"You know, Mark Twain once said that if you make your mark on New York City, you are a made man. Or woman, Miss Barrow."

I smirk at the mayor. "Is that right, Mister Mayor?"

The Plaza Hotel carries the memories of an older time in Manhattan. Its architecture is even older than that, having been inspired by the French Renaissance, according to Mayor Jon.

In the lobby, an elaborate chandelier, a creamy coffered ceiling, and a floor of mosaic tiles that formed weaving roses and golden vines greeted me. It bled into labyrinthine marble halls with arching, two-story, wooden French doors. The gold trim and the grey flecks along the marble make the massive halls look like something out of Heaven. The mosaic tiles of weaving roses and golden vines stretch along the expansive corridors along with silver chandeliers. Golden handrails accompany grand flights of stairs, and gilded panels accompany engraved ceilings. Hulking palm trees resting in green ceramic pots extend up to my hips.

"Indeed," he says. "I start off every morning with a few pages from The New York Times, and I didn't miss yours. It's quite a feat to have done what you have at seventeen years of age. You should be very proud of yourself, Miss Barrow."

I only nod at Mayor Jon. Everybody says that, and at this point, I don't know what to say back.

I walk through the halls of the Plaza Hotel with the mayor of New York, the man who my parents themselves voted for in the last election. He really does seem like an ordinary man in the grandeur of the hotel with his average height, simple dress clothes, and older face. But he walks like the mayor of New York. He smiles at the party guests like the mayor of New York. He talks to Tiberias Calore like the mayor of New York, like he's the one in charge.

Iris walks on my other side, having followed her father, who walks on Jon's other side. With her long hair curled in waves, she wears a gorgeous blue cocktail dress. Cal and Evangeline have gone their separate ways, thank God. They headed off through another door with Mister Calore and Volo and Laurentia Samos, and though I ought to wonder what they're doing, I don't have it in me to care. Maven's with them, off trailing his own father for reasons that I prefer not to think about.

"This hotel has hosted all of history's great people. Mrs. Patrick Campbell, a famous actress of the time, tried to smoke in the tea room back in 1907. All of the men thought it was so unbecoming of a woman to be out smoking in public. The hotel gave her a little folding screen so that the other guests wouldn't have to watch a woman smoke. People flocked to the Plaza to see American heiress Gladys Vanderbilt have tea a few years later. Teddy Roosevelt hosted his political events at the Plaza, and his distant cousin, Franklin Roosevelt, would follow. Hildegarde, Marilyn Monroe, and the Beatles were here too."

I don't know why Mayor Jon possesses any interest in me.

What I do know is that he loves to listen to himself talk.

He reminds me of Julian.

We come across the Palm Court, a strange amalgamation of elegance and paradise.

Past the wooden French doors, the mosaic tiles transition from roses and golden vines to squares of sunset orange hemmed in by white flowers. Arrangements of purple-cushioned wooden chairs and benches surround circular tables where plates and teacups and all of the silverware a socialite could ever need await. An arching bar presides over the Palm Court, filled with expensive wines, brandies, and ales. In the very center of the bar, past the white-shirted, black-vested bartenders, a palm tree rises from a cement vase that's as tall as I am. Throughout the space, palm trees tower like giraffes in their ceramic green pots, reaching high with the marble pillars and glassy doors that box in the Palm Court.

I've never seen a palm tree in real life before.

An expanse of stained-glass sprawls across the ceiling. Like the room, it's the shape of a rectangle, though it arches up and contains mosaic patterns of pink and green flowers. The glass shines golden like any other light, and I have to raise my brow at how they did that.

"Remind me where you're from, Miss Barrow?" Orrec Cygnet asks me. He walks a few steps ahead of the mayor so that he can look at me. "You must have had a superb ballet education. Did you go to Joffrey?"

I find myself shaking my head.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Iris, who wears a perfectly blank expression. She knows most things about me, including what neighborhood of Manhattan I'm from and where I received my ballet education. I guess that she's never had an in-depth conversation about me with her dad.

The surfaces of the tea tables show reflections. I catch my own, of a high society girl who wears a gorgeous, almost sexy dress. She wears an amused smile on her bloody lips, and her braided, bound hair takes on a shimmer beneath the Plaza lights.

I take a gander at all of the people in the Palm Court. Lounging around as though they truly have all of the time in the world, they're almost ethereal in their dresses and tuxes. Jewels glisten with champagne, and the laughter of high society mingles with far-off sounds of violins. The way that they act is so foreign to me. They talk about stocks and real estate the way that my family talks about baseball and grocery coupons. They laugh, they drink, and then they laugh some more. They wear the finest silks that money can buy. Everybody has a place here. The women judge one another by their jewelry and their husbands, and the men judge one another by their stock portfolios and handshakes. This place and its people all reek of money, and the decadence would make me sick if I didn't have other things on my mind.

Maven Calore's my boyfriend.

He can't have a girlfriend from East Harlem.

I smile back at Mister Cygnet and Mayor Jon.

Half-truths. Nothing that I say is a lie.

"I've grown up in Manhattan. And I had a wonderful teacher."

Maven's thumb finds the skin between my thumb and index finger, and it feels nice as he strokes it. In his other hand, he holds the stem of his dad's empty wine class.

My heels click too hard against the tiles.

We're somewhere upstairs, not terribly far from the ballroom. High society's party doesn't seem to be in any one place, with a hundred people downstairs in the Palm Court, a few hundred people congregating in the ballroom, and hundreds more strung throughout the hallways and shadows of the Plaza Hotel.

I can't decide whether or not I like the corridor that I find Volo Samos down. It's crowded and congested, filled with slow-moving older women, young couples that zigzag between them, and all of the affluent people in between. An older man lets out a belly full of laughter, shaking so furiously that he nearly spills his wine on the floor. The tall marble corridor reverberates with merriment, echoes becoming trapped in the confines of gold.

It's just like old times.

This should be easier than breaking into Tiberias Calore's office.

It's just like stealing from those dumb tourists in Times Square.

My stomach flips over itself.

Nobody's paying attention to me and Maven. We move quickly enough so that it looks like we have someplace to be, and honestly, nobody offers the younger Calore a second glance the way they would to Cal.

Speaking of Cal, he nor his date are anywhere in sight.

Good.

I couldn't possibly try what I'm about to do with Cal in the same hallway.

Volo Samos stands at the hall's very end, leaning his shoulder against the corner where one corridor takes a sharp ninety-degree turn for another. His back is turned to me. He's a tall man, nearly as tall as Cal and Mister Calore, but he wears his strength and power in a more sinister way. His inky black hair looks like oil with whatever product he uses. It's as though the golden light of the hallway shies away from him, casting his tux into the deepest of blacks. He looks like a villain.

Maven and I come closer to Mister Samos. We slow our steps, slipping past a throng of men who have taken to the middle of the hall with their wine and laughter. In a matter of a split second, Maven and I draw on facades of dumb, lovesick teens who are so infatuated with each other that we can't even see straight ahead of us. We smile stupidly, and Maven pretends to whisper silly things into my ear. I giggle a little laugh in return.

God. There have to be two thousand people here tonight.

There won't be anywhere to run if I mess up. I can't just draw my hood over my head and find a flight of subway stairs to fly down. I'm not some nobody in Times Square anymore.

Like the light, Volo Samos detracts people too. He has his phone in one of his hands, furiously scrolling through it with his thumb. He tucks his left hand into his front pocket, making the left side of his tux jacket hike up a little. It's as though he's too important for anybody else in the hallway, considering how nobody stands within a ten-foot radius of the man in the crowded hall. The men who try to get close are shooed off with a glare or a flourish of Mister Samos's hand.

Sounds blur together. The hall itself is a delirium of warm bodies well on their ways to becoming inebriated with marvelous wines and ales. Jewels flash in a sea of lush dresses.

We near Volo Samos. Instead of swinging wide around the corner like others do, I get close.

Closer.

Close enough to smell his cologne, something of lavender and spice. His eyes are thoroughly pinned to the text thread on his phone, and my heart races as I come close enough to read the individual words contained within the blue text bubbles.

I don't let my hands shake as I release my free hand from Maven's grip.

There's no set of subway stairs to run off to.

If Volo Samos is as perceptive as Cal, then I'm done for.

Maven falls behind me a step.

Men keep their wallets in their back left pockets.

Volo Samos proves to be no exception as my fingers slip past the bottom of his tux jacket, finding smooth leather inside of his pocket. My manicured hand never comes into contact with the silken fabric of his pants, knowing just where to go to find what I want. His wallet comes into my hand, brushing against his jacket.

I snatch my hand away just as Maven decides to walk right into Volo Samos's shoulder.

"Oh, Maven," I hiss. I practically shove Volo's wallet into Maven's pocket before I grab his arm to pull him away from Volo.

Volo barely moves. I steer my boyfriend off course before he can fully crash into Volo, and we half-stumble into the adjoining hallway. I force myself to turn around on Mister Samos.

It doesn't take Volo long for his black eyes to snap up. They bore into Maven, and then they shift to me, dragging from my feet to face with disdain. He stuffs his phone into his other front pocket, and I watch how his hand fists up. His lip, framed by black facial hair, curls up.

"Watch where you're going, Maven," Volo admonishes in a low tone. "Pretty as your girlfriend might be, she isn't worth tripping over."

Past Volo now, Maven and I stand awkwardly. Our hands barely ever left one another, and now Maven's tightens over mine again.

Here and there, people of high society look over their shoulders towards the quiet scene that Maven and I have made. Volo glares, his eyes not seeming to blink as he watches me. Not Maven. Just me. His gaze turns a little predatory, and it starts to make my skin crawl.

Maven opens his mouth. "Sorry about that, Mister Samos."

Even though Maven had the complete intention of walking into Volo, he still looks uncomfortable as he backs away, taking me with him.

"You should be," Volo returns.

With nothing left to say, Maven turns his back on Volo Samos, and I do the same. My heart continuing to pound, we head down the next hall, finding a set of beautiful elevators framed in wood and gold.

They couldn't come faster. My heels click almost violently against the tiles, and my grip matches Maven's, skin turning white against my bones. Ladies and gentlemen pass in a blur, the tides of people thickening as we approach the ballroom.

But we don't turn right for the ballroom, where Mister Calore and Elara, the Cygnets, and Evangeline and Cal likely are. An older couple just happens to be leaving the elevator closest to us, and Maven and I waste no time hopping inside of it. It takes too long to close behind us.

It has to be ancient, given how it's half the size of a normal elevator. Gold motifs decorate the glass panels set in wood, and the painted patterns on the marble floor look faded with age.

Maven barely remembers to press the button for the eleventh floor of the Plaza. We separate, situating ourselves on opposite sides of the elevator. Maven still bears Mister Calore's empty wine glass in one hand.

The glass feels cool and soothing against my bare back.

He drank none of his father's wine, but Maven wears a drunken and disoriented expression as he peers back at me. He has Volo Samos's wallet in his pocket.

As though I just finished running with Cal, I breathe hard.

"That was pretty wild," I tell my boyfriend.

I don't stay away from him for long. On legs tingling with adrenaline, I approach him again, crossing the few feet that separate us. His hands latch onto my waist, and I feel the stem of the wine glass at my hip. His vivid blue eyes are glazed over, and they concentrate on my lips.

"Wild," Maven murmurs back, smirking.

"Mare. How nice of you to join us."

Once she's done inspecting me, Farley pulls open the hotel room door the rest of the way. The Scarlet Street Fighter is decked out in black tactical gear, a gun at each of her hips and a bloody red bandana dangling around her neck. She looks like one scary bitch as she gestures me inside.

Farley reveals a sprawling sitting room of eggshell-white couches and chairs that accompany a massive white and navy blue area rug. White tulips wait on bronze coffee tables, an overhead chandelier glows, and floor-to-ceiling windows paint a portrait of a shadowed Central Park. The lights of Manhattan fence in the park. Fine wooden floors meet pastel blue walls where sconces glow.

Scarlet Street Fighters have dispersed themselves throughout the sitting room.

My heels click, click, click against the wood. Maven left me outside of the room. Farley didn't want him inside.

More voices murmur in the adjacent room. I hear Willis Farley's among them, along with the voice of the woman named Swan. There aren't many here. Most are out in the hallways, in other hotel rooms, or among high society. The Scarlet Street Fighters are sprawled out on the couches, in the chairs. Off to the side, they occupy the padded chairs of a glossy dinner table. They come through the halls that branch off throughout the room.

With the white glow of two laptop screens in front of her, Ada types away at a keyboard from the head of the table. She's wearing a pair of plain blue jeans and an MIT sweatshirt. With her black boots propped up on the table, Cameron Cole eyes me in tactical gear of her own.

Three men that I don't recognize wear the white shirts and black vests of waiters. I realize with a start that they're identical, all with dark brown skin, onyx hair, and mud-brown eyes. Sitting shoulder to shoulder on a couch, they turn their heads in tandem, watching me as I venture further into the hotel room. Triplets. They must be useful.

Then there's Kilorn, who's seated on another couch near the windows by himself. He matches with Farley and Cameron, wearing heavy black gear and a scarlet bandana around his throat. His sandy blond hair has grown out, tickling the edges of his bandana. It's all over the place, as though he's run his hands through it countless times this evening.

The TikTokers aren't here. I suppose that they're too high-profile for this. Neither is Shade. If he got caught and identified, people would have questions for me.

"You got what I need, Mare?" Farley asks from behind me.

I don't bother to say yes or no. She sees what I have in my hands. Silently, I offer her Mister Calore's wine glass and Volo Samo's wallet.

"Good girl." Farley takes the stolen things from me, walking them over to Ada. "You having fun down there with your boyfriend?"

Although the rest of the night is clear in my mind, I shift on my feet. I don't belong in this room, with these people that stare me down. None of them are dressed like me, and none of them have as much to lose as I do.

Everybody's listening. The conversation between Farley's dad and Swan has even halted in the adjoining room. The city lights outside seem to swell, pressing me inside of the sitting room.

Farley's boots hit the floor hard as her long gait crosses the room. When I hardly ever see her, it's easy to forget how tall and buff she is. I could take her on my night runs through Central Park and be just as safe as I am with Cal. But she's not happy with me. I see the tension written on her shoulders and the ice in her eyes as she turns on me.

"I asked if you were having fun down there with your boyfriend. Maven's your boyfriend, remember? Mare?"

Farley's mad. She's on the verge of flipping her lid. The real scolding, the real yelling from Farley and Shade will come later, when they at last have some time to shake me down and ask what the hell I've been thinking.

I'm dating Maven Calore.

And I realize that I've forgotten to answer her question.

"There's not a lot of room for fun down there," I say, swallowing.

"Pretty nice place, huh?"

"Yeah. It is," I return, gazing at my old friend.

The triplets have left the hotel room, Farley and Ada have gone down the hallway with Volo's wallet and Tibe's wine glass, and Cameron has started poking around the rest of the suite. The other nameless Street Fighters have dispersed as well. That leaves me and Kilorn in the quiet sitting room alone, waiting to make our next moves of the night.

I've taken up a place on the opposite side of the couch that Kilorn sits on. We look like a pretty odd pair, considering how I wear an evening dress, jewels, and an elaborate updo while Kilorn wears army boots and fighting gear that blend into a pitch-black night. Two people are far too few to fill a grand room like this, a room that is made for beautiful music and people. Instead, a strange silence looms along with the city lights. I don't know what to say to my best friend on a night like this, when my heart's still hammering in my chest. Kilorn's taken to staring at the windows in front of us.

"I guess you're used to this kind of stuff though," he continues, speaking his first full sentence of the night. When I look at him, I find bottle-green eyes that look a little sad. "I mean, you've been all over the place. They take you all over Manhattan."

They.

The Calores.

He's not wrong. I've seen their skyscraper, their yacht, their penthouse.

I still shake my head. "It's still weird being on the inside of things."

Kilorn shakes his head along with me.

"It can't be too weird. I doubt it took you too long to figure out how to act like them. And they treat you like one of their own if that jewelry's any indication." He motions at my neck and then my wrists. "Can't imagine what that shit is worth. You should pawn it when you're done with all of this."

My eyes fall to my expensive wrists, where a lovely black and gold watch glimmers with bangles.

Kilorn's eyes could be emeralds. But they shimmer with more emotion than a jewel could ever hold. He's been quiet up until now. Too quiet. Now I stare at him, not sure what he's trying to tell me.

When I'm done with all of this. He's talking about the Academy, the Calores. Maven.

Like I'm just going to toss it all aside when the Scarlet Street Fighters are done with their work.

Or maybe the Academy, the Calores, and Maven just won't be there for me anymore.

For now, I push those thoughts away as I blink at my friend, my old friend who's always been there for me. But now Kilorn looks like he's never known me at all.

"Are you mad at me, Kilorn?" I ask quietly. I hardly know what else to say, but I begin to feel the tension crackling around him. Suddenly, I notice how his shoulders are slouched, how he frowns, and how he holds himself like a kicked animal. I tilt my head innocently. "Did I do something?"

Out of the blue, Kilorn lets out a bitter, deep laugh. He looks scorned as he slouches into the couch, going so far as to throw up his arms.

"How could you date him? How could you let him be your boyfriend?"

His tone is weak. He almost mutters the words to himself.

I suppose that I never got to talk to him last night. He was at Shade's apartment with the rest of the Street Fighters, but he hung around Cameron most of the time while I sat with Maven.

We only said a quick hello.

Helplessly, I part my lips. With nothing of substance to say, my tongue feels heavy in my mouth.

"Are you gonna tell me that you became great friends with him and then shoved your tongue into his mouth? Because that's basically what Shade and Tyton said."

Knowing that he's delivered a sting, Kilorn pinches his lips together.

"We did become really good friends," I whisper. "I told him everything about me, and he didn't care. And don't think that he's some petty, horrible rich boy, because he couldn't be farther from—"

My best friend gives me an eye roll that matches the caliber of my own.

"Maybe the gold and diamonds help you believe that, Mare."

If my back wasn't pressed up against the lip of the couch, I think that I'd scoot away from Kilorn.

"Is that how much you think I've changed?"

"You must have changed somehow if you're dating him. Because I don't even know what you would've said this summer if I had told you who you'd be making out with in October." Kilorn's throat bobs. "You used to be disgusted with people like him. How can you possibly like him after everything that happened with your dad and—"

"He's nothing like those boys," I hiss, standing up now.

I came here to do my job, not be a part of whatever ridiculous argument this is. Still, he rises up, and like what seems to be every man in New York City, Kilorn Warren towers over me. His months with the Street Fighters have given him some muscle in his arms, and he no longer looks like the scrawny boy that I grew up with.

He looks like a man.

I try to keep my voice steady. "It's not your problem, okay? There won't be any conflicts of interest between the Scarlet Street Fighters and Maven. Or the Calores. I can do what I want with whoever I want. I like him," I say. "He welcomed me when I came to the Academy, and he's always cared about me. He's always listened, always . . . always cared."

In the sitting room, there are lamps turned on here and there. But the room is still cast in silhouettes, and I don't miss when the light in Kilorn's emerald eyes goes out. They join the shadows.

"What about me?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Farley, Ada, and Cameron gathered at the hallway's threshold. It looks like we're ready for phase two.

Dimly, I glance between Kilorn and the other three Street Fighters. "What about you, Kilorn?"

His wide eyes regard me with despair.

"I've always listened. I've always cared. I can't dance with you on a stage, but you know that I've always wanted you to have what you do now. Maybe not at the Academy, but still. More than anybody else in your life has. But you're right, Mare. It's never been about me. Not in your eyes."

Farley pushes off the door threshold that she's taken to leaning against.

Kilorn turns away. He weaves between the coffee tables and couches, but he doesn't head toward the door. Instead, he heads towards the expanse of windows. Wordlessly, he undoes the latches of one and hefts it open. It's easily big enough for him to fit through, and he takes to loitering beside it.

I try to wrap my mind around the things that he's said.

We've been friends for ten years. We started off playing together, spent our pre-teen years climbing the fire escapes of East Harlem, and have glared together at Midtown's buildings since. We've always had a quiet friendship, one where it wasn't always necessary to tell him everything. Sometimes it was enough to just have Kilorn there as my best friend. As a presence at my side.

I didn't know.

I didn't know that he felt that way.

But he's already across the room. Guilt crawls up my throat, and my tongue feels heavy again. Farley's presence isn't helping anything either. She meanders closer, hands crossed behind her back. Though I can't see them, I know that they hold a keycard stolen from Volo's wallet, a latex glove, and a synthetic plastic fingerprint of Tiberias Calore taken straight from his wine glass.

If she feels any sympathy for Kilorn, she doesn't show it as she looks towards the windows where he stands. Her icy eyes shoot bullets into me.

"Go along now, soldier," she says, offering me the stolen goods. "We're kidnapping the mayor before midnight."