“I know,” I say, and I actually mean it. I reach out to touch her shoulder, but she flinches away like I’m made of acid. I pull my hand back, feeling that strange, human ache again. “But hatred is a great motivator. Maybe it’ll finally make you interesting.”
I turn to Wendy, who has finished half the plate. She looks a little more grounded, a little less like she’s about to float away.
“Better?” I ask, my voice soft.
She nods, her eyes meeting mine. There’s a secret there now. A dark, filthy secret that Clara will never understand.
“Good,” I say, straightening my silk shirt. I look at my sister, who is currently slumped over the island, weeping into her sleeves. “Now, Clara, if you’re done with your theatrical debut, I suggest you go wash your face. We’re going into the city. Wendy needs a new wardrobe, and I’m in the mood to spend an obscene amount of money on things I intend to rip off her by dinner.”
Clara looks up, her mascara running down her face in jagged black streaks. “You’re taking us… shopping?”
“Of course,” I smirk, the wit returning like a shield. “Nothing heals a broken heart—or a broken soul—like a pair of five-inch Louboutins. And besides,” I lean in, whispering so only Clara can hear, “I need to make sure the North End sees exactly who she belongs to before the sun goes down.”
Peter
The sunlight in the Gold Coast doesn’t just shine; it reflects off the polished glass and limestone of Michigan Avenue like it’s being paid to look expensive. I’m driving the convertible—the vintage Mercedes-Benz 190SL, a masterpiece of silver curves and oxblood leather—because today isn’t about hiding. Today is about the spectacle.
Wendy is in the passenger seat, wearing an oversized pair of my Tom Ford aviators that cover half her face. She’s wrapped in one of my cashmere overcoats to hide the marks, looking like a tragic starlet fleeing a scandal.
Behind us, Clara is stewing in the back of the SUV driven by Silas, probably plotting my assassination with a ballpoint pen.
“You used to love the wind,” I say, glancing at Wendy as we hit the open stretch near the water.
I remember her at nineteen, standing up in the seat of my old Jeep, her hair a wild, chestnut banner behind her, screaming into the gale as we tore down the coast.She’d looked so free it made my teeth ache. I’d wanted to catch that freedom in a jar and keep it on my nightstand.
She doesn’t look like that now. She looks like a ghost in expensive threads.
“I used to love a lot of things, Peter,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the purr of the engine.
“You’ll love them again,” I murmur, reaching over to rest my hand on her thigh. I feel the slight tremor in her muscle, but she doesn’t pull away. “I’m just changing the scenery, Wendy. The sky is still the same colour.”
I pull the car up to the curb in front of Valentino. The doorman, a man I’ve tipped enough to put his children through Oxford, snaps to attention.
“Mr. Hale. A pleasure to see you again,” he says, bowing slightly.
“Enzo. The usual privacy, if you please,” I say, handing him the keys.
We walk into the store, and the world of noise and exhaust disappears, replaced by the scent of expensive leather, lilies, and the kind of quiet that only money can buy. The manager, a woman named Dominique who treats fashion like a religious war, glides toward us.
“Peter. You didn’t call,” she purrs, her eyes immediately darting to Wendy. She takes in the oversized coat, the bruised lips, and the haunted eyes, and doesn’t blink. She’s seen the aftermath of the Hale men before.
“A spontaneous urge to spoil,” I say, sliding my arm around Wendy’s waist and drawing her close. “Everything. Silk, lace, wool. No black. She’s had enough of the dark for one night. I want her in colours that make people’s eyes bleed.”
Clara bursts through the door then, looking like astray cat in a palace. She stalks up to me, her face a mask of suspicion.
“What the fuck is going on with the North End, Peter?” she demands, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “I saw two black SUVs following us since the estate. And don’t tell me they’re your ‘security.’ They had North End plates.”
I stiffen, the humour draining out of me for a fraction of a second. Viktor is bolder than I thought. Or stupider.
“Go find something with sequins, little sister,” I say, not looking at her. “The adults are talking.”
“Don’t ‘Little Sister’ me!” she hisses, stepping between me and Wendy. “Viktor doesn’t follow people for a shopping trip. He’s looking for a way in. Is this about her? Is Wendy the reason the city is about to go up in flames?”
I look at Wendy. She’s staring at a rack of silk gowns, her reflection caught in a dozen different mirrors. I think about the night I found her in the rain after her graduation. She’d been crying because her father hadn’t shown up. I’d taken her to a diner, fed her cherry pie, and promised her that I would never, ever miss a moment of her life.
I kept that promise. Even the moments she wished I’d missed.
“The city isn’t going up in flames, Clara,” I say, my voice dropping to that lethal, quiet register. “I’m just doing a bit of controlled burning. Now, if you’ll excuse us, my girl needs a new skin.”
