I pin my hair up anyway, leaving a few strands loose. A simple earring. No necklace. The dress slides up and settles like a decision. I step into heels, then change my mind and choose the black flats with soft soles because if I need to walk fast, I want to be able to walk fast. The mirror throws back someonewho looks like she might know what she’s doing even if she doesn’t.
I put the invitation in my clutch.
Lila is in the sitting room with her feet tucked under her. She looks up and lets her eyes run the length of the dress once, not lingering. “Battle,” she says. “But also—hot.”
“Pick one,” I say.
“Not how this works,” she says, smiling without teeth. She stands and ties an imaginary tie around my neck to make me laugh. “Timer?”
“Two hours,” I say. “Text me at eleven.”
“Done,” she says. She grabs my wrist and squeezes once. “Remember who you are in there.”
“I know,” I say, and mean it.
Chapter 30 – Cassian
I stand at the head of the table with a glass of red and let the room do what I built it to do. The fireplace at the far end runs low. Everything is pre-set and within reach. My phone sits face down by the second plate. I check the time without touching it. Two minutes until she’s supposed to arrive. She’ll be on time. She’s made a sport of telling me when she’s choosing and when she’s complying. Tonight is both.
Heels on marble travel before a person does. Three clean taps, then the slight pause for the door handle. Heat runs through my chest because my body doesn’t wait for permission to respond the way a plan does.
I don’t move to greet her.
She comes in wearing black. Not the slip from the gallery; this is heavier, cut for a back that knows what it’s for. Hair pinned up in a way that isn’t neat enough to be an apology. No necklace. Her mouth is the color it is when she’s pulled a brush cap off with her teeth.
“Sit here,” I say, not at the far side, not opposite me like a negotiation, but at the corner where the long edge meets the short. I tap the chair beside me. She registers the shift and doesn’t pretend she didn’t. She walks the long run of carpet, puts the envelope I sent last night on the table, and sits.
“You staged this.”
“Correct,” I affirm. “A private dinner isn’t a club trick here. It’s an initiation.”
Her mouth tilts. “Into what? Your mythology?”
“Into my reality,” I correct, and pour wine for both of us.
“I remember you told me tea the other night,” she says. “Tonight wine.”
“Because tonight isn’t policy,” I answer. “It’s disclosure.”
“I brought my appetite, not a pen,” she says, laying her hands flat on the linen. Her fingers are ink-stained as if she touched a charcoal stick before she left her room. Her nails are short, paint ground into the cuticles.
“No signing tonight.”
“Promise?” she asks slyly. It’s half a dare.
“Yes,” I say. “Promise.”
She lifts the glass and smells it instead of drinking, her eyes on me. She’s watching for tells.
“How was your day?” I ask.
“Clean,” she says. “Bright halls, glass walls, ugly truths boxed and labeled in language that wouldn’t terrify a donor. I watched a therapist convince a woman to drink water. It felt like a miracle and a basic human right at the same time.”
“You sketched,” I say.
“Yes,” she says. “And I asked for Simone tomorrow.”
“Simone will be there,” I answer.
