Silent Vendetta

Chapter 1

IRIS

My thumb is bleeding.

Even without looking down, I can feel the warm slide of it inside my latex glove. A thorn from one of the white Avalanche roses snagged me ten minutes ago, slicing through the rubber and into the skin.

I ignore it.

The archway towering above me in the Grand Hall of the Waldorf Museum is eighteen feet of cascading white wisteria, cream-colored roses, and seeded eucalyptus.

The sweetness is dense enough to coat the back of my throat.

It masks the chemical bite of floor wax beneath my heels, but it can’t mask the nausea curling in my gut.

This arch costs fifty thousand dollars. It has to be flawless.

“To the left,” I say, my voice echoing in the cavernous, marble-floored expanse. “No, Marcus, stop. You’re bunching the garland. It needs to drape, not hang. It’s supposed to look like it grew out of the stone, not like we stapled it there.”

Marcus, the venue manager, lets his head drop back against the top rung of the ladder. He rubs the bridge of his nose, the exhaustion of a twelve-hour shift radiating off him.

“Ms. Hale,” he says, wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “It’s straight. Nobody is going to be measuring the curvature of the wisteria with a protractor.”

I step back, scanning the arch. I don’t look for what’s right. I look for what will fail. That’s my talent and my curse. To anyone else, this is a masterpiece. To me, it is a collection of potential errors waiting to happen.

“The President of the Bar Association will be walking through that arch in three days,” I say, keeping my tone level. “Senator Caldwell will be standing directly beneath it for the photo op. If it looks asymmetrical in the New York Times, Marcus, people will notice.”

My father will notice.

Marcus grumbles something under his breath, but he shifts the garland to the left. The tension in the greenery releases, and the flowers cascade properly, framing the entrance to the ballroom in a smooth, effortless sweep.

“Better,” I say, releasing an anxious breath.

I peel off the torn latex gloves and toss them aside. I wipe my hands on my apron, checking the Cartier watch on my wrist. The hands read five past eight. My stomach twists.

I’ve been here since six in the morning. My feet are throbbing in my heels. I haven’t eaten since breakfast—just a dry piece of toast and three cups of black coffee—but hunger is distant, irrelevant with my mile-long to-do list.

I walk the perimeter of the room, assessing. A hydrangea is leaning three degrees too far forward. I adjust it and pick a microscopic piece of lint off a white tablecloth.

“Marcus,” I call out, nodding toward the VIP Study.

“The orange lilies. The buds are starting to swell. The second they peel back, I want the anthers plucked and bagged. If a single grain of that rust pollen touches the mahogany table or the Senator’s suit, I will have your head. Do you understand?”

Marcus rolls his eyes but mumbles an affirmative and heads to the study with a pair of floral snips.

The brass handles on the main doors click, and the massive panels swing inward.

I stop moving, the vastness of the hall suddenly feeling suffocatingly small.

Judge William Hale enters the hall. He’s not alone. He’s flanked by a small entourage: two security guards, a nervous-looking aide, and the museum’s Director of Donor Relations.

My father is smiling.

It’s the smile that got him here, warm, crinkling the corners of his eyes, projecting the image of “America’s Grandfather.” He pauses to shake the Director’s hand, throwing his head back at a joke I can’t quite hear. He looks distinguished, benevolent, and utterly charming.

Then, the Director bows out, and the aide scurries away.

The doors click shut. The audience is gone.

The smile vanishes from his face like a light switch flicked off.

He turns toward me. His posture shifts, growing taller and colder as he walks across the marble floor, the clack-clack-clack of his expensive dress shoes echoing like gunshots in the empty room.

“Father,” I say, offering the soft, demure smile I practiced in the mirror for years. “We’re just finishing the lighting checks.”

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 months repairing 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. No messy 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.

Well, at least until my father found a possession charge from when Leo was eighteen, a single joint, and threatened to have him expelled and blacklisted if he didn’t disappear.

Leo disappeared. Everyone leaves. Except the Judge.

I catch my reflection in the darkened window. My blonde hair is a mess of static and frizz, making me look like a ghost in a designer dress. Pale, wide-eyed, and lost in the in between. It’s pathetic.

“Pull yourself together, Iris,” I whisper to the empty room.

Fix your face, he said.

Shoulders squaring, I go to the bathroom and double cleanse, scrubbing my skin until it burns, trying to wash away the frazzled look he hates.

I apply toner, then a tightening serum, then a night cream, smoothing it over the dark circles under my eyes like I’m spackling a crack in a wall.

A rigid regimen I’m all too accustomed to.

I brush my hair until my scalp aches, braiding it so tight it pulls the skin of my temples taut. By the time I turn off the light, the tired girl is gone, and only the Judge’s daughter remains.

I get into bed and pull the duvet to my chin.

Closing my eyes, I beg for sleep. More importantly, I beg for mercy.

But the nightmare is always the same and returns on schedule.