Without smiling back, he walks past me, his gaze bypassing my face to sweep the room. He inspects the flowers, the table settings, the lighting—hunting for a crack. For any reason to be disappointed.
Stopping at the floral arch, he reaches out, his manicured hand hovering over a white peony. He finds a petal that has begun to curl at the edge—a natural occurrence, invisible from two feet away—and pinches it between his thumb and forefinger.
He rips it off and lets it flutter to the marble floor.
“It looks... adequate,” he says. While the words are the closest thing to a compliment he’s uttered in ages, his pitch is devoid of warmth.
A flush of heat creeps up my neck. “I can replace that bloom, sir. I have extras in the cooler.”
He turns to me. His blue eyes are the same shade as mine, but where mine are usually wide with worry, his are narrowed with calculation. He steps into my personal space, bringing with him the scent of dry-cleaning starch and expensive scotch.
“Adequate is not the standard, Iris. Not this week.”
He reaches out and curls a finger into my hair, tugging enough to force my chin up. He tucks a strand behind my ear, his thumb pressing lightly against the pulse point at my throat.
“You’re tired,” he observes. “There are bags under your eyes. Did you sleep last night?”
“I was reviewing the seating charts,” I lie.
“You look frazzled. A Hale woman does not look frazzled. She looks effortless.” He drops his hand, wiping his fingers on his handkerchief as if touching me had somehow soiled him. It takes everything in me not to slap the silk square right out of his hand. “Senator Caldwell confirmed his attendance an hour ago. The rumors are true. The Supreme Court seat is opening up next month.”
A spike of adrenaline hits my chest. This is it. The moment he has been engineering my entire life around.
“That’s wonderful news,” I whisper.
“It’s not news yet. It’s an opportunity. And opportunities are fragile things.” He leans in close, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. “Do you remember the Summer Solstice party three years ago?”
A tremor works its way down my spine. “Yes.”
“You ordered the wrong vintage of Chardonnay. The Governor noticed. He made a joke about it. I spent six monthsrepairing that relationship. One bottle of wine, Iris. One small detail.”
He grips my shoulder, his fingers digging into the muscle hard enough to hurt.
“This nomination is the endgame. The President is watching. The Committee is watching. Do not let a wilted petal embarrass this family. Do not let a stain on a tablecloth cost me my legacy. Do you understand?”
Not whether I want this. Not whether I can carry it. Only whether I understand the price of failing him.
“I understand,” I say. “It will be perfect.”
“See that it is.” He releases me abruptly. “Go home. Fix your face. Sleep. If you look like a corpse at the Gala, stay out of sight.”
He turns and walks away, his security detail falling in step behind him. I watch him go, feeling small and hollowed out. I’m twenty-four years old, but in his presence, I’m six again, trembling because I spilled grape juice on the carpet.
I wait until the doors click shut behind him before I finally breathe. I look down at my hands.
They are shaking, fresh blood welling from the cut he hadn't even noticed. I’m surrounded by fifty thousand dollars of white flowers, but suddenly, the sweet scent of the wisteria is gone, and all I can smell is blood.
My apartment is a glass box in the sky.
It was a graduation gift from my father—a penthouse overlooking the park, decorated by his interior designer in shades of beige, cream, and gray. It’s beautiful, expensive, and completely devoid of life. There are no photos on the walls. Nomessy stacks of books. It looks like a hotel suite that no one actually lives in.
I unlock the door at 9:30 p.m. and kick off my heels. My feet are swollen, with red marks cutting into the skin. Leaving the shoes in the foyer to align perfectly parallel to the wall, I walk into the kitchen and pour a glass of water, my hand still trembling slightly. I pull my phone out of my purse.
No messages. No missed calls.
I scroll through my contacts—the caterer, the lighting tech—and pause on a blocked number I haven’t deleted in three years. Leo. My college boyfriend. The only boy I ever loved.
He was chaotic and loud, his apartment always smelling like turpentine and cheap beer. He didn’t care who my father was.
