly trying to prove yourself to someone who clearly doesn’t care?"
His grin falters noticeably, raw irritation briefly flashing before he masks it with a forced smile. "Oh, but you see, Martine, I like knowing things. Especially when they involve you."
He steps closer, voice dropping lower, his expression shifting dangerously close to sincerity. "It’s cute you’re worried about me."
Of course, I worry for him. As much as I can’t stand him, he’s family. We’ve fought since we were children. He’s undeniably handsome, and a smarter woman might indulge him, but I see him as nothing more than an irritating brother. Recently, however, it’s become painfully clear Archie feels differently. His persistent nuisance has become an obsession.
"Your fixation on me is becoming certifiable," I mutter sharply, pushing past him without sparing another glance.
He makes no effort to stop me, but his laughter follows me through the doorway, lingering like the scent of his peppery aftershave.
Archie has been making increasingly obvious attempts at seducing me since the Bonesmen Gala a few weeks ago.
Brushing him off, I slip inside my building, heading swiftly for my private floor.
The security detail barely glances at me as I pass through, accustomed to my comings and goings and having my schedule memorized. My mother once told me that being watched was a privilege, a luxury afforded only to those who mattered. I had smiled, pretending not to notice the way her fingers trembled around her ever-present crystal tumbler of gin as she spoke of it.
Inside the private elevator, I press the button for the Huntington-Russell floor, expecting the usual solitary ride up. But just as the doors are about to close, a delicate hand shoots between them, forcing them to slide back open.
The woman who steps inside has an air of effortless charm, the kind that makes people want to lean in closer and see what she’s all about. She’s dressed in a structured, cream-colored coat draped over her shoulders, a silk blouse in the softest shade of blue, and tailored trousers that fall just right over her rounded cream kitten heels. There’s a warmth in the way she moves, like she’s one conversation away from becoming your favorite person.
She exhales with a broad smile, running a manicured hand through her dark, glossy, and sharp bob. “Made it,” she murmurs to herself, then turns to me. “I hate running in heels. It ruins the whole illusion, don’t you think?”
I blink, momentarily thrown off by her easy familiarity. “Depends on the illusion.”
She laughs, soft and genuine. “Fair point.” Then, as if suddenly realizing, she extends a hand, “Dale Danton-Taft.”
I shake her hand, returning a simple hello.
Taft. The only Taft I know in this building is Fanny, and I’ve never heard her mention a Dale.
“I didn’t know other Tafts were enrolling this year,” I say carefully, shaking her hand.
She tilts her head, her expression amused. “There are plenty of Tafts. Fanny’s just the one who likes to make herself known. We’re expecting two more cousins this weekend.”
That tracks. I guess they’ll have a busy floor. Something about that pains me with jealousy.
The elevator hums as we ascend, and she studies me with open curiosity. “You’re Martine.”
It’s not a question.
I nod. “And you just know that?”
“People talk,” She leans casually against the railing, and lets out a small yet vibrant laugh. “And, well, I know you’re not a Taft and this elevator only has access to two floors.”
I arch a brow and tilt my head. “And what do they say?”
Her grin widens. “That you’re not very interesting.”
I scoff, “That’s a very diplomatic answer.”
