Chapter 11
Eleven
Sloane
Scarlet Thorn looks different when you're sitting on the other side of it.
I've been to this club dozens of times. Walked the marble floors, ordered my usual at the bar, danced until my calves burned and the soles of my feet throbbed.
But I always walked in through the front and walked out the same way, a guest in a building owned by men I only knew by reputation and the occasional nod across a crowded room.
Today I walked in through a private entrance on the thirty-first floor with a security escort and a ring on my finger that I'm still not used to feeling.
The platinum band catches the candlelight every time I move my hand and the weight of it against my skin is constant, pressing gently against the base of my finger like a second pulse.
The private dining room sits behind a frosted glass wall at the back of the club, separated from the main floor by a hallway lined with iron sconces and black velvet curtains that absorb the sound of my heels until the space feels hushed and sealed off from the rest of the building.
The table is round, set with crystal glasses that throw tiny rainbows across the white linen when the candlelight hits them, and the napkins are folded into sharp points.
The whole room smells like fresh bread and expensive wine and the faint trace of roses that seems to live in every wall of this building no matter what floor you're on.
Four women sit around the table waiting for me, and every single one of them looks like she could run a country, topple a government, or reduce a grown man to rubble with a single raised eyebrow.
Persia Milano sits at the head with the quiet authority of a woman who was here first and knows it.
Dark hair swept up in a loose twist, olive skin warm in the candlelight, a cream silk blouse unbuttoned just enough to show the thin gold chain resting against the hollow of her throat.
Rafael's wife. The first wife. The one who set the standard for every woman who came after, and from what I've heard, the standard is impossibly high.
She holds her champagne glass by the stem with the practiced ease of a woman who grew up around crystal and never broke a single piece.
And she could not be any sweeter.
Katriana Moses sits to Persia's left, tucking her phone into her bag with the look of fond exhaustion that only comes from negotiating a toddler's nap schedule with a man whose hands can crush a windpipe. At least that is how Onyx describes Drake.
Auburn hair falls past her shoulders in loose waves and her green eyes are sharp and kind at the same time. Onyx told me she edits manuscripts by day and sleeps beside an enforcer the size of a small building by night. I’ve seen Drake and that is an apt description.
A smear of something that looks like sweet potato still clings to the cuff of her silk blouse and she either hasn't noticed or doesn't care, and I like her immediately for both possibilities.
Ilona Valentina sits across from Katriana with a glass of sparkling water and a posture that belongs on a Milan runway.
Luca's wife. Dark hair, dark eyes, a jawline that could cut glass, and a quiet intensity that makes you want to sit up straighter just from being in the same room.
She's the one I know the least about, which probably means she's the most dangerous.
She watches me approach with an expression that gives nothing away but offers no hostility, and her fingers rest on the table, long and elegant and very still.
And Onyx. My Onyx. She sits beside the empty chair they saved for me, her blue eyes bright and her smile wide and genuine.
The scar along her hairline catches the candlelight and she doesn't hide it.
She never does anymore. That smile is aimed at me with a force that tells me she's been waiting for this moment longer than I have.
"There she is." Onyx stands and pulls me in.
She smells like Kon's cologne mixed with her own perfume.
She holds me tight, her arms firm around my shoulders, and I feel my muscles unclench for the first time all day, the tension draining from my neck and my jaw as I lean into the familiar warmth of my best friend.
"Sit down. Persia ordered the good champagne and Katriana is about to show us forty-seven pictures of Charlotte in a sunhat. "
"Forty-three," Katriana corrects, already reaching for her phone. "I edited."
"She did not edit." Ilona's voice is dry, barely a degree above deadpan. "I counted."
I sit in the empty chair and Onyx squeezes my hand under the table before I can even unfold my napkin. Her fingers are warm and firm and the pressure says everything her mouth doesn't. I squeeze back and feel the linen tablecloth brush against my knuckles, cool and crisp against our clasped hands.
"Welcome to the wives' club," Persia says, lifting her champagne glass.
The crystal chimes faintly as she raises it, a clear, bright sound that cuts through the low murmur of candlelight and conversation.
Her voice carries the warm command of a woman who makes you feel included and slightly intimidated in equal measure.
"We meet every two weeks. Sometimes it's lunch.
Sometimes it's wine at Katriana's while Drake pretends he's not listening from the other room.
The only rule is what's said at this table stays at this table. "
"And no one judges anyone's coping mechanisms," Katriana adds, tearing a piece of warm bread and passing the basket to me.
The crust crackles between her fingers and the soft, yeasty scent fills the space between us.
"Mine is baking. Ilona's is Pilates. Onyx's is investigative journalism. Also, she’s our source for hot gossip and dirty stories. "
"I don't investigate anymore." Onyx picks up her glass. "I observe. There's a difference."
"She investigates," Persia mouths to me across the table, and I press my lips together to keep from laughing.
The champagne is cold and dry and the bubbles burst against my tongue with a sharpness that cuts through the tightness I've been carrying in my chest all morning. The bread arrives warm, the butter salted and soft, and I realize I haven't eaten anything since last night.
I tear into the bread and let the warm dough dissolve on my tongue and wash it down with champagne that costs more per glass than a full rack at my boutique.
The salads come next, bright greens and shaved parmesan and a vinaigrette that smells like lemon and fresh herbs.
I eat and I drink and I listen to Persia talk about a charity gala she's planning with the efficiency of a woman coordinating a military operation with place cards and centerpieces.
Katriana passes her phone around and Charlotte stares up at me from forty-three photos, round cheeks and dark curls and Drake's jaw already forming in miniature, wearing a sunhat that keeps sliding over her eyes.
Ilona describes a Pilates move that made Luca walk in on her and immediately lose his train of thought, and the way she delivers the punchline, flat and precise and without a trace of a smile while the rest of us dissolve, tells me everything I need to know about her sense of humor.
The conversation flows fast and layered, four women who have learned how to live inside a world built by dangerous men and carved out a space for themselves within it that belongs to no one else.
They're funny. They're warm. They're terrifying in the way only women who have survived extraordinary things can be.
I could get used to this. I really could.
"You've always had a thing for the untouchable ones." Onyx says it casually, lifting her glass.
My heartbeat trips. But I'm tired of hiding. I've been hiding for eleven years and my jaw aches from the effort.
"Since I was sixteen." I say it quietly, my eyes on my champagne. "I've been in love with him since I was sixteen years old, Onyx."
The table keeps talking. Katriana is showing Persia something on her phone. Ilona refills her sparkling water. Nobody hears us.
Onyx sets her glass down. Her hand finds mine under the table and her fingers tighten. She doesn't look surprised. She looks like a woman who already knew and was waiting for me to say it out loud.
"I know, babe." Her voice is soft. "I've known for a while. I watched you watch him for a long time."
My eyes burn. "You did?"
She squeezes my hand. "You look at that man like he formed the sun and forgot to take credit for it."
I laugh and it comes out wet. "That's embarrassing."
"That's love." She bumps her shoulder against mine. "And it's about damn time you stopped pretending it wasn't."
A movement at the edge of my vision pulls my attention from the table.
A server approaches with a fresh bread basket, slim and quiet, moving through the private dining room with the efficient invisibility of someone trained to be present without being noticed.
Blonde hair pulled into a low knot at the nape of her neck, a few loose strands falling along the line of her jaw.
Quick hazel eyes that scan the table, the glasses, the placement of every dish, cataloging details with a precision that reminds me of the way Kon swept Massimo's penthouse in two seconds flat on his first visit.
She sets the bread down without a word, adjusts a water glass that was a fraction off its coaster, and turns to leave.
Her hands are steady and her movements are controlled and there's a stillness about her that doesn't match the uniform she's wearing, the way a dress fits wrong when the woman inside it was made for something else entirely.
Our eyes meet for half a second. Hers are hazel, guarded, sharp enough to cut. She doesn't smile or linger. She moves on, leaving me with an odd feeling that I either know her or should know her.
I make a mental note to ask Onyx who she is.