Chapter 36
Thirty-Six
Zee
There wasn’t supposed to be a next time.
There wasn’t supposed to be another man added to my list.
Our list.
I did the unforgivable thing. I waited for alarms. Sirens. Handcuffs. Instead, I got showered, cared for, and a man who looks at me like I’m not the monster I know I am.
“It’s good, but it’s not as good as mine.”Atlas’s hand lands on my knee under the table in the hotel dining room, his soft lips landing on my cheek.
Tingles erupt on my skin as I blink at what’s in front of me.
Crepes and eggs Benedict.
Either I’ve died and joined my father in heaven, or this is the part before I plummet into hell.
This is the first time since we’ve been held up in this hotel that we’ve had breakfast down here. It’s usually room service or delivery. Now Atlas sits by my side like we’re a couple on any old vacay.
The small room overlooks the river with velvet antique chairs and small round tables. Vintage art in detailed frames sit between dim antique lighting. Jazz plays between the clattering of dishes and the morning chatter.
“This feels pretty unreal.” As I sink further into my chair, the buttery smell of crepes fills my nose.
My head falls against Atlas’s shoulder, his grip tightening on my knee as he reaches over and sprinkles some blueberries in the middle of my crepe.
His lips land on my head, a wave of warmth coursing through me.
An older couple at the table next to us glances over.
My muscles tense, sitting up before they both smile.
The woman leans over. “Honeymoon?”
Atlas speaks first. “Something like that.”
“You make a lovely couple,” she beams. The man next to her tries to pull her back to her meal. “Congratulations. Where’s home?”
Her question strikes a pang in my chest, my head lifting to look at Atlas.
He looks so unbothered, slicing into his eggs, his shoulders down. “Wherever she wants it to be.”
I blink.
We can’t stay here.
We can’t go back to Eastmount.
Will we be on the run forever?
The old man manages to pull her back to her breakfast.
“Where can it be?” I ask, my voice low.
Did I make things worse?
Am I that unhinged?
Atlas leaves his fork on his plate, his arm wrapping around me as he pulls me close. My muscles relax as I sink against him.
I know home is with him. But we still need a place to sleep. To grow. To live.
“We can’t stay in Eastmount,” he says, as he takes a sip of coffee. “We can’t stay in Montreal.” My stomach knots. “Still have your ticket for S?o Paulo?”
I shift in my seat.
S?o Paulo sounds beautiful and warm.
Foreign.
It means a new language, a new culture, a whole new way of life.
Before I can answer, Atlas’s muscles tighten, his head snapping up. Mine does too as I follow his gaze towards the open double doors, leading out into the hotel hallway.
A group of men walk down the hall in suits. Six. Seven? They’re older, a couple of them with briefcases in their hands. Not one of them looks inside, even as other eyes in the room shift to them.
“Finish your breakfast, Zee,” Atlas says.
And that can only mean one thing. “Is that them?”
Atlas nods.
My chest tightens as I push from my seat, and I’m grateful for what I picked to wear today. Atlas’s charcoal sweater hangs off my frame like a fine-knit dress, stopping mid-thigh. His large socks sit on my calves, exposed in my high-tops.
A woman in a white blouse and navy skirt approaches us. She looks nervous, glancing back at the door.
“Are you Azaelia Blackwood?” she asks. “And August Ambrose?”
“Zee Zafar,” I correct.
She hesitates, glancing at her clipboard. “The gentlemen from the, uh, Establishment, would like to see you in the boardroom as soon as possible.”
Atlas turns to say something to me. Likely reassurance. A reminder to breathe. A reminder that he’s by my side and—
“You don’t have to do this,” he says. “We can leave. Right now.”
But I’m already moving away from the table, towards the door. My head held high, I let out a shaky breath as I march to the room at the end of the hall.
The room’s label doesn’t have to be visible for me to notice it. Eight men all settle into their seats around a long, large wooden table, not a word said between them. Some of them have their hands clasped against the wood. Waiting.
It reminds me of Atlas. Patient. Unbothered.
No one looks panicked despite the chaos I’ve started. They take over the room with this presence that screams business.
Good.
Walking in, I stand at the head of the table, looking each of them in their eyes. Blues. Browns. Grays.
Wrinkled. Old. Pampered.
They all turn to me. No greetings. No welcome.
“Big Brother.” The eldest-looking man at the other end of the table speaks, looking past me.
Heat lingers on my neck, but I keep my eyes on these men.
“Clifford,” Atlas replies from behind me. “You’ve met my girlfriend.”
His response tells me what I see every man in here registering.
He’s on my side.
Clifford turns his head towards me. “You’ve caused quite the disturbance.
” He leans back in his seat, his eyes wandering my outfit.
“Whole houses emptied overnight. Daughters. Sisters. Wives. We can make this smooth for you. Within reason. We have money and protection. We have the means for your survival. You need to end this.”
Holy shit.
Electricity rushes through me, my eyes on these men waiting for me to speak. Waiting for an answer.
It’s my next nove.
They need to negotiate with me.
I own them.
“I’ll end this when there’s a new structure.
” My voice startles me when it fills the room.
Firm. Loud. “Eastmount changes. No one is ‘Chosen,’ the choice is theirs. Choices eliminate a dictatorship. And fuck the rituals, the punishments. We need community. That’s what matters.
That’s how I got your women to listen to me. ”
The men look at each other, exchanging words with their eyes.
The clock ticks on the boardroom wall between books and trinkets on shiny wooden shelves.
The longer silence lingers, the louder my internal spiral sounds.
This will never work.
You’re asking for too much.
Don’t be delusional.
They’ll find a way to kill you both.
Something warm presses against my back, my thoughts coming to a pause.
Atlas.
His warmth sinks through the sweater as he rubs my back. With a deep breath, I focus on the sounds in the room.
Someone taps their foot faster than the clock against the floor.
Someone else clicks their pen over and over.
Another person twists their squeaky chair, the springs sounding with each small movement.
My heartbeat steadies, my shoulders dropping.
I've made them nervous.
“We cannot afford further destabilization,” Clifford says. “Fix this. Now.”
“It’s already unstable,” I say. “More than half of your community walked away. You don’t think that’s for a reason?”
“And if we rid ourselves of our problem?” His neck stiffens, the vein ripping through it. “Our century-long reputation will not be tarnished. Not by you.”
Fuck.
Pulling my hands behind my back, I hide my tightening fists.
Clifford’s not afraid to end this.
To end us.
My throat tightens. So does my chest.
“Your reputation is already fucked.”
Atlas’s voice booms from behind me.
His hand comes on top of my fist as he takes a step forward.
Chimes and dings come from around the room, the men looking between them.
Atlas squeezes my fist as the man to the right of Clifford reaches into his breast pocket, pulling out his phone.
“The media won’t sleep on this,” Atlas says. “And if they get hold of the personalized dossiers you see in front of you, you won’t be sleeping either.”
Clifford shifts in his seat, reaching for his phone.
His eyes cut into mine before they slowly shift down to his screen.
His face pales.
Looking around the room, so do the faces of the other men. They all look like they’ve seen the dead.
“You kept secrets,” Atlas continues. “Someone kept records. There’s a lot that survives a man’s death.”
I’m not sure what Atlas just pulled out, but something shifts in Clifford. The old man who walked in here with a hardened gaze looks like a child caught red-handed.
“Someone didn’t forget about shell companies in Estonia. Or funding elections. Writing off escorts. Executing whistleblowers.”
The men around the table look more and more uncomfortable with every word.
“We own publications, Atlas.” Clifford says his name with intensity, like he wants his words to slice off his head.
Atlas doesn’t respond, and I know it’s not because he’s nervous. I take his lead, staring every single one of these fucks down without another word. If Atlas has what he’s saying on paper, that changes everything. It gives us a hell of a lot more leverage. It gives us power.
They’re fucked.
The man to the right of Clifford leans in, whispering something in his ear. Cliff's face hardens.
“Very well.” He leans back in his seat, his eyes shifting to me. “You’ll join us.”
His words linger.
I take a moment, something filling in my chest.
Staying in Eastmount doesn’t only buy us freedom. It buys us privilege. Comfort.
Community.
Atlas doesn’t speak for me, his hand tightening around my sweaty fists. He just waits.
“As a leader,” Clifford says. “Falter, and there won’t be a second chance. Bring our women home, Azalea.”
The women. Liv. Alaina.
Lola.
That's why I'm here.
I'm not a puppet, and neither are they.
I lift my head high, my heart pounding when I accept their offer. “I will. On my conditions only.”
Cliff stands to his feet, outstretching his hand. “Welcome to The Establishment, Azalea Blackwood. One day, it might be an honour.”
“It’s Zee. And one day you might realize just how lucky you are.”