Chapter 3
EVA
“Hey, what gives?” Penny complains as I rush back to the booth, my pulse racing.
“My feet hurt,” I lie.
He is here. Damn it.
I had to leave before he burnt me down with his glare. Thea closes her Sudoku app and returns to reality when I drop beside her. Her eyes narrow at me. I cock my head toward the mezzanine.
She follows my eyes to where Mason Grant sits sprawled on a red, velvet armchair, as if it were his throne.
A dark smirk paints that hard face—the flawless mask they all drool over.
The man may as well be carved out of a Roman temple.
Only a few years older than me, but he’s built like a tank.
As if he ought to be bare-knuckle boxing on a Sicilian dock.
He’s definitely one of the biggest guys I have ever seen.
No, scratch that. He is the biggest guy I have ever seen.
And that’s me saying that. Me—who is surrounded by tall, broad bodyguards everywhere I go.
Of course, girls seem to beg for his attention, though he doesn’t even glance their way. Doesn’t push them away, either. Just flashes a smolder. And it works. They laugh like it’s a privilege just to be rejected by him.
“Ignore him,” Thea whispers when I don’t stop fidgeting.
I look away. Only to catch the gaze of a familiar face I was hoping I wouldn’t see tonight. A tall blond, in a white dress that was likely on last month’s Vogue cover, stares at me from the corner. I think about making a run for it, but she’s already marching toward me.
“What are you doing here?” Grace demands, crossing her arms over her chest, her face—made-up to perfection—resembles that of a babysitter who lost a kid in the supermarket.
And that’s exactly why I’ve been dodging her texts. The only silver lining to being at Kingsden has been the absence of all the helicopter grandfathering and godmothering. The last thing I need is their walking CCTV keeping tabs on me, reporting every trivial detail of my life back to my family.
I have bodyguards, for crying out loud.
Can’t a girl live a little?
“Does Jack know where you are?” She arches a perfectly plucked brow, as if she already knows the answer and is daring me to lie.
“He does,” I reply, flatly, pointing at the entrance.
“This is exactly the kind of place you should be avoiding,” she spits out. Penny and Thea watch our interaction with their mouths open, enjoying the drama, waiting for someone to hand them popcorn.
“I’m fine,” I reply. “But feel free to rat me out to Dan. We both know you’re always looking for an excuse to call my brother.” I flash a sarcastic smile.
Let her call. Maybe that will remind Dan that I exist. He hasn’t bothered to check in on me since I got here. Two minutes in Grandpa’s shadow and he is a changed man. Like a bot took control of his mind.
“You’re fine? Really?” She tilts her head. Her eyes flick down my arm. “Nice top. Isn’t it a bit… warm here for full sleeves?”
My jaw tightens. I can’t believe she just said that. In front of Thea and Penny? Thea, quick as a whip, starts appraising me, one layer at a time.
“Leave me alone,” I grit out.
Grace opens her mouth, but then decides otherwise. She lets out a deep sigh and stomps off, clacking her stilettoes.
“What the actual hell?” Penny slaps the table with the authority of an officer demanding answers from a suspect. “How the hell do you know Grace Cavendish?”
I groan, rubbing my forehead with my fingers. “Family friend,” I mutter.
They both stare at me, unsatisfied by my clipped response.
“Our mums are best friends. Technically, she’s my god-sister, but we aren’t that close. She’s a year older, and Mum loves her like she’s her first daughter…” I trail off when I catch Penny and Thea exchange a look, wearing deep frowns. “What?”
Penny pouts and starts pulling on the violet ends of her platinum hair, avoiding my eye. Thea clears her throat and turns to me.
“Penny is a big fan of Grace’s blog.” Thea gestures toward her. “I think she’d trade with you. Right, Pen?”
“Not if she’s a bitch to you.” Penny crosses her arms on the table and shrugs. “I’ll unfollow her tonight. Loyalty means everything to me.”
I giggle and shake my head. This girl is so strange. I didn’t know her a week ago, and she’s already swearing loyalties.
A bartender appears in front of us and plops an overflowing tray of cocktails on our table. I stare at him in question. He points at the group of guys, who grin at me from the bar. My cheeks burn, but I throw them a wave, holding up a mojito.
“Score!” Penny cheers, pulling the Bloody Marys and margaritas toward her, then blows kisses at the guys, earning herself more grins and licked lips.
I stay in the booth with Thea and Penny, avoiding frequent scans from Jack and fake smiles from Londoners whose ingratiating flattery is no better than the locals’ detestable glares.
They are only interested in me for my name.
No thanks, I’ll stick to my two favorite people at Fort.
Grateful that they haven’t kicked me out despite Jack’s relentless security checks. Yet.
As the night moves along, The Vault gets busier, and people keep flooding in large groups until midnight.
Is the whole of Fort here tonight? Not that I’m complaining.
The more the better. Every new addition allows me to shrink further—a brief deliverance.
The deafening sound of chaos is exactly what I needed tonight.
It’s not the same as Manchester. Not my chaos.
But it’s enough to dull the one inside my head.
I try to ignore my clutch that quakes with persistent texts and calls, but when the relentless vibrations don’t stop, I pull it out and freeze.
Grandpa
21 missed calls
At this time? What the hell?
My mind starts flipping through a catalog of scenarios, none of which can be short of disastrous to earn me this many missed calls at this hour. I don’t wait to interrupt Penny or Thea in their intense conversation about cocktail alcohol percentages, or to give Jack a heads-up.
I hit dial and dash toward the fire exit.
The phone cuts off after nine rings. No answer.
A group of men entering the club shoulder-barges me, almost knocking the phone out of my hands. No apology, not even a courteous grimace.
“Rude,” I mutter to myself.
Thankfully, the staircase is quiet, apart from slight chatter on the floor below.
But at least I can hear my own voice. Another call.
No answer. I’m sick to my stomach, dread creeping up my spine, my imagination spiraling out of control.
My next call is to Grandpa’s Chelsea flat.
His housekeeper answers on the fifth ring, her voice calm and composed as always.
“Kate, it’s me.” I stop pacing up and down the landing, rubbing my chest. “I need to speak to Grandpa.”
“Elton’s asleep, dear. Can I take a message?”
“No, you see, he called me. Several times. I was worried something happened—”
“Everyone’s fine, Eva,” Kate cuts in. “I gave him his medication an hour ago. He’s fast asleep.”
“Um, then maybe… Dan?”
“Daniel is at a charity event. Are you sure you weren’t looking at earlier calls?” she asks. Was I? It’s possible. I’ve had more than a few drinks tonight. “Shall I let him know you called in the morning, or do you want me to wake him?”
“No, don’t,” I mumble. “I’ll speak to him tomorrow, thanks, Kate.”
“Goodnight, hon. Take care.” Kate hangs up, leaving me utterly puzzled.
My finger slides on the screen to my recent call logs. Kate’s wrong. Grandpa called me fifteen minutes ago. Back-to-back calls.
Then, how?
A strange thought comes to mind, one that makes the phone shake in my hands. I click on the contact card and read the number saved under Grandpa’s name.
My breath locks in my throat.
It’s a Fort area code.
Someone changed his number on my phone. Who? When? Tonight?
Which begs the most important question—who called me? My screen flickers, scrolling upward without me touching it, like some freak software hack. Then, it starts vibrating in my trembling hands. I gasp.
Grandpa calling
Chills bristle over my whole body as I realize I may have just walked into a trap. I try to cancel the incoming call and select Jack’s contact on the call log, but I have no control over the screen.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
I whip around and open the door, only to freeze in my tracks.
In front of me, a man stands in a black hoodie and a white ghoul mask, looming and forbidding. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. Only one arm moves, a hand flying for my throat.
I shriek and slam the door on his arm.
He jams one brown boot in the door and shoves it open, throwing me off with the force.
I bolt for the stairs, digging for the cold metal in my skirt.
I click it repeatedly, until it flashes green, then clutch it tight in my fist and sprint down the stairs, hoping to find my way back to the crowd.
Anywhere I’m not alone. Halfway—because of course, I’m the unluckiest person alive—my heel catches the very edge of a step, and I crash forward.
I yelp as the panic button flies out of my hand, hitting the rail below, then bounces down the staircase in loud metallic clangs.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, pain shooting through my palms and knees. I scramble to my feet when the footsteps get closer behind me, slow, daunting, taking their time.
I half run, half stumble toward the door on the floor below, pushing it open, only to stop cold.
Another tall man with a neon-blue mask blocks my way, like an omen of doom.
Before I can catch my breath, White Mask appears behind me.
And just like that, I’m trapped. My pulse hammers as I stare between the two unmoving men, twisted amusement radiating from behind their grotesque masks.
In a hopeless attempt to escape, I dart toward the dimly lit hallway.
Not two steps in, Blue Mask grabs me by the waist.
“No,” I scream. “Hel—” The word dies in my throat when he slaps a hand on my mouth.
“This will go a lot easier if you remain quiet, princess,” he snickers, lifting me off the ground and dragging me away.
Uselessly, I kick my legs at him, punching and scratching where I can. Further down the hallway, White Mask pulls open a door.
No!
I grab the doorframe, refusing to let go, my sweaty palms holding on for dear life. But I’m yanked inside with brute force.
And then I’m in a strange room.
Textured, windowless, velvet walls on all four sides that look hauntingly soundproof. Soft lighting, like those in spa rooms, cast a soft glow over the leather couch, crystalware, and alcohol tray.
I only notice all that from my peripheral vision.
The focus of my attention is taken by the man who stands in the center of the room—the one who takes up all the light and needs no mask.
“Miss Etheridge.” Mason Grant smirks. “Welcome to Fort George.”