Ten
Eve
Three Months Later
My phone warbles, the messenger ringtone that means Billie is calling me. I grin and pick it up. “It must be the middle of the night.”
“Fuck that. Happy birthday!”
Billie’s smiling face stares at me from the screen. It’s dark outside her window, even though it’s only four here. She’s been in Italy for three weeks now for a prestigious paid internship at the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, the latest in a list of fortunate occurrences that have blessed our lives.
Funny, that.
First, our tight-assed landlord announced our little house with its mold and rickety back door wasn’t fit for habitation. Instead, he moved us to one of his other properties, which is much newer and nicer and right next to campus. No more long walks home in the dark. And out of the goodness of his heart, he was going to charge us the same rent .
Even if I hadn’t already been suspicious, the blink twice if you need help look on his face as he made the pronouncement would have raised a red flag.
Next, Professor Gruber, a horrible old lech who always stared down my top while criticizing my work, announced his retirement. Odd, at the grand old age of forty-seven.
I broke my glasses, and a new pair arrived the very next day.
Billie’s credit card debt disappeared.
And multiple other small things until Billie got the offer of the internship. An unbelievable honor that would send her career flying like nothing else could.
And, of course, it got her out of the way.
Ever since she got on the plane, all hugs, tears, and promises to call every day, I’ve had the creeping sense that something is going to happen, that whatever debt is due for all the generous benefits we’ve received is about to be paid.
Part of me is ready for it. I’m sick of looking over my shoulder. Get on with it, mystery man. Just do whatever it is you’re going to do.
I blink away the thoughts and focus on Billie. “I got your present! I love it. You’re amazing.”
I turn the phone to show her the painting she had two of her friends deliver this morning. It’s an abstract, her usual style, but the swirling shapes and bright colors are exactly the sort of chaos I love. I hung it straight away in pride of place above my desk. “It’ll be worth a million when you’re famous. I won’t sell it, though.”
She looks down with a shy smile. For all her confidence, Billie is as nervous about her creations as any artist. “I’m glad you like it. Did you have a good birthday?”
I shrug. “Just the usual. Classes all day. ”
“You didn’t even skip? You’re such a teacher’s pet. I’d have been drunk hours ago.”
“And that’s the reason my grades are going to get better this semester.”
We both laugh, but my heart lurches. I’m so proud of Billie, and I’m happy she got this opportunity, even if it came from the mystery man. She deserves it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss her. Even Love Island is boring without her.
I force a bit of cheer into my voice. “I’ve got the ball tonight. That might be fun. Maybe.”
All the enrichment students have been invited to a ball held at the Ritz, an old cinema they’ve converted into an event venue. I’ve only been there once before, but I love it. It’s the perfect mix of fancy and quirky.
There are rumored to be some big names in the pharmaceutical industry attending, so I need to somehow manage to be confident and charming. My future career might depend on it.
Billie’s eyes widen, and she lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Are you going to wear the dress?”
My stomach flips. Why did she have to bring that up? When the envelope containing the invitation arrived at my door, so did panic at how in the heck I would afford to go. My budget doesn’t exactly stretch to ballgowns. But the next day, in a box that probably cost a hundred dollars all on its own, a dress arrived at my door.
The most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen.
It’s red, a color I still struggle to wear thanks to my wonderful mother, and skims the floor with a small, glittery train. It hugs my figure without feeling too revealing, and the high neckline offsets a racy, plunging back. In the box, on top of the dress, lay a single playing card. The jack of hearts.
Of course I know who sent it .
I take a moment before answering Billie. “Do you think I should?”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, let me think. Your mysterious billionaire rescuer sends you a five-thousand-dollar fucking dress to wear on your birthday. What a difficult decision.”
Billie is completely entranced by my mystery man, convinced he’s going to propose in some dramatic fashion and make all my dreams come true. I love her optimism, but I can’t share it. Nothing comes for free.
On the other hand, a fatalistic urge to move things along gains more hold over me every day. Why not wear the darn dress?
On the drive home after the night I try not to think about, Billie peppered the man driving, Sebastian, with questions he steadfastly ignored. I hadn’t been able to form a sentence. I just lay in the back seat, mind torn between the horror of what we’d just been through and the look on Gabriel’s face as he wrapped me in his coat.
I’d never seen a look like that on anyone’s face, ever. Intense and soft all at once. Like I was something precious.
“I’ll wear it.” I make the decision at the same time the words leave my mouth.
Billie whoops. “Atta girl. Maybe he’ll propose tonight.” A grin spreads across her face. “Maybe he’s the prince of some tiny little nation in Europe. He’ll bring you over here, and you can visit me in his helicopter every day for lunch.”
I have to smile at that. “Oh, really. And what about college?”
She lets out a long, exasperated sigh. “My God. This is wasted on you.”
We both laugh and chat for another hour about nothing until I glance at the time with a yelp. “I need to go! I have to be there in an hour.”
She frowns. “It really starts at six? That’s so early.”
I grab the invitation, checking it for the tenth time. “Definitely six.”
She shrugs. “Well, have fun. Call me tomorrow with all the details. Every little thing!”
“Will do. Promise.” I end the call.
In a rush, I jump into the shower and go through the usual prep routine on autopilot. Wash and dry hair. Style it into loose waves with my heating iron. Apply makeup. Put on perfume.
Crap. The bottle is empty. I race into Billie’s room and grab a bottle at random. Any will do. I spray it on, then freeze, instant adrenaline poisoning my blood.
I’m back in that black SUV, crushed on top of Billie, Cole’s finger in my ass, struggling to breathe through my nose and getting the scent of Billie’s perfume with every breath. I’m there, and the room shrinks, blackness creeping in at the edges. I can’t breathe, just like I couldn’t that night. The air is hot, thick soup, too hard to get into my lungs.
I stagger back into my room, open my closet, and pull out my secret weapon. The lifeline I’ve clung to every time this happens. The worn leather of the jacket is soft beneath my fingers, and I wrap myself in it, feeling the smooth, cool lining against my bare skin.
The scent of the leather and the lingering scent of Gabriel’s cologne, chase away the offending smell of the perfume. I wrap the jacket tighter, as tight as I can, and just for a moment, I feel safe. Safe, like I did when he wrapped it around me in that nightmare cabin.
I haven’t even told Billie about my weird habit. She wouldn’t laugh at me, but it feels too strange to admit. Once, when I woke from a particularly bad nightmare right after Billie left for Italy, I even slept in the darn thing. I don’t know why it helps, but it’s the only thing that does .
When I calm down enough, I jump back in the shower, heedless of my makeup and carefully done hair, and scrub myself until every trace of the perfume is gone. Then I throw it into the trash. I’ll get Billie a new one as a present when she comes back.
I make it out of the door with ten minutes to spare. The dress is gorgeous, but it doesn’t allow for much movement, so I have to take small steps to my waiting Uber. Terrible Australian rap music assaults my ears through the short, tense drive as I stare out the window without taking in the scenery. I get out, relieved to be away from the racket, and study the venue.
The pretty facade still has the old-school Ritz sign, repainted many times, hanging above the door. A burly doorman, too bulky for the black and white tailcoat and the red flower in his buttonhole, greets me with a smile as I hand over my invitation.
“Good evening, miss. You’re one of the first to arrive. Please, head through to the ballroom and help yourself to refreshment.”
I thank him and totter in. The squashy red carpet doesn’t agree with my heels, but at least the ballroom has a wooden floor if I’m remembering right. Old framed movie posters, signed by long-forgotten actors, hang in the corridor.
It’s quiet.
The realization hits me all at once as I reach the double doors to the ballroom. Even if I’m early, there should be people around. Staff, waiters, and a few other type-A guests who can’t stand to be less than fifteen minutes early to anything.
There’s no one. No music. No clinking of plates or chatter of wait staff setting up. Nothing. A deep, cold chill settles into my veins as I stare through the doors into the empty ballroom.
The large space, which I remember as cheerful and warm, lies in darkness save for a single spotlight trained on a table with a single chair. I freeze at the door. Should I run for the exit? Something tells me I wouldn’t get far. Whatever this is, that doorman has to be in on it.
That odd, fatalistic mood settles over me again as I walk, like a puppet on strings, to the table. I knew something was going to happen. I knew it when I waved goodbye to Billie and when I put on the dress. I’ve been in a constant state of anxiety waiting for the hammer to fall.
And now it has.
A bottle and a lone glass stand on the table. It looks like champagne, but instead of a normal label, there’s just a scrawled note that says, “Drink Me!” and a picture of a manic Cheshire cat. I cover my mouth at the reference.
Alice in Wonderland . My mom caught me with a copy of the old book and tore the pages out one by one, throwing them into the fire. Once I moved out, the first thing I bought for myself was a brand-new copy and it still sits next to my bed.
He knows. My mystery man knows.
Legs suddenly weak, I sink into the chair. The bubbles pop as I lift the glass. Recently poured. Someone was in here only moments ago.
Just as I look to the double doors, they slam shut.
I jump, and some of the liquid spills out of the glass. My heart picks up, slamming against my ribs. Trapped. I’m trapped here, in whatever game this is. A note sticks to the bottom of the glass. Fingers shaky, I unfold it.
Happy birthday, little liar. We can finally be together. Drink up.
Little liar. The same name on the gift of the playing cards all those months ago. The night he came into my life without asking and changed everything .
I bring the glass to my nose and inhale the scent of the drink. It smells like champagne, not that I’m an expert. It’s a tipping point, and I’m balanced on the edge of the cliff, staring over the edge.
Drinking it feels like saying yes, and I don’t know what to.
I close my eyes. I should throw the glass to the floor and run. Pull out my phone and call 911. I should make the sensible choice, report my mystery man to the police, and do everything I can to get my life back on track. I should.
But in my mind's eye, I see Gabriel as he wrapped me in his jacket. There’s a connection there, between him and me. I’m pulled toward him and the strange possibilities he holds.
I’ve never been able to leave a mystery unsolved. I need to know . The mad urge that drove me this far clamors at me, urging me to act. To find out. To take a darn risk for once in my life.
Without letting myself think any longer, I bring the glass to my lips and drink.