Chapter 45
EAVESDROPPING
I’m barely halfway there when a woman steps into my path. She’s older, dressed in a gray satin gown and long black gloves. Gilded hairpins are worked into her hair in a halo, so bright and tightly situated it almost looks like a crown. Her face is set in confusion.
“You look terribly familiar,” she says, cupping my face in her hands and tilting my head up.
I cringe, but don’t wrench away. She shakes her head.
“My imagination must be getting the better of me again, forgive me.” She casts a sidelong glance around the room.
“You’d better get back to your mentor. It’s not safe for you to be wandering alone. ”
Not safe?
She’s gone before I can open my mouth to ask why. I make my way to one of the many refreshment tables, spotting a familiar face.
“You look like someone just pissed in your shoe,” Ryder says, hovering at the end of the table.
“A woman said I looked familiar,” I confess, hoping he’ll offer some kind of insight.
“Weird,” he counters. “She’s probably drunk.”
“What makes you say that?”
He makes a vague gesture around the room. “They’re all drunk.”
“Fair. Which drink should I get for Mister M?”
Ryder shrugs. “Whichever one makes him look the douchiest.”
I chuckle, grabbing two glasses from the end of the table. The liquid is crimson, the color of Mister M’s obnoxious suit. Perfect.
I return to find him gone. The man from before is nearby, a lone wolf in a pack of chaos.
“Have you seen my mentor?” I ask, offering Mr. Yoshida the glass.
Mr. Yoshida takes it with a deep nod. “Thank you, deary.” He tilts his chin toward a narrow wooden door tucked between banquet tables. “I recall seeing him follow a woman that way.”
I should leave it alone. Find V, or go back to Avery and wait the night out unless Mister M decides he needs to do more gloating. That’s what the obedient version of me would do.
But something in me strains against the thought. A flicker of curiosity—or defiance; they feel the same after being drugged for two weeks.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m already moving.
The door groans open. The corridor beyond is dim, illuminated by wall sconces that flicker faintly as I pass. Only one direction to go. My shoes click loudly, but I don’t have to venture far. Stark voices echo along the tile ahead of me before I even reach the turn.
“...second time’s the charm.” Mister M. His cadence is unmistakable.
“Maverick, surely you cannot be sincere.”
“Oh, but I am,” he replies, light as air.
Every instinct inside me screams to leave. Get back to safety before he finds me and makes things worse. Against my better judgement, I press a hand to the wall and edge closer. I’m far too curious to leave now. And curiosity isn’t rebellion unless you get caught.
“She doesn’t act a thing like the Ellington heir I remember.”
The what?
“That’s entirely the point, Ms. Amani. The program is built on reformation.”
Avery. She’s talking about Avery. Although I wouldn’t say she acted like much of anything this evening.
“Yes, I suppose.” Ms. Amani’s voice is laced with concern. “But do her parents know?”
Mister M—Maverick—chuckles, the sound of someone who enjoys being the smartest man in the room. “Know? I assure you, they are more than satisfied with her progress. Our elite team of doctors have been updating them regularly.”
Parents? She has parents who are watching her progress?
Parents who care? Something like jealousy burns inside me.
I force it down, remembering that her parents knowing only makes them more complicit.
They know what this place is doing to us, and they still gave up their daughter for the chance of perfection.
“Oh, I see.” Ms. Amani definitely doesn’t see. “Well, you should be pleased with yourself. She played beautifully tonight. Though I must say, it was a rather dark display compared to what we normally see at these sorts of festivities.”
“Indeed. An old academy classic. A piece from her roots.”
Piece? Avery couldn’t have played tonight; she could hardly stand up straight. And no one else in my pod was in attendance except—
Oh.
Oh God.
They’re not talking about Avery.
Before I know I’ve moved, I’m running. Heels clattering against the tiles in unsteady strides. My steps aren’t my own. My mind whirs. Buzzes. Goes blank.
Detonates.
Everything is wrong.
Wrong and bad and loud and—
Colt. I need to find Colt.
Or Ralston. Or V. Or anyone who isn’t Maverick.
I need answers, and I need them right now before my brain explodes. A stray tear hits my cheek. I flick it away.
I’m being stupid. So stupid and rash, but I don’t care.
Twice.
I’ve been through the program twice?
How is that even possible?
I want to believe I misunderstood. I misheard them. I’m reading too much into silly things.
Or more likely, I’m naive, memory-wiped, and blind.
I turn another corner, spotting the same marble pillar I passed two minutes ago. The back hallways are so confusing. An enforcer approaches. Older, with cropped hair and a scowl plastered on his features.
“Where are you headed?” he asks, eyebrows raised in suspicion.
“I have to go find out if my whole life’s been a lie!” I don’t say.
“I’m feeling ill,” I lie, rubbing my hands against my dress. “I need to use the restroom.”
“Where’s your mentor?” He’s pressing now, physically blocking me from pushing further into the hallway.
“Preoccupied with another girl from my pod.” Another lie. Still unconvincing.
Fine. If I can’t lie to his face, I’ll switch tactics.
I force myself to double over, coughing violently.
Cry. Gag. Repeat. When I look back up, the man is shell-shocked, watching me with confusion and a dash of fear.
He steps aside, but he’s speaking harshly into his comm now, looking me up and down.
I stride past him, slipping down another hall.
He’s unlikely to know my name or designation, so as long as I can get far enough from here, I shouldn’t need to worry about backup arriving.
I’ve almost completed a full loop around the back hallways before it dawns on me.
Without an escort, I won’t be able to get back into the training wing.
Seeing little other choice, I force composure and step back into the ballroom, scanning for any familiar face. But I see none. Besides Vance, who’s still standing behind Avery in the far corner. Yeah no. Not an option.
I chance another step forward, but there’s a firm hand on my elbow.
I wrench away, expecting to come face-to-face with Maverick.
Instead, it’s V. Face painted with concern as he takes me in.
It hits me that I must look like a wreck from fake crying, gagging, and sprinting down the halls in impractical heels.
“Maysie?” he says, brows furrowed. “What’s wrong? Where’s Mis—”
“Is it true?” Is all I can manage to bite out.
He pauses, really confused now. “Is what true?”
The words die in my throat. I bite my lip, holding back tears as I grab his arms, squeezing them tight enough to leave marks. His face flashes with panic. He runs a thumb along his cuff, cueing a breath reset. I follow, shakily. He motions for the door.
“Maysie, you need to talk to me. What’s wrong? Is what true?”
“Is it—” My words trail into a coughing fit. A real one, this time. He pulls me toward the door, shielding my face with his arm.
“It’s fine. You’re fine,” he says. His other hand is on my back, guiding me into the hallway with careful efficiency. Once we’re far enough in a side hall, he spins me to face him.
“Talk to me.” It sounds like a command, but his icy eyes are soft as they find mine.
“The program?” I manage, though it sounds like a question. My cheeks heat. “Maverick said— He said—” V cringes as soon as I slip Mister M’s real name. “I’ve been here before.” It’s hardly a rasped whisper, but he hears me.
Confusion. Panic. Guilt. The rate at which the emotions flicker across his face should win some kind of award.
That’s the only answer I need.
I take a step back; he matches it. His gaze is so intense, so blue in this light that it feels like he’s trying to freeze me in place.
“Maysie, I…” He trails off. I’m acutely aware of bootfalls. He tosses a haphazard look over his shoulder, exhales sharply, then grips my wrist. “Not here.”
We’re moving again. He’s dragging me down the hallway, shaking his head, breath labored.
“Wait!” I bite my lip to keep from crying. I root myself in place, gripping the gilded wall for any kind of anchor.
“Es—Maysie.” He shakes his head sharply, tripping over his words.
“Please. This is not the time to be stubborn.” V pulls again, but the walls I’ve constructed in my mind might as well be true concrete, solidifying right here.
His face looks so pained when he turns back.
I close my eyes. The steps grow closer, pounding in rhythm.
“No. No I can’t. I—”
“Maysie, please. You can scream at me. Question me. Fight me. Hate me. I don’t care. But you can’t do it here.”
That sobers me enough for rational thought to return. I pry my feet from the floor and let him guide me out. I’m still mad, still confused, and very, very angry. But staying here won’t get me any closer to what I need.
Answers. I need answers. And I need them now.