Chapter 6
CINDER
The wig itches.
Cheap synthetic fibers scratch at my scalp where I pinned my real hair flat beneath a dark brunette bob that hangs just past my jaw.
Five months of planning, of late nights poring over catering company schedules and staff rosters, and the thing that might unravel me is a thirty-dollar wig from a costume shop on Michigan Avenue.
I tuck a strand behind my ear and adjust the tray of crystal tumblers on the stainless steel counter.
The industrial kitchen in my father's mansion hums with activity around me.
Catering staff in matching uniforms weave between prep stations, balancing trays of finger foods that look expensive and taste like cardboard.
I know because I sampled one earlier and nearly spit it into the trash.
My father used to cook in this kitchen. Real food.
He hired help, sure. But he was in here with his sleeves rolled up minutes before guests were set to arrive just to make sure everything was good.
He would greet everyone while wearing an apron and he didn’t give a lick about how that made him look.
The warmth of those memories slams into me every time I round a corner in this house, but the smell of Edgar's cigars baked into every surface smothers them before they can settle.
Francesca's cloying perfume clings to the air like a toxic fog on top of it.
I press my palm flat against the cool metal counter and force my breathing steady.
Focus.
The catering company Edgar hired for tonight's poker game staffs exclusively with young women in outfits designed to make men stare and feel powerful.
My uniform is a short black skirt that barely covers my ass, fishnet stockings, and a halter top cut low enough to leave nothing to the imagination.
The fishnets match the fall theme, according to the manager.
I wanted to ask whose theme involves objectifying the staff, but I kept my mouth shut and took the assignment.
And then I added a scarf to hang around my neck in a fashionable way that hides more of me.
I've endured worse indignities since my father died.
Sleeping on Lavender's couch for two weeks before I found a short-term lease no one knows about.
I shuttered my shop to keep a low profile while building my case against Edgar and my stepmother piece by piece.
Two months ago, I spotted the detective I trusted sitting across from Edgar at a candlelit dinner.
The two of them laughing, clinking glasses, while my father's murder file gathered dust on the detective's desk. That was the last clue I needed.
My hand drifts to my stomach, a habit I can't break.
Beneath the halter top and the apron tied high around my waist, the small curve of my belly presses against the fabric.
Five months along and my bump is getting harder to hide.
The apron hides what the clothes can't, but time is running out on that trick.
Another few weeks and no amount of layering will keep my secret.
I load the tray with fresh bottles of whiskey, the expensive kind Edgar serves to impress men he wants to manipulate.
Crystal decanters line the counter beside me, freshly polished, catching the overhead fluorescent light in sharp glints.
My fingers are steady as I arrange the glasses.
My pulse is steady, too. I've been rehearsing this night for three months, running through every step, every hallway, every creaking floorboard I need to avoid.
The safe is upstairs in my father's study.
Behind a panel in the mahogany wainscoting that blends so seamlessly with the wall you'd miss it unless you knew where to press.
Lucky for me, I know where to press and I know the combination.
It is my father's safe, and the code is my mother's birthday, the same numbers he used for everything because he never stopped loving her, even after she was gone.
Inside that safe is the gun Edgar used to put a bullet in my father's heart. He kept it like a goddamn trophy, locked away in the house of the man he killed.
I aim to prove it tonight.
Heavy footsteps rattle across the kitchen floor. I recognize the cadence before he rounds the corner. Edgar stole his crown from a dead man and struts like the world should thank him for wearing it.
I tuck the wig tighter around my face and hunch over my tray, shrinking my frame small enough to disappear into the throng of servers bustling through the kitchen.
His hand comes down on my ass. Hard. The slap cracks through the kitchen noise and burns against the thin fabric of my skirt. My jaw locks. Heat floods my cheeks, not from embarrassment but from the effort it takes to keep my fist at my side instead of buried in his throat.
"Get out there and give my friends their refreshments."
His breath is close, warm, laced with cigar smoke and the sharp bite of bourbon. I don't look up. If I look up, he might see my eyes and then it's game over.
My fingers white-knuckle the edges of the silver tray.
The metal bites cold into my palms, sharp enough to leave grooves in the skin.
Heat crawls up the back of my neck and my molars grind together so hard my jaw aches.
Every breath I pull in carries the stale smoke of his cigar.
I hold it, letting the burn sit in my lungs because the alternative is opening my mouth and ending this mission with my fist.
Inside me, a tiny flutter kicks once, twice and grounds me in the moment.
For you, I remind myself. My thumb strokes the underside of the silver rim. Everything I do is for you.
"Yes, sir." The words scrape up my throat and land on my tongue, sour and metallic. I can taste the submission in them, bitter as battery acid, and I swallow the residue before it makes me gag.
Edgar grunts his approval, already moving away, already forgetting my face. I'm furniture to him. Staff. A body in fishnet stockings here to serve drinks and stroke egos.
Good. Let him forget me. Let him look right through me the way he looks through every woman in his orbit. By the time he remembers Cinder Ashford exists, the evidence will be in my hands and his world will be burning.
I grip the tray and push through the swinging door into the hallway.
The hardwood groans beneath my heels. I know this floor better than I know my own reflection.
The creak at the base of the main staircase.
The soft spot outside my old bedroom on the second floor.
The warped board in front of the study door that always announced my father's presence before he rounded the corner.
I keep my eyes low as I pass through the corridor. The hallway smells wrong, cologne and furniture polish that don't belong here, and I hold my breath until I clear it.
The doors to the poker room stand open. Cigar smoke drifts into the hallway, layered over the sharp tang of expensive whiskey and the low murmur of male voices. I step through, head bowed, tray balanced on my palm.
I know the layout without looking. Mahogany card table at the center, crystal decanters on the sideboard, stiff leather chairs arranged for show. Edgar's attempt at old-money elegance is a joke.
I move toward the back table, my heels clicking a steady rhythm against the hardwood while my pulse holds even. Almost there. Set the tray down, walk out, take the stairs.
I slide the tray onto the cabinet and begin placing glasses beside the decanters, my hands running on autopilot, pouring, positioning, straightening each tumbler until I'm invisible in the task.
A thin ribbon of cigar smoke curls past my peripheral vision from the far end of the table. I follow it to the source without meaning to.
And my world stops.
Samuel.
He sits at the far end of the table, cards in hand, dark hair pulled back in a tight knot, silver threading his temples.
His jaw is set into a hard line like he hates being here just as much as I do.
Dark eyes scan the room with that patient, predatory calm I remember on a cellular level.
The edges of ink climb his neck above the crisp collar of his shirt.
Scarred knuckles wrap around a crystal tumbler.
Five months dissolve in a single heartbeat.
My lungs lock. The blood drains from my face so fast the room tilts. I grip the edge of the sideboard to stay upright and the crystal decanter I just placed rattles against the tray.
His gaze lifts from his cards.
Our eyes connect and the air between us ignites. The same electric charge from the Gilded Key surges through me, ice and fire twisting together in my veins, pulling the breath from my body and the logic from my brain.
Recognition flickers in those dark brown eyes. His brow creases a fraction. He starts to lean forward in his chair.
I turn. My heels strike the hardwood too fast, too loud, but I can't slow down. The pocket doors blur past me. The hallway stretches ahead and I take it. Tonight’s gig is a cover I no longer need. Adrenaline scorches through every nerve.
The main staircase rises to my left. I grip the banister, the wood worn smooth beneath my palm from decades of use. The familiar grain anchors me for half a second before I take the stairs two at a time.
Third step. The creak. I skip it from muscle memory and keep climbing.
At the top of the landing, the hallway stretches toward the back of the house. The study door is closed. I reach for the brass handle and the warped board beneath my feet groans under my weight, announcing me to a room that has no one in it anymore.
The door swings open. Lamplight pools over dark wood, warm and golden. It spills across the desk and bookshelves. Heavy drapes hang closed over the windows.
I step inside and close the door behind me. Grief hits me instantly.
This room used to smell of old books, leather, and the faint sweetness of the peppermints my father kept in a glass jar on the corner of his desk.