Chapter 2 #2
As I near my building, another quite familiar figure steps out from the shadows just beyond the gas lamps, his presence sending a fresh wave of irritation through me.
I let out a loud sigh, not caring if my offending visitor hears me.
"Leaving the party so soon?" Archie drawls, his voice slick with amusement. Leaning against the stone railing outside my suite entrance, his disheveled hair makes him look rakish in the glow of the evening lights. His eyes linger on me a beat too long, filled with a familiar hunger I’ve become increasingly adept at ignoring.
He’s handsome, I’d never deny it. But we’ve shared too much, and I’d sooner gag than ever be attracted to him.
I don’t stop walking. "Not interested, Archie."
He chuckles and pushes himself off the railing towards me, stepping deliberately into my path and making me huff. "That’s a shame. Thought you might want some company, especially considering the lovely news that’s bound to ruin your weekend."
I pause just before the entrance, my spine straightening. "What could you possibly know?"
Archibald exhales slowly, his grin widening. "Daddy dearest has plans for you."
This insolent, gossipy, no-good, rotten, asshole. My composure chips away quickly with Archie, a byproduct of knowing him for two decades. I should slap him for being such a bother.
Instead, I bite down the sharpness forming on my tongue.
"Surprised you're so worried about my future, Archie, when you can barely handle your own. Your fights with your father have always been legendary.” I could stop myself, but I just can’t seem to.
He makes me so angry sometimes, “Does it ever get tiring, constantly trying to prove yourself to someone who clearly doesn’t care? "
His grin falters noticeably, raw irritation briefly flashing before he masks it with a forced smile. "Oh, but you see, Martine, I like knowing things. Especially when they involve you."
He steps closer, voice dropping lower, his expression shifting dangerously close to sincerity. "It’s cute you’re worried about me."
Of course, I worry for him. As much as I can’t stand him, he’s family.
We’ve fought since we were children. He’s undeniably handsome, and a smarter woman might indulge him, but I see him as nothing more than an irritating brother.
Recently, however, it’s become painfully clear Archie feels differently.
His persistent nuisance has become an obsession.
"Your fixation on me is becoming certifiable," I mutter sharply, pushing past him without sparing another glance.
He makes no effort to stop me, but his laughter follows me through the doorway, lingering like the scent of his peppery aftershave.
Archie has been making increasingly obvious attempts at seducing me since the Bonesmen Gala a few weeks ago.
Brushing him off, I slip inside my building, heading swiftly for my private floor.
The security detail barely glances at me as I pass through, accustomed to my comings and goings and having my schedule memorized.
My mother once told me that being watched was a privilege, a luxury afforded only to those who mattered.
I had smiled, pretending not to notice the way her fingers trembled around her ever-present crystal tumbler of gin as she spoke of it.
Inside the private elevator, I press the button for the Huntington-Russell floor, expecting the usual solitary ride up. But just as the doors are about to close, a delicate hand shoots between them, forcing them to slide back open.
The woman who steps inside has an air of effortless charm, the kind that makes people want to lean in closer and see what she’s all about.
She’s dressed in a structured, cream-colored coat draped over her shoulders, a silk blouse in the softest shade of blue, and tailored trousers that fall just right over her rounded cream kitten heels.
There’s a warmth in the way she moves, like she’s one conversation away from becoming your favorite person.
She exhales with a broad smile, running a manicured hand through her dark, glossy, and sharp bob. “Made it,” she murmurs to herself, then turns to me. “I hate running in heels. It ruins the whole illusion, don’t you think?”
I blink, momentarily thrown off by her easy familiarity. “Depends on the illusion.”
She laughs, soft and genuine. “Fair point.” Then, as if suddenly realizing, she extends a hand, “Dale Danton-Taft.”
I shake her hand, returning a simple hello.
Taft. The only Taft I know in this building is Fanny, and I’ve never heard her mention a Dale.
“I didn’t know other Tafts were enrolling this year,” I say carefully, shaking her hand.
She tilts her head, her expression amused. “There are plenty of Tafts. Fanny’s just the one who likes to make herself known. We’re expecting two more cousins this weekend.”
That tracks. I guess they’ll have a busy floor. Something about that pains me with jealousy.
The elevator hums as we ascend, and she studies me with open curiosity. “You’re Martine.”
It’s not a question.
I nod. “And you just know that?”
“People talk,” She leans casually against the railing, and lets out a small yet vibrant laugh. “And, well, I know you’re not a Taft and this elevator only has access to two floors.”
I arch a brow and tilt my head. “And what do they say?”
Her grin widens. “That you’re not very interesting.”
I scoff, “That’s a very diplomatic answer.”
She shrugs.
“Well, I like to form my own opinions.”
Then, after a pause, she nudges me lightly with her elbow, her voice dropping conspiratorially, “And between us? Most of the people at Eulogia are in desperate need of a reality check.”
I let out a surprised laugh. “In that, we must agree.”
The elevator dings softly as it reaches my floor. Just before I step out, Dale calls after me, “You should come by sometime. I have a feeling we’d get along.”
The doors slide shut before I can answer, leaving me standing in the dim foyer, something about her lingering.
I pause with shock when I step into the room.
That morning, in my Advanced Critical Theory and Literature seminar, a single green apple had been waiting at my desk.
Perfectly smooth, impossibly flawless. I’d picked it up without thinking, turning it in my hand before sinking my teeth in.
The taste had been bitterly sharp, the kind that made your tongue curl and your jaw tighten.
But I’d eaten it anyway, like a stolen treat, convincing myself someone had simply left it behind by mistake from the class before me. Not for me. Definitely not for me.
But now, as I step out of my elevator and into the silence of my private floor, my stomach turns. A basket of them sits on the foyer table, their waxed green skin gleaming under the soft lighting. Each one identical, too perfect, too deliberate.
My hands go cold. No one has access up here. No one but me.
My pulse ticks at the base of my throat as I stare at the basket piled high.
My mind flickers back to the apple in class.
I’d told myself it was nothing. A coincidence.
But this? A whole basket of them, sitting here, in my private foyer where no one should have access?
A chill snakes down my spine. Did Archibald do this?
The thought coils in my stomach, tight and uneasy. My fingers curl before I even realize I’m moving. I snatch the basket off the table, the apples shifting with a soft, muted rustle. I don’t want them here. I don’t want to look at them.
I storm into the kitchen and dump the whole thing into the sink, the fruit clattering against the copper basin.
I don’t know what I expect, something to skitter out, a note tucked between them, anything, but nothing happens.
Just silence.
My hands shake as I run back to the entryway and look around, but nothing remains other than my gasping breath and heaving chest. Without any idea of what to do next, I reach for my wine glass.
I throw it back in one swallow, the burn rushing warm down my throat, but it doesn’t chase away the unease curling in my ribs as I run to my bedroom.
My room is dimly lit when I enter, the antique sconces casting soft golden light against the dark wood paneling.
The doorman wouldn’t have let anyone in who wasn’t one of my brothers, and Archibald practically is one. He has to be who’s behind the apples.
I think of the apples in the sink, my chest rising and falling too fast. Bitter beneath the skin. Just like the one from this morning. Just like me.
People see what they want. I’m simply a perfect, polished heir to a fortune. But inside? Sharp. Sour. Never sweet enough.
My stomach knots. I can’t call my brothers, who knows where they’re off to now. If I call the suite we were just at, I’ll be told they’ve left, I know it. I don’t know where Archie is going, so there's no use calling his room.
Archie couldn’t have read my diary. There’s no way. But this—this feels like a taunt, like someone cracking me open just to watch me flinch.
I’ve always kept a diary under my pillow. A private way to let the festering thoughts inside me bleed out somewhere. The only odd thing is that it’s only just gone missing yesterday.
I had laid down, and unlike every night, I didn’t feel the comforting lump of it when I skimmed my fingers under my pillows.
The housekeeper knows to leave it under the pillow, never forgetting to slide it back underneath after freshening the bed.
I thought maybe it had fallen behind the bed.
Possibly lost, misplaced? No one in my family would care about the scribbles in there.
Huntington-Russells don’t exactly do feelings.
It has to be Archie.
I kick off my loafers and shed my cardigan, draping it carefully over the chaise lounge before collapsing onto my bed and staring up at the vaulted ceiling.
The night’s events replay in my mind: the party, Ford’s warning, the stranger with the piercing gaze and the voice that felt like gravel against my skin, and now Archibald, always lurking, always knowing too much.