Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
SIMONA
M y phone died during my nap. The positive was Ryder didn’t get to hear me freak out realising I only have a few hours to get ready for dinner with Brody.
Leaving my phone charging, I race through a shower before slathering copious amounts of the Unity provided products. Since Brody had an issue with the desensitizer, at least he’s already aware I’m using it, and saying it’s a requirement as a student is a lot less dangerous than confessing how much his scent makes my stomach turn.
As much as I don’t want to, I log out of the profile I have for my Ryder interaction, before I also mute my Scorned Girls chat, and log out programs, even going so far as deleting them off my phone in case Brody demands to go through it.
Leaving a note on the kitchen island for the girls, I let them know I am out for the night. There’s a sense of relief at someone knowing where I am. My faith in Brody is non- existent and this way, at least if anything goes wrong, people who care know where I am.
There’s a car waiting for me when I walk out of the gates at Unity. Not a town car or a limousine, a yellow cab. The only thing that would be of concern is if I was in heat, because the cab doesn’t have any protective shields between me and the driver. The joke is on him, though, as the driver is a woman and by the looks of discontent on her face, we share the same views on men.
“Are you Simona Vanderling? I’m getting paid for this, child, so what I’m gonna say is all business and none of me, all right?”
I drop my eyes so she doesn’t see my eyes roll, but I tip my head to the side slightly as a sign for her to continue. I was looking for a seatbelt, but there is none. It’s nearly poetic really, considering I’m on a collision course in life.
She clears her throat then starts talking in a more masculine tone. “You’re late. We couldn’t wait.” She takes a sigh before handing me an envelope. “Apparently, I was meant to pretend that dumbass dropped this in my cab for you to find. But, girl, he didn’t even put his ass inside my car.”
The envelope is heavy and has an expensive feel to it. Lifting it up to my nose, I get a hint of the cab driver’s scent along with Brody’s, but under it, more predominant, is something familiar. but with the pressure of her gaze and anxiety thrumming through my veins, I can’t quite put my finger on it.
The drive is finished in minutes. I probably could have walked the distance in under fifteen minutes, but the drive is also a message.
I dig in my purse, pulling out a twenty, and I go to hand it to her even though she already told me she got paid. The money isn’t something I can afford to throw around because of course Brody is still being a tight ass when it comes to my allowance. I feel like I owe her, regardless.
“Yep, you clearly know who set up this whole fake ‘look at what I found’ drama shit. But I’m not taking your money, honey. I have a feeling you’re going to need all the help you can get if you’re meeting that unfortunate excuse of a man. Between us women though, don’t you forget any man comes at you and you don’t feel safe, you knee him right in the ball sack and scream fire.”
She nods her head then pulls into traffic without a backwards glance. I’m left standing in front of a restaurant straight out of the movies. The exterior a masterpiece of monolithic architecture—the solemn grey facade paired with aged black-framed windows draped in ivy. It reminds me of something meant for rich supernatural creatures, as if it’s unattainable for ordinary people. Judging by the line stretching down the sidewalk, it’s unattainable for most.
Considering it’s Brody I’m meeting—and knowing he wouldn’t have bothered making arrangements with the door man to let me skip the line—I take my place at the end of the queue. Naturally, it moves slowly. For the first twenty minutes or so, I watch the people who arrive after me, half-listening to their conversation while mentally preparing myself for the dressing-down I’ll get because of how long it’s taking me to get inside.
The line shuffles forward. I take a step, and the envelope from the cab slips out of my bag. Swooping down to grab it, I realize I’d forgotten about it—my mind busy bracing for the night with Brody instead. Dread pools low in my stomach as I tear it open, already knowing it was left to inflict some kind of hurt or damage.
Lifting the edge of the envelope, a small black card slides out, and the world gets ominously quiet. Turning the card to see if I can figure out what the heck it is, the metallic strip on one side and the name of ‘ Porte Noire ’ on the other doesn’t give me much to work with.
Another mystery for me to solve. Great.
“Name?”
The terse, bark-like question from the security man at the door startles me, and I realise why the conversation behind me has fallen silent. I step nearer so I don’t need to raise my voice like he did, stopping at the bottom stair, unsure if I’m supposed to be on the landing beside him. Much like the restaurant’s imposing exterior, he’s just as intimidating. If not for the air of superiority radiating off him—emphasised by the caustic arrogance on his scent—I wouldn’t second guess myself as much as I do. But that’s the nature of this place. It’s all about power here, and apparently the man working the door holds more of it than me.
I raise my head but not my eyes. “Vanderling. I’m part of a dinner reservation under the name of Henderson.”
Risking a look, I see he’s not watching me—his focus is on the tablet in his hands. Then he chuckles under his breath. I wish I had the guts to knee this Alpha in the balls for being such a dick.
“You’re late. You missed them. They finished up about ten minutes ago. Party of four.” The way he flicks his head up is a sign that he’s finished explaining the situation, but it’s also clear he wants me to move out of the line.
I feel strangely at peace knowing I didn’t get to step inside the restaurant. The wafting sense of superiority I get from the place is as off-putting as his attitude. The walk back to Unity sounds like it’s going to be the highlight of my evening.
Waiting for a large group of people to pass, I step in behind them and start to follow until I get an alert on my phone. Honestly, he must have a drone set up or something because Brody’s timing is impeccable .
There’s no apology, not that I expected one, just an address.
I suspect the next part of my night will see me waiting outside the front of some other fancy establishment while he does his thing again. But if it means avoiding spending actual time with Brody or the others in his party, I’d gladly wait for the seasons to change.
Following the maps on my phone, I know the second I turn the corner that I’ve arrived. Compared to the fancy restaurant, the energy pulsing from this place is as different as night and day. Even the air feels thick, like humidity after a tropical storm. But there’s something else, something enticing. It’s inviting, but not in a sinister way. If anything, it feels like a promise.
A door man waits out the front of a glossy black door, almost hidden in the matte black building facade. There’s nothing gaudy or showy yet it reeks of opulence, and warmth radiates from it.
“Darling, it’s late for you to be walking by yourself.”
There aren’t any internal alarms sounding when he calls me out or uses ‘darling’ to address me. If anything, the way he speaks makes him come across as someone who is actually concerned I am out by myself, like anyone in security should. And he is right. It is late for an unprotected Omega to be walking the streets, but I guess knowing I survived Brody gives me confidence. In my mind, anything that comes my way isn’t going to be as terrible as that, although at the same time I’m not putting myself in dangerous situations to test the theory. Except perhaps I am.
Another glance his way is all it takes to highlight the differences between him and the restaurant doorman. This Alpha has built a career on being a protector, but he doesn’t wield power as a weapon. Instead, it’s his need to look after people that drives him. Interestingly, I can meet his gaze—not for long, but long enough to confirm, once again, that he won’t be intentionally dominant or self-serving.
Trying to figure out my next steps—whether I want to ask him to find Brody for me, or if by simply being here I’ve complied with Brody’s expectation—my eyes fall to the black shirt he is wearing. In neat charcoal stitching, Porte Noire is embroidered on the pocket encased within a rectangle. Ah, it makes sense now. And it took a little while because I never really got the hang of French, but my rudimentary skills, and the symbolism of their logo, allows me to finally put it together—Porte Noire is French for black door.
Safe in the knowledge I’m where I’m meant to be, I pass the card given to me by the cab driver. “Simona Vanderling. This was left for me by Alpha Brody Henderson. He is expecting me.”
As I hand it back, he turns slightly to speak discreetly into a small microphone on his lapel. I didn’t see it or the earpiece when I first looked at him. I also didn’t see the cameras poised at the entrance recording our interaction.
His friendly nature shifts, and without the explanation I know is coming, my shoulders bunch and I get ready for his rebuttal. Extremely judgmental of me to assume he’s like that, but I drop my eyes in preparation and to lessen the impact. I focus on his shoes as I wait. I can hear him take another step back. His one-sided conversation continues until he reappears in front of me, his demeanour shifting. Now he seems even more protective, although there’s a new urgency to his mannerisms which is odd.
“Sorry to keep you, Ms. Vanderling. If you can follow me.”
My feet kind of refuse to move. I’m thrown by the change in him. Honestly, it feels like he is irritated or pissed off for some reason. When I lift my eyes, I’m even more confused because instead of watching me, he refuses to look at me directly and his designation is becoming more evident. Not in an aggressive way, but it brings a pinch of warning across my shoulders.
“Am I safe here?” The question bubbles out before I second guess myself.
“Of course,” he answers back quickly.
I wait for the scent of trickery, but it never comes. If anything, he’s fighting hard to not scent at all. He looks at me but not into my eyes. “Please let me take you inside.”
His lack of bark, or demand, is the deciding factor. I run with my first impression that he is a security guard, along with being a nice person, and I walk up the stairs, closing the distance between me and whatever is inside.
He holds the door open, and I step inside, waiting as he joins me in the lobby. The space is relatively small, considering the size of the building—four doors, one on each wall. The one behind me leads back outside. Without offering an explanation, he steps to the left and uses something on his wrist to unlock the door.
“This way,” he beckons, and I trail after him, following as he walks down a long corridor. It’s dark, not from a lack of lights, but because they’re set low, adding to the aesthetic. The interior designer had a vision—prestige and power—but it has an edge of sensuality to it. I suspect they are also texturally aware; the near black carpet is so thick under foot that I want to roll over it, and no matter how hard I try, I end up trailing my hand along the walls. The striped wallpaper is a combination of felt and gloss and the contrast is sublime. It comes together so perfectly that for the second time today, even under the effect of the suppressors and Unity medication, I feel a tremor of warmth starting to curl deep inside my body.
We come to a stop at another door. He knocks and almost immediately the door opens, but it must be electronically controlled because he takes me into an empty office.
The empty office of an Alpha.
You can see it in the furnishings, large, heavy pieces and heavy, dark and oozing power. It’s difficult to get a proper gauge on the owner because dotted around the room are perfume candles, expensive ones used to cut out individual scents.
“If you take a seat, he won’t be long,” the guard says, his voice low and laced with obvious respect for whoever he’s referring to.
The door shuts and I should feel trapped. The thought of being caged sends alarm trickling down my senses. Except at the same time, I make no attempt to leave. It feels wrong to even think of leaving. Instead, I spend the time choosing which chair I want to sit on.