"There's fresh croissants in the back," she says instead. "You should eat something. You look like a strong wind could knock you over. Comfort food always helps, honey."
I'm not hungry. The thought of food makes my bruised throat ache. But I thank her anyway and retreat to the stockroom to pretend I'm doing inventory while I press a cold water bottle against my swollen cheek.
The morning crawls by. I ring up purchases and recommend books and smile until my face hurts. A woman asks me if we have anything with a guaranteed happily ever after and I resist the urge to laugh at the irony of being asked for happy endings when my own story is spiraling toward tragedy.
I mess up a simple latte order, steaming the milk too long until it scorches. Drop a stack of books I'm shelving, the hardcovers crashing to the floor in a spectacular explosion of failure. My manager, a perpetually stressed woman named Rhonda, shoots me a look that saysget it togetherbut doesn't say the words out loud.
I apologize so many times the word loses meaning, becomes just noise falling from my lips.
My cheek throbs beneath the makeup. My throat aches when I swallow. Every time the door chimes, I flinch, expecting to see Victor's pale eyes finding me across the room.
During my lunch break, I hide in the stockroom between boxes of books. Once, I would have found comfort here, surrounded by stories waiting to be discovered. Now the boxes just remind me of everything I've lost. The publishing job I'll never have. The dreams I buried alongside my father.
I'm sitting on an overturned crate, pressing my water bottle against my throat, when I hear them.
Two of the afternoon shift workers, their voices drifting through the stockroom door. Madison and her friend, Simone. Recent college grads who work here while they "figure things out." They're young enough to still believe figuring things out is possible. I guess it is when your parents pay for everything and all your paycheck can go toward new boots and party weekends.
"I'm telling you, my cousin's friend did it last year." Madison's voice is bright with the particular excitement of sharing a secret. "I swear it. She wrote her wish, put it into a red envelope and then dropped it in the box. Three weeks later her student loans were paid off."
There’s a small pause before Simone blurts, "Bullshit."
Her friend's response is flat with disbelief and I have to agree. Believe nothing of what you hear and only half of what you see has been my motto since my brain came out of puberty mode.
"I swear on my life. The Red Letter Syndicate. They grant wishes. Real wishes, not make-a-wish-foundation stuff. Like, life-changing, impossible things."
"For what, your soul? Your firstborn? Nothing's free, Mads."
"I don't know what she paid, she wouldn't say. But it worked. Whatever the price was, she paid it and her debt disappeared. Poof. Gone. Like it never existed."
"Madison. That's insane. You're insane. You've been reading too many of those dark romance books."
Madison continues on like Simone never spoke.
"The wish room is at Scarlet Thorn. You know, that super exclusive club downtown? The one where all the rich people go? There's a room on the VIP floor, behind all the security. My cousin said you just write what you want, put it into a red envelope and drop it in the box. These men, these powerful men, they read the wishes and pick the ones they want to grant. Like some kind of secret society. Only, you know. Dangerous."
"Dangerous fairy godfathers." Simone snorts, but I have to admit I’m by the door now listening to every word.
"That's definitely not a thing," Simone counters.
"Mock all you want. But my cousin's friend is debt-free. And I've heard other stories too. A woman who needed surgery she couldn't afford. A guy who needed his family protected from someone. Real things, for real people."
Their voices fade as they move away, but the words stay lodged in my chest like a splinter working its way toward my heart.
The Red Letter Syndicate. I've heard whispers before. Everyone in Chicago has, if they run in certain circles or work the kinds of jobs where you overhear things you shouldn't. Rumors about powerful men who operate in shadows. A secret society that grants impossible wishes for impossible prices.
I always dismissed them as urban legend. Rich men don't grant wishes. Not the ones I’ve known, anyway. Especially that prick Jonah Moses. He had loads of cash and never lifted a finger to help anyone but himself.
Yeah. no. The world doesn't work that way. The world works like Victor Kedrov, patient and cruel, taking everything until you have nothing to give.
But none of what I believe helps me with the amount of money I owe a rich asshole who knows where I live.
Scarlet Thorn. I never thought I would hear that name again. Not after Jonah.
I've been there once before a couple of years ago when Jonah tried one last time to get me in bed with him. That night he went all out and pretended to be the man he thought I wanted him to be. He got us into the lower level, the part that's just an exclusive nightclub for people with more money than sense. We drank champagne that cost more than my monthly rent and danced to music that throbbed through my bones. At the time I thought,This is what it feels like to be on the other side. To be one of the people who takes what they want whenever they want.
That night Jonah broke it off with me. He showed me his true colors and that night I learned that the other side isn't any kinder. Just better dressed.
I haven't been back since. Haven't wanted to.
