Chapter 22
Chapter twenty-two
Martine Herron
The perfume of sweat, champagne, and garden roses engulfs me.
There’s already a girl crying in one of our bathrooms, someone is doing coke off a compact mirror on the terrace chaise, and one of the zebras from the exotic animal handler has run loose and is galloping across the lawn.
Waitstaff glide like ghosts in black waistcoats through the crowd, offering flutes of vintage Cristal and trays of oysters. In the corner of the grand entryway, a string quartet plays a version of “Like a Virgin” by Madonna.
I stand in the center of it all, glass in hand, dressed in a floor-length black silk slip with a plunging back and emerald earrings so large they tug slightly with every turn of my head.
My head is heavy and full, and without my anchor, my husband, I feel lost in the haze of movement.
A sea of people I’m drowning in without his heavy hand of control, of instruction.
The dress once belonged to Hayden’s mother.
The earrings were also a wedding gift to her.
The confidence is mine, though I had to search for it in the mirror before stepping into the storm.
I pieced it together without the steady presence of my controller at my heels.
He is occupied tonight, distracted by something I cannot name, and the unease settles heavily in my chest. The sharp pain in my gut from his absence startles me, a quiet ache that cuts through the jovial scene unfolding around me.
It should scare me how much of Hayden's mother's things I own, wear, and embrace. But instead of a gnawing feeling, there’s a comfort in her luxuries. I’ll never meet her, but somehow she’s offering me bravery from the grave.
I wouldn’t know what support she would truly lend me; Hayden doesn’t speak of her. He only showers me with her things.
Across the room, Saxton Morgan is holding court by the raw bar, surrounded by girls too hungry. Dale floats past me in a silver mini dress with feathered cuffs, whispering something wicked into her cousin Hudson Taft’s ear that makes him laugh before looking terrified.
There’s a haunted pain behind Dale’s eyes I’m yet to figure out. Behind her glamour and kind comments is a woman with a pained secret.
The estate has been transformed. Lighting has been installed beneath the hedges.
The fountain is filled with crushed ice and bottles of Cristal.
A jazz trio plays in the ballroom, while a DJ remixes Bauhaus in the library, and the quartet plays in the entryway.
As if you’re being greeted at an old-world party, rather than the true evening of debauchery it is.
Upstairs, every bedroom has been locked and guarded, as no partygoer has access to the second or third floors.
I walk through the center hall, nodding, smiling, letting people tell me how gorgeous I look while pretending not to be terrified.
The truth is, most of them came because they thought they would leave with gossip.
They want a sick window into our very private lives.
Whether they’re looking for secrets or our destruction, I’m unsure.
A woman in a white fur shrug leans in. “Darling, you look divine. Where is your husband hiding?”
I smile, cold and perfect. “Where he always is. Exactly where he wants to be.”
I keep moving, I don’t know her, and I don’t care to.
Because I have no idea where Hayden is, and I can barely breathe because of it.
I want his hand at the small of my back, or my throat.
Holding me in place and ushering me into my next task.
I never realized the desire I had to be controlled until I stood alone in this scene and felt a sense of abandonment like no other.
A butler finds me near the east corridor, where I was making my way to the bar for a martini to dull the ache in my chest.
Can he see me lost without him? Am I in his mind? Does he think of me with the same ache?
The butler approaches quietly, standing next to me as though I’m art displayed at a museum for him to dust. Just an object for him to stare at, forgetting momentarily that he reports to me. He clears his throat.
“Mrs. Herron. There is someone at the front door asking for you.”
I blink. “Me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Who is it?”
He hesitates. “He wouldn’t say. But he said it was important.”
My skin pricks. There’s something in his tone that sends worry up my spine. I have no reason to fear; there are enough armed guards here to protect a dignitary, but still, chills cover my arms.
“And you didn’t think to ask who it may be?
I scan the room, trying to place who we’re still waiting on. I know most of these people by face, if not by name, from Eulogia. But I didn’t build the list.
Dale did.
I turn on my heel.
She’s not hard to find—laughing with Hudson near the champagne tower, a cigarette tucked behind one ear and a martini dangling from her hand. I cut through the crowd and grab her hand without warning, pulling her away from her familial engagement.
“I need you,” I say, grinning as I pull her toward the bar.
“Obviously,” she replies. “But can it wait until after I coerce Hudson into giving me his Jaguar? I nearly had him agree to lend it to me for the weekend.”
“No. Front door. Someone’s asking for me.”
She arches a brow. “Who?”
“You made the list. You tell me.”
We reach the bar, and I gesture for champagne. Two flutes appear instantly to calm the nerves from the martini I was never able to get. Dale snatches hers and clinks it against mine.
“To uninvited guests,” she says.
“May they at least be handsome.”
We sip, arm in arm, and move through the main hall like debutantes on the way to trouble. The music fades slightly behind us, and the sound of our heels on the marble floors feels theatrical.
Where is my husband?
The butler is waiting at the end of the corridor, near the grand double doors.
I squeeze Dale’s hand, still smiling.
But my stomach tightens.
We reach the front hall, and the music dulls behind us, replaced by the softer clatter of glassware and the distant hum of conversation bleeding in from the ballroom.
The marble here reflects the chandeliers like liquid gold, and the scent of rosewater from the entry arrangements hangs thick in the air.
Dale and I pause a few steps from the door, finishing what’s left in our flutes.
She tilts her head toward me, eyes sharp behind her lashes. “Where is your husband, anyway?”
I laugh softly, but it’s not real. “I was hoping you knew.”
She takes another gulp, watching me. “You’re glowing like a woman in love. Or a woman about to be sacrificed.”
“Maybe both,” I say.
She leans in suddenly, unexpectedly close, her face just inches from mine. I don’t flinch.
Her fingertip comes up and gently traces the edge of my bottom lip. “Lipstick.”
I swallow.
She wipes the smudge away with practiced ease, her touch cool and precise, then leans back, tilting her head to admire the correction. “There. Perfect again.”
Her smile returns, and I can’t help but giggle and mirror it.
She takes my glass and hands the butler our empty flutes and gestures toward the door.
“Shall we greet your mystery guest before the boys start burning the estate down?”
I nod, slow and composed, but I feel the flutter in my chest like a warning bell.
We walk forward together, side by side, as the butler reaches for the door.
But there’s no guest.
There's only a box.
A pristine white square, maybe twelve inches wide, resting perfectly centered on the top step. Wrapped in a black satin bow that gleams under the chandelier's light, which pours out from the front double doors.
I step forward slowly, the air outside cool against my skin, and glance down at it. It doesn’t have a card. No label.
I glance back at the butler. “Who left this?”
His brow furrows. “There was a man here moments ago asking for you, but there was no box at the time. The cameras didn’t catch it being left. It wasn’t here just moments ago.”
My throat tightens. Dale steps beside me, her mouth dropped open a bit wide.
“What the fuck?” she says. “Did Hayden leave this for you?”
I shake my head, eyes still locked on the box. “He would have told me.”
“Are you sure?”
No. I’m not. Not about anything anymore, but something about this feels more sinister than even my husband is capable of.
The wind shifts, rustling the edge of my dress.
And the box just sits there with a quietness that does nothing to calm my unease.
“Bring it here,” I say, voice quieter than I expect.
The butler obeys without question, lifting the white box carefully in gloved hands and holding it out so I can see inside. The black satin bow slips away far too easily.
Inside is a perfectly folded white dress shirt.
Pressed crisp, bone white, expensive, and placed so precisely that it looks almost familiar. And then I realise quickly that’s because it is. The left sleeve is folded forward, tucked neatly against the chest, and at the edge of the cuff, I see it.
The monogram.
FHR
My vision tightens. A ringing hum fills my ears.
That’s his shirt.
Fordham Huntington-Russell
Ford’s.
My brother’s.
The breath catches in my throat and stays there, stuck like a lump of glass. My hand trembles as I reach in and lift it.
Beneath the shirt, something small and heavy falls from the fold.
It hits the marble floor with a sound that doesn’t sit right.
A dull thud. A soft bounce. Then silence.
The object rolls once, twice, then settles on its side at the edge of the step.
The butler stiffens. “Mrs. Herron—look away.”
A security guard steps forward quickly, reaching to pull Dale and me back.
But it’s too late.
Dale sees it.
Her scream rips through the air, raw and wrong and animal. It echoes off the stone columns, snapping heads around in the ballroom, stopping the music mid-beat.
I don’t scream.
I just stare.
Because I see it too.
The severed pinky finger.
Still wearing the Brotherhood of Death signet ring.
Ford’s finger. Looking like fresh, severed skin.