Chapter 62
The next night, Rook and I enter the main floor of Fiama Society Tower A through the service entrance. I’ve snuck in and out of this building enough times to know how to do it without being spotted by the doorman who sits at the front.
Cyril is also eighty-seven years old and tends to sleep on the night shift.
Even without using the back entrance, slinking past him isn’t much of a challenge.
But the job seems to offer him purpose, and the Fiama Towers are safe from thieves, with every floor equipped with state-of-the-art security systems.
A would-be troublemaker wouldn’t get far.
We both decided to dress in regular clothing on the off chance that we’re spotted. I can pretend I’m returning to my parents’ apartment to pick up something I need for school.
I’m wearing jeans and a pink crop top, while Rook is wearing his signature denim and black T-shirt with cowboy boots. As we wait for the elevator, I can’t help but admire the way the worn denim hugs his thighs and hips.
“What is it?” he asks, arching a brow, obviously reading my mind and fishing for a compliment.
I shrug. “Nothing special.”
He smirks as the doors slide open, and we ride up to the penthouse.
“They’re gone for sure?” he asks, watching the glowing numbers climb.
“Cara confirmed they were heading out at seven tonight, so the coast should be clear.”
“Who’s Cara?”
“Our housekeeper.”
He looks at me, pausing momentarily before he watches the numbers again. I hate how many differences come between us, highlighted by these constant reminders of how divided our worlds are.
“She has the night off,” I say quietly. “So she won’t be around.”
“I’m not blaming you for having a housekeeper,” he says.
“I know you’re not.”
“It’s just . . .” He runs a hand through his hair. “When it’s just you and me, I forget who you are and who I am and that none of this makes any sense.”
I cross the space and lean against him, so we’re pressed to the wall. His hands land on my hips, warm fingers digging into the exposed skin of my midriff. “I don’t care about any of that.”
“You say that, but you’re used to a certain life and I—” He pauses, a sigh heaving from his chest. “I have no idea what’s in store for me.”
I offer him a curious look. “You’ll finish at Amery and become a Storm Guard,” I say. “You’ll have all the privileges of Society. Our differences won’t matter then.”
He doesn’t reply, his mouth pressing together before the elevator glides to a stop and the doors open with a soft ping.
We enter the living room, lit only with a few dim lamps, as Rook exhales a low, impressed whistle. “This is quite an apartment.” There’s no judgment in his tone, only interest and a bit of awe.
He walks over to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city before stuffing his hands into his pockets. “And this view. I think I could stand here every day. Almost feels like I could see home from here.”
Home. He says it so warmly and with such longing that I don’t know if I’ve ever really understood how much he misses it until now.
“How far is it?” I ask, approaching. We stand side by side, watching the city lights as he hesitates. A glance at his profile reveals his distant stare, like he isn’t sure how to answer me. Or maybe doesn’t want to.
“Far,” is all he says, and when it’s obvious that’s all he’s saying, I turn toward my father’s study.
“We should keep moving,” I add.
A green lamp on the desk offers enough light to maneuver through the room. I open a few drawers and pick through the contents, careful not to disturb anything too much.
Rook enters and slowly circles the space, peering at the shelves and art and furniture with acute interest.
Suddenly, I feel self-conscious with him standing in the circle of my advantages. We’ve worked so hard to break down the barriers between us. Watching him examine the opulence I grew up in is wiping away those carefully erased lines.
I open another drawer to reveal a row of shiny cards tucked into neat little slots.
“Here,” I whisper, and he walks over.
“Which one is it?”
I shake my head and begin removing them one by one, holding them up to the light. Some are obviously used for various payments, and others are different types of identification.
“These are spare apartment keys,” I say before stuffing them into their slots and revealing a few red cards emblazoned with the House Fiama logo. “This must be for his office.”
I sift through the others until I come upon a plain silver square without markings or emblems. I hold it up, examining it under the light. “You think?”
“If I wanted to create a key for a highly classified security office, I’d probably make it as nondescript as possible,” Rook answers.
I nod, but something about it doesn’t feel right. I distinctly remember the flash of red in the scion of Asale’s hand.
“Or disguise it to look like something else,” I say, picking up the House Fiama cards.
I flip them over and study them under the lamplight, comparing them for any clues.
“This one,” I say, revealing a card with no writing on the back. I tilt it toward the light, catching a holographic flash of The Shield’s logo, cleverly hidden unless you’re looking for it.
“Okay,” Rook says with a skeptical brow. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m not, but let’s hope my hunch is right.”
I replace everything in the drawer and tuck the key card into my back pocket. “Let’s get out of here.”
We enter the living room again, and Rook stops. “Can I see your room?”
“Why?”
“I’m curious. I want to see what makes Poet Graves tick.”
I glance at the door, worried about how long we’ve lingered.
“Just for a second,” he says, and I lead him down the hallway and open the door.
Light from the city illuminates the surfaces, shadowing the dim corners.
“It’s . . .” I try to find an explanation for why it looks like a child’s bedroom. “I never got around to redecorating.”
He smirks as he stuffs his hands in his pockets and glances around the space. “It’s strangely you.”
“What? Pretentious? Ridiculous and immature? Overly complicated?”
He huffs out a small laugh and then turns to face me, running a finger along my hairline and down the curve of my jaw. “No, warm and safe. Beautiful and special.” He pauses. “Concealing layers of emotion underneath.”
I give him a half smile. “I’m sure you’re lying, but I’ll take it.”
He breaks into a beautiful smile that inexplicably makes my heart hurt. I hate how tenuous this all feels. Like we’re both glass left to sit on a window ledge on a windy day.
“It’s strange having you here,” I confess. “I didn’t think I’d ever see this place again. It feels like I’ve compartmentalized my life into before Fiama and after Fiama, and this apartment lives in the before, where I think it’ll probably stay forever.”
He tips his head. “And I’m after?”
“You are. You’re a part of my real life now. The one where I stood up for myself and finally started being true to who I want to be.”
Pride flashes in his eyes as he takes my hand, kissing my fingers. “Thank you for showing me this piece of you. We should probably go.”
I nod, and the lights flip on, casting us into a harsh, accusing glare. We both spin around to find someone standing in the doorway.
“Mom,” I gasp.