“Huh. Well, I’m going to hit the showers. We’ve got a week until the next Market. And this time, you’ll be with us.”
I blink at her. It’s like she’s excited in some messed-up way.
Juliette disappears around the corner, her humming fading beneath the hiss of running water. I stay still, staring after her until the sound is gone. My hands won’t stop trembling, but I press them together anyway, pretending it’s to keep warm.
This isn’t a performance. It’s not a nightmare I’ll wake up from. It’s real, and no one’s coming to pull me out of it. No one is coming to save me. If I want out,I’llhave to find a way.
CHAPTER SIX
SLADE
A string quartet plays near the back of the restaurant, and I have the urge to pluck one of the strings off their instruments and strangle them with it. While the maître d' leads me to our reserved table, I glance out the wall of windows, wrapping the room in a panoramic view of the Chicago River.
I’ve always loved this restaurant, as insufferable as it may be, and the standing lunch date company is tedious. It sits on top of one of Chicago’s tallest high-rises, the walls a bright white with fresh cuisine and no smoking. A stark difference from EV’s shadowed underground club and permanent choking fog.
I’m seated at our usual table beside the glass overlooking the water, the ripples from passing boats mirrored in the skyline across the river. There’s something about it—watching the water cut through a city of steel and concrete. It’s fluid, alive. Despite the city being built on all the noise, it’s rather pleasant.
Taking a sip of the water already poured at the table, I scan the menu, then push it aside, opting to stick with my usual citrus-herb grilled chicken salad. Whispers float around me as I lean back in my chair, facing the city. They aren’t loud enough for me to hear them, but every Thursday while I wait, the other diners discuss the latest rumors as if I’m not even in the room.
My grandfather would say I need to “work the room” or turn any gossip into “echoes of admiration,” but I stopped caring about the DuPont name years ago. Now, it’s a means to an end.
The polished wooden table gleams under the soft natural light filtering in, and I rest both elbows on it, casually turning my wrist to look at the time. Late. Always late. As if my time is worth less than his—probably near it.
With a loud slap, a newspaper drops onto the empty place setting in front of me. “What kind of fresh shit is this?”
My grandfather’s ire makes me flinch and sends a zing of excitement down my spine. I study the headline on the front page.
Congressman DuPont Donates Millions to Illinois Library Associationby Piper Reeves.
My gaze flits to him as he pulls out the chair across from me and unbuttons his suit jacket to sit.
“Billions. We have billions. Buy a jet. Hell, spend it with EV being too vanilla with your girls, but the library, Slade?”
I adjust my glasses and lean back, bringing the paper with me, pretending to read the article. Then I shrug.
The twitch in his jaw is almost worth it. He hates that the money wasn’t used for more posturing. It grates against every expectation of the DuPont name. Maybe that’s why I do it—because watching him unravel over library funding feels better than any jet his money could buy.
My grandfather sighs and snaps his fingers at the nearest waitress. She isn’t assigned to this table from the looks of her confused expression, but she smiles and bats her eyelashes when she takes in our expensive suits.
“What can I get you, sir?” She addresses my grandfather, but her eyes slide to me, heavy lidded, and she bites at her lower lip while the curve of her mouth slowly lifts.
“French seventy-five with Dom Pérignon, sweetheart.” He winks and she grins.
I tug at the knot on my tie, fingers adjusting and twisting as I watch a small boat cut straight down the middle of the river. A delicate hand lands on my shoulder, and I jerk away.
The waitress’s muddy eyes widen, and she steps back. “And for you?”
I gesture toward the water, then raise the glass in a toast-like motion before taking a sip.
“Good with water, I take it. I’ll be right back with your drink and to take your order.”
After she sways from the table, my grandfather’s devouring stare trailing after her, he smirks. “She’d make a good asset. Senator Graves said they brought in a new girl over the weekend, and now half the members are buzzing about tomorrow night. Fresh blood. It always takes fresh blood to revive any stagnation. I’ve been telling them this.”
I study my grandfather over the rim of my glass.
“Have you heard from Vaughan?” he asks.
I shake my head. But I’m curious why they’re so eager to get Vaughan back on US soil.
