CHAPTER 26 #2
“Happy birthday, Duke.” Rosamund beams at Edmund.
She snaps her fingers, and the two Pinkies step forward with cannons, blasting confetti across the room.
The monkey shrieks, leaps from her shoulder, and lands in Edmund’s lap.
For a moment, the world dissolves in a burst of color.
When the confetti settles, it’s everywhere: on the table, in our food and drinks, even down my dress.
“Hoppola. I hope I’m not interrupting,” Rosamund says, shaking confetti from her coat. Then she drops the parcels onto the table, right on top of my gift.
I frown. “Actually—”
“You, Miss Rosamund, are never an interruption,” Dickie says, spitting a piece of confetti from his mouth and patting the empty seat beside him.
Rosamund ignores Dickie and sits next to Jack. She leans in and kisses his cheek, leaving a full lip print.
Beside me, Charlotte’s mouth flattens into a hard line. Her eyes lock onto Jack’s face, onto the smear of red he doesn’t notice.
Rosamund turns to Edmund next and loops her arms around his neck. “How does it feel to be twenty-two?”
“It’d feel better if it weren’t Saturday,” Edmund says, slipping the monkey a date from the table. “I thought you were meeting us at the Lotus.”
“It’s already crawling with guests.” Rosamund slides out of her lynx coat. “I’d rather keep our gift exchange private.”
She drapes the fur over one of her Pinkie’s arms and smooths her gown with the tips of her nails.
It’s a cobalt blue velvet piece, handcrafted by Lemon, with sheer mesh panels that shimmer along her sides and décolletage.
A high slit on one leg flashes jeweled garters, while a spray of sapphires sparkles at her throat, drawing the eye up to her painted smile.
“I already sent your gifts to the Lotus,” Edmund says.
“No matter.” Rosamund pushes the parcels toward him. “You can open mine.”
I lean back, sipping my confetti-laced champagne to mask my annoyance.
Rosamund props her chin on her hand as Edmund unwraps her gifts and narrates each one like a storybook: why she chose it, how far she went to find it, and what it’s meant to signify.
Where I expect pride, I find only devotion.
She watches Edmund the way someone struggling with addiction watches Bliss, as if he and Jack alone have the power to make her happy.
Around them, she’s less like a spider weaving traps and more like a butterfly desperate to land on the only two flowers in her world.
My Bond buzzes again. I glance at the screen, already expecting Vivian. This is the second time she’s called without leaving a message, so I answer.
With Rosamund dragging her feet through honey, I know it’ll be a while before my gift reappears in the pile.
So I slip off to the lavatory to take Vivian’s call.
Inside, I weave past groups of high-citizens crowding the mirrors and head for the row of private rooms along the back wall.
Each is sealed from floor to ceiling, with plush seats, full-length mirrors, and brass doors. Real privacy.
I find an empty room and lock the door behind me.
As I drop onto the sofa in the corner, my pulse ticks as if waiting for the curtain to rise.
I tap my Bond and focus on the screen, already picturing the moment before it hits: Vivian’s face lit with surprise, that sharp, slight inhale, the half-laugh she gives when she’s caught off guard but happy, before joy takes over her whole expression. I want to see every second of it.
The screen flickers, and Vivian’s face appears.
But she’s not smiling.
And she’s not wearing Coquette, either.
She’s bent over her desk, her brow furrowed, her dark hair twisted into a bun and pinned back with a jade comb. Her face is bare of makeup, and she’s dressed in the velvet green pantsuit she wears when she expects to get dirty.
The only sound is the slow scrape of cloth on metal. She’s polishing her Vanguard badges, one at a time. Black smears stain the tips of her gloves as her fingers move with gentle care.
A Pinkie stands behind her, its arms twitching with agitation. The robot is programmed to polish, not sit idly while a human works. But Vivian doesn’t trust it to get the shine right.
She glances up at the screen, and her eyes narrow. “Finally, you answer.”
“Sorry,” I murmur, still processing my surprise. “I’m in the middle of something, but…” I scan the room behind her. “I thought you were calling about my package.”
Vivian arches an eyebrow.
“You didn’t get it yet?” I ask. “It was overnight delivery.”
Vivian swivels in her chair and glances toward a corner of her room. Through the mirror on her vanity, I see a mountain of gift boxes, all wrapped in shades of green and gold.
“I thought they were all from Harry,” she says.
But her tone has changed. There’s a note of curiosity now. Hope.
Vivian stands and runs toward the gifts, tearing off her gloves. She starts sorting through the pile, her lips pressed tightly, eyes darting between labels.
“There,” she says.
She holds one box up, squints at the sender’s name, then pulls the comb from her hair and slices it open. The gown spills from the box in a ripple of silk, lace, and diamonds, wet with shine.
Vivian’s head snaps toward me, mouth parting, and her eyes turn glassy. “Really?”
I smile, the weight behind it full. “Yes.”
Vivian kneels to scoop up the gown, and the silk folds into her palms like water as she runs her fingers along the bodice and the embroidery. She holds it up, eyes wide, taking in the sweep of the train, the constellation of tiny diamonds, and how it glows against her skin even when held, not worn.
“I’ll never forget this, Lore,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “Never.”
She clutches the dress to her chest, squeezing the fabric with both hands as if grounding herself in it.
Then, slowly, she lifts her head, and I get what I’ve been waiting for.
It’s not her usual sly grin or the curved-lip expression she pulls on Harrison when she wants something.
This is her real smile, soft and lit from within.
“Try it on,” I say.
Vivian drags the dress free of its wrappings with a laugh that makes it feel like we’re in the same room. The Pinkie steps forward to assist, already tugging gently at her suit jacket. But just as the first button slips free, Vivian stiffens, and her eyes snap back to the screen.
“Lore,” she says, hurrying closer. “I’m sorry—I completely forgot to tell you. You didn’t already give the Hellion to your friend, did you?”
“No.”
Vivian’s shoulders drop in relief. “Good. When you do, make sure they don’t say a word. The badge has to stay under wraps.”
“Why?”
“Because the Prews are looking for it.”
“The Prews?” I push up from the sofa so fast my head spins. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she says. “One of the sons—Edmund—is obsessed with it. He’s been searching for it for years.
I don’t know how the family lost ownership of it, but Edmund has issued press releases and offered rewards.
He even sent collectors to the low-citizen Districts, desperate to turn up something.
Harry almost came forward once, but when he realized how badly I wanted the badge, he gave it to me instead. ”
I stare at her.
And for a moment, the whole room tilts.
“I’ve gotta go,” I say.
“Why? What’s wrong?” Vivian reaches for the phone, her hand outstretched. “Lore, talk to me. I thought you wanted me to try on—”
“Later.” I’m already moving, unlocking the door and flinging it open. “I’ll call you as soon as I can.”
The lavatory is empty when I step out, but the hallway is a sea of blue.
Every booth, every barstool, every inch of space overflows with silk and satin.
Between now and my call with Vivian, dozens more high-citizens have arrived.
The line toward Edmund’s booth has reformed, winding through the cafe like a current, glistening with rings, canes, and watches.
I shoulder through the crowd, trying to be gentle yet quick. The faster I move, the sharper the irony cuts, the sheer luck of what I pulled off. And I’m not even there to guard the badge. It’s alone, at risk of being lost or ruined.
When I finally push through the door of Edmund’s private booth, Rosamund is no longer narrating the backstory of her gifts. The room is so quiet I can count the heartbeats. Jack, Dickie, Rosamund, and Charlotte are hunched over the table, all eyes fixed on something.
I don’t need to see it. My gut already knows. But I step forward anyway.
And there it is, the Hellion badge, glinting in Edmund’s open palm.
He looks at it the way you might look through a scope, the whole world narrowing to a single point.
His thumb moves across the metal slowly, almost reverently, until it rests on the name, Ernest Prew.
Edmund’s throat works, his jaw locking tight.
He blinks once, then again, as if something fierce is burning behind his eyes and he’s struggling to hold it back.
He grips the badge like it’s both a relic and a wound.
My heart swells, pressing painfully against my ribs. I step back without meaning to. My T-strap heel catches the hem of my dress, nearly pulling me off balance. I brace a hand against the wall and steady myself, careful not to ruin the moment.
That’s when Edmund’s eyes lift and meet mine. The cold blue has softened, as if the badge in his palm is drawing out every sharp edge of him, leaving an echo of something gentle. Someone gentle.
Then he lifts a hand and signals something I don’t understand.
Before I can ask, Edmund looks away. I slide into the seat beside Charlotte as the others look up.
Jack lets out a low whistle, squinting as if the sun just broke through the clouds. “Well, shit, darling. You really did it.”
“Golly, broad,” Dickie breathes. “That’s the real cat’s meow.”
Confusion clouds my happiness. I double-check, then triple-check, but the angles don’t lie. Not one of them is looking at me.
They’re looking at Rosamund.