Tucked behind the staircase is a set of big windows.
They're positioned rather awkwardly, considering how one would have to climb over the banister to get situated on their sill. One would have to pull back their heavy grey curtains, careful not to snag their dress or twist their ankle as they make the little jump to the sill.
Cool glass presses against my shoulder, and Central Park stares back at me through the window.
The sill is accommodating. I can sit down and stretch my legs out across it, rest my tired feet. The curtains are too heavy to capture my silhouette.
A quiet click of a door has me turning my head away from Central Park and towards the curtain. It doesn't accomplish much. I could have my eyes closed as it is. My little hiding place is nothing more than shadows and faraway lights, offering me no indication of what goes on in the sitting room.
"It's a wonderful party down there, Tibe."
The first footstep falls a moment later, followed by others. They're heavier than my own. Slower, as though they have all of the time in the world.
"It always is, Jon," Mister Calore's voice returns. I hear it with his steps, drifting closer. I hear Mister Calore's body settle down in one of the chairs by the fireplace.
"I'm finding it rather boring, actually," another voice chimes in.
"That's because you've been too busy deciding which woman you'll invite to your hotel room this evening, Volo." Orrec Cygnet's voice echoes through the room this time, carrying humor with it.
"And I still haven't decided," Volo returns. "Maybe I'll take two or three."
I clench my teeth, somehow finding more reason to hate Volo Samos. So much for having a wife.
The men talk and talk and talk.
Tibe, Volo, Orrec, and Mayor Jon aren't the only men in the room. The quiet, measured voice of Dane Davidson arises every so often. Some other men from Wall Street inhabit the sitting room along with Mister Calore's lackeys.
I hear about all of the dirty things that happen on Wall Street. There's a special ring of men in this city that controls the whole damn thing. They play the rest of Wall Street's denizens like puppets on strings. They rip everything from anyone who shows the slightest sign of weakness, ruining businesses and sending stocks up and down. Disgust creeps up my throat.
Mayor Jon and Mister Calore might as well be in bed together. Maven's father just recently bought Mayor Jon a very nice vacation home in Los Angeles and gave him a nice raise to do his job. In return, Jon cuts Mister Calore's taxes and gives him dibs on whatever properties he wants in the city.
Dane Davidson turns a blind eye to it all. He lets things and people disappear when they need to, when they know too much.
And in all honesty, these men talk like it's a run-of-the-mill conversation.
Mister Calore has his eyes set on a new development only a couple of buildings down from the Calore penthouse on Billionaires' Row. It'll be taller than his, and that just won't do. So Mayor Jon will pull the rights from the contractor and hand them over to Tibe, who'll pay a pretty penny for it.
"I want those men out of that building by Monday, Jon," Mister Calore says. His tone isn't especially threatening, but when it's Mister Calore, it doesn't need to be.
"And so they shall," Jon returns, sounding bored.
Behind the curtain, I hold my breath. I don't make a movement, even as my left arm itches against the cold glass. It didn't have to be me here. It could've just as easily been Farley or Kilorn. At least they're already wanted criminals. Though they would've had a heck of a time getting up here with their wanted faces and black tactical gear.
But it couldn't have been somebody else. The Scarlet Street Fighters want me to prove that I don't care about the Academy or my newfound easy, plush life. I shouldn't care about ballet or my boyfriend or anything else—I should want to throw it all away for Farley's cause. But they know better. Tyton said as much.
Silence devours the sitting room for a moment. Ice clinks as the men take sips of their whiskeys. A foot taps against the wood, and something about the repetition makes my heart beat harder.
Nothing much has happened.
There's been no discussion of murder or—
"So Dane. How's your investigation coming along with the Scarlet Street Fighters?"
Mister Calore's tone is still steady, albeit with a touch of sharpness. It could cut air.
It could just be the cold window, but goosebumps prickle across my arms. I don't forget about the little microphone clipped to my swooping neckline. It was the last thing that Farley gave me, putting it in my hand like an afterthought. But she told me not to lose it with a growl.
Another pause. Ice clinks, a foot taps. Somebody sighs.
"The Scarlet Street Fighters are quite the magicians, Tibe. And as long as you don't let the FBI get involved, my resources are limited and—"
"The FBI isn't getting involved," Volo cuts in, practically snarling.
I haven't dared to pull back the curtain and steal a peek. But I let myself angle my head, nearly snapping my neck in half to get a view through the empty space where the curtain hangs against the wall.
The FBI was there the night of the bombing at Calore Industries. They were storming the skyscraper. But are they done investigating?
I remember that Mister Calore only has New York City wrapped around his fingers. He must have found a way to get the FBI out of the equation. The men in the room don't exactly want the federal government finding out about all of their dirty doings, so I suppose it's best that the FBI stays out of things.
I catch a glimpse of Volo. He's slumped into one of the sitting chairs, his ankle balanced on his knee. He presses his glass to his cheek, and his black eyes stare off into the distance. He's still a picture of darkness and evil just as he was downstairs.
"They've been quiet, lately," Orrec says out of the blue. He sounds reflective. "Too quiet. If they're following a pattern, then you're next, Volo. They already attacked me and Tibe."
Volo emits a humorless laugh. "Fortunately for me, I don't own an ultra high-rise skyscraper on Wall Street. That seems to be what they favor destroying. But let them come after my penthouse on the Upper East Side."
None of the men laugh after that.
They're afraid of the Scarlet Street Fighters. The men know what they're capable of. And nobody knows how far the Street Fighters will go to get what they want.
"Jon?"
Mister Calore speaks again, his voice taking on a light and airy tone.
"Yes, Tibe?"
"Have you decided where you'd like to sit for the ballet next month?"
"I don't suppose so."
"Well. Then I'll make sure that you have the best seats in the house. On the house."
The men leave me in silence, and I'm left with a hollow pit in my stomach.
Even in private, they don't strike me as killers.
And that makes it all the harder to do things like this. Their conversation was boring and ultimately spiraled into talk of the New York Giants. I couldn't follow it like I could the Mets.
Feeling somewhat miserable, I pull back the curtain. If I were a wise woman, I'd take off my shoes, but it's just a little climb over the banister and a walk across the suite. Then I'd be putting them right back on.
I heft one leg over the rail, bracing my hands against the wood as I balance my knee on the banister. The slit of my dress rides up, the entirety of my thigh—and a bit of my black underwear—exposed in the position. For somebody as flexible as me, I should be able to find a better way to get over a stair railing, but I'll blame it on the heels.
I let my other foot lift off from the window sill. I cringe as I imagine the awkward position I have my ass stuck out over the—
"Dad?"
Like I just fell off the monkey bars in gym class and landed right on my lungs, every last molecule of oxygen vanishes from my chest.
My muscles seize up, and I nearly lose my balance, ready to crash into the curtains. I look like some kind of stripper on the banister, ready to perform an inverted pole dancing routine.
Cal's deep voice rings out through the hollow space. It travels from the antechamber that I first came through, spiraling down the hall before bouncing off the sitting room walls.
And when he takes his first step, closing behind him a door I never heard open, I realize that I don't have as much of a center of gravity as I thought. As though the vibration of his step is enough to shake the foundations of the earth, my knee loses its balance.
Suddenly, the pretty blue ceiling is before my eyes, and my back crashes into the stairs.
It takes everything in me not to let out a cry. The three-foot fall hurts worse than my descent from the stage rafters did, the stair edges connecting with my head, spine, and tailbone.
Hearing the fall, Cal pauses on his third step.
My contemporary teacher and I share a moment of confused silence.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Self-preservation has me flipping myself over, practically digging my nails into the stairs, and throwing everything to hell as I let Cal hear my heels run violently up the staircase.
They click and click and click.
I throw myself around the landing, making it out of Cal's line of vision just as his steps turn down the hall.
"Hello? Ma'am?"
His masculine voice is uncertain.
I reach the top of the staircase in a desperate half-crawl. I pass a study, throw myself down the short hallway and through a door. I pull the fine white panel behind me without a care for the sound it makes. It slams, the wood shaking against the threshold as I fumble with the gilded doorknob.
It locks a moment later as I hear Cal's quick steps up the stairs.
"Ma'am?"
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
What the fuck is he doing here?
His dad's been out of the hotel room for fifteen minutes. I would know, considering I spent all of those fifteen minutes—save for the last fifteen seconds—hidden behind a curtain counting my heartbeats.
I find myself inside a bedroom. It's outfitted with periwinkle walls, linen sheets atop a king-sized bed, and all of the other things a fancy hotel room needs. For once, I don't pay attention to the details.
With clamoring hands, I drag the desk chair across the room and pin it beneath the doorknob.
Cal's footsteps are heavier. They're not as frantic as mine, but I'm reminded of how big he is. How easily he could take down the bedroom door if he wanted to.
But a gentle knock follows his footsteps.
"Ma'am? Are you, um . . . one of Volo's women? I think he might have given you the wrong room key. My name's Cal. I'm Tibe Calore's son."
For all of a second, I let my body relax. I almost roll my eyes.
Volo Samos has such a reputation that Cal just assumed I'm one of his women in the wrong place.
I try to picture Cal through the door. He's probably standing there awkwardly, not knowing exactly what to do with me. He probably thinks that I'm some young lady who can't have anyone knowing that I'm cheating on my boyfriend with Volo Samos.
I guess rich men can have whatever they want.
"I'm sorry," Cal says after a moment. "I'll go. I'm sorry."
Another step. This one goes backward.
"But for the record, Volo Samos is a disgusting, awful man."
Cal's voice is quiet, soothing. I can feel his embarrassment through the door. "I would walk you downstairs and out of here if you wanted," he continues.
Well. That's sweet. And I'm not even one of Volo's women.
"No?" Cal gives me another moment to respond. When I say nothing, he clears his throat. "Okay, then. Have a good evening, ma'am."
I stand paralyzed as I listen to Cal's retreating footsteps. They pad down the hall before hitting the first step.
I back further into the bedroom. I pass silly lamps embroidered with diamonds, nearly backing into a beautiful tan chaise. To my right, a set of three little steps lead up to curtained-off French doors.
My chest starts to feel numb. My hands barely have the sense to pull down my dress.
I watch my life flash before my eyes.
Cal takes a few more steps back. I listen as he pauses once before continuing down, his leather shoes making the stairs creak a little.
He's just looking for his dad. Cal probably kept missing Mister Calore downstairs and figured he was still upstairs. Maybe Cal wanted some air away from high society. Either way, he has no reason to suspect that anything's wrong.
He'll leave, I'll wait just another moment, and then I'll—
The door downstairs bursts open, hitting the wall and sending vibrations throughout the suite. I only hear it, only hear the running feet below me.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
"Lucas?" Cal's voice asks, halfway down the steps now. "What are you—"
"There's somebody in this apartment, Cal."
Knowing what's coming, I keep backing up. My heels find the wooden steps, and my shaking hand grasps at the balcony door handle. Again, I fumble for the lock, this time looking to open the door.
"Well, I know. There's some woman in here. I think that she tripped on the stairs, but then she ran upstairs. I heard her heels, but I never saw her. I think that she could be, um . . . one of Volo's women."
Cool air greets me.
I'm numb on the inside and trembling on the outside.
I can feel Cal turn his head up the stairs, towards the door. I can feel him stare at the woman through the door, trying to imagine what she looks like.
I don't hear Lucas's next words, though I can imagine what they are.
It's not Volo's mistress.
Somebody stole Volo Samos's wallet, which had his room card in it. He never needed to use it because he and Mister Calore came up together, which explains why it took him two hours to notice that his wallet was missing. Not long before or after, security raised an eyebrow at how Cal's dad used the thumb pad twice to get into this hotel room, once at nine-thirty, again at ten. And somebody put those two pieces together. Somebody got into the penthouse suite with Mister Calore's fingerprint and Mister Samos's keycard. Somebody was listening to their meeting tonight.
Lucas's frantic words reverberate through the door, muffled but incriminating nonetheless. I don't know why Lucas is up here by himself. Maybe he was the one who put the pieces together.
"It could be a Scarlet Street Fighter."
Silence.
Chills rake up and down my arms, knowing damn well that Lucas and Cal can feel me, feel my guilt through the door.
I feel the air go out of Cal's lungs as he takes in Lucas's words.
A live Scarlet Street Fighter. Separated by only a door.
A series of harsh, loud knocks bang against my door.
A pause.
Another series of harsh, loud knocks bang against my door.
"Ma'am?" Lucas's voice matches his knock. "I'd advise you to come out right now."
I catch those words as I exit into the night, that cold air pushing against my back. My heels click against cream-colored stones, and I glance back and forth between arrangements of wrought-iron chairs decked out in orange cushions. Little shrubs grow from massive cement pots. Black metal railings rise up from the balcony floor, enclosing me before a blinding, brilliant city.
"Break down the door."
I slam the French doors behind me. Stumbling, I advance towards the firepit that I find in the midst of the chairs, picking up the fire poker that rests atop the bricking.
I put it through the two half-heart-shaped door handles.
Helplessly, I back away from the doors. I listen as Cal's foot comes into contact with the bedroom door, listen as wood tears off hinges and the desk chair breaks.
Wind lashes my body, creeping into my pores. I would think that it could mess up my hair, but Elara ordered too much hairspray on my head.
There's nowhere to go, nowhere to run. My back hits the railing at the far edge of the balcony.
The balcony door is sturdier, at least. It'll take a few extra kicks for Cal to break down and—
"God, Princess."
I flinch hard enough to land outside of my body at the sound of Tyton Jesper's mocking voice.
"I literally just scaled a building for you. If you don't love me after this, I don't know what I'm doing wrong."
With eyelids wide enough for the eyes to pop out of my sockets, I spin around in my heels.
Tyton Jesper perches on the balcony railing, wearing black tactical gear and a beanie over his platinum hair. His white grin pierces the night, and his eyes match the dark grey sky that wreaks of thunder above.
I don't know where he came from. He wasn't balancing on the balcony railing five seconds ago.
"They said Volo finally figured out he'd been pickpocketed. They just sent me to check in on—"
One of the two men jiggles the door behind us. A kick follows. The door and the fire poker hold.
Tyton raises an eyebrow.
I offer Tyton a pleading look. Never have I been so happy to see the TikTok dancer.
In a sleek, foxlike movement, he jumps down from the balcony. The look in his eyes now matches their stormy color, and his mouth curves into a frown. "You're going to have to hold on tight, Princess," he mutters, lest Cal or Lucas can hear.
My eyes trace the contraption that he has hooked up to his chest. A thick black vest is embedded into his tactical gear, and a complicated series of wires and ropes dangle from Tyton's body.
In a graceful movement, he connects a silver clasp to a sleek line that extends from the hotel room roof, off the balcony, and into the depths beyond.
The edges of his silver hair whip in the wind.
Another bang. The fire poker grunts, warping under the weight of Cal's second kick.
The night beckons.
The Plaza is built so that three edges of the hotel rise up to form a hollow space in the building's center. Stories and stories below, a terrace awaits atop the Palm Court, in that hollow space surrounded by hotel room walls.
Tyton braces a boot atop the fence.
I don't think as I wrap my arms around his neck, sandwich my body close to his as he clamps his own arm around my waist. I throw it all to hell when I let my leg slink out from my dress slit and wrap around Tyton's back. He'll mock me about this later.
But I can hardly care about that as Tyton throws us off the ledge.
My stomach takes a moment longer than the rest of me does to fall, descending into the night.
My heels click down the stairs, racing against Cal, Lucas, and time.
Tyton deposited me on the terrace, where streams of water rose up from a beautiful pool-like fountain. Dying flowers and cement balustrades accompanied the space. As quietly as he could, Tyton broke a hotel room window for me, cleared the glass like a real gentleman, and told me to get the hell away from that room.
Cal and Lucas will see the zipline extending from the Plaza suite to the terrace below. They'll find the broken window later.
I checked my reflection in a hallway mirror. My hair and makeup remain perfectly intact. If a bruise forms on my back from my crash into the stairs, it'll appear under my dress.
Not wanting to run into Cal or Lucas on the way down, I went up three flights of stairs first. I ripped up the latex glove and tossed the shreds into an unlocked maids' room. I pushed Volo's room card under a random room door. The microphone went back inside my bra cup.
Maven's just downstairs. He promised he'd be waiting for me in the ballroom at eleven-forty-five, fifteen minutes after he figured his dad's meeting would be done. He'll tell anybody who asks that we've spent the last two hours in a hotel room, watching paper-per-view, drinking non-alcoholic beverages, and—
"Mare Barrow."
I whip around a corner one second too late.
Begrudgingly, I turn around. I'm faced with Evangeline, who looks as regal as ever in her glossy heels, tight silver cocktail dress, and gaudy chains. Her purple-black lipstick looks fresh.
She tilts her head. "What are you doing up here? Are you lost?"
My feet itch to run the other way. Every moment spent up here is a moment I've lost to Cal and Lucas.
"Nope," I say carefully, as though the wrong tone could give me away. "Just looking for some peace and quiet. Sorry. It looks like I'm on the wrong floor."
Evangeline purrs as she closes the door that she came from. "You aren't allowed to take breaks at high society parties. There's no rest for the weary, Mare. Or the wicked."
I cross my arms now, nodding to the door. "So you weren't taking a rest in there with your girlfriend?"
My ballet rival lets out a low giggle. "We were exerting ourselves quite a bit, actually."
Too much information, Evangeline.
With an annoyed huff, I turn on my heel and make to get away from her. Maven's just downstairs. Just a turn, a little elevator ride, and a few turns after that, and I'll be in the clear.
"Wait up," Evangeline chirps.
I roll my eyes and pick up the pace.
Elane doesn't follow. She probably stays back a couple minutes when she and Evangeline have their escapades, knowing what Volo's like.
"So as long as it's just us girls, can I ask how it was with Maven?"
Another eye roll comes from me. I clench my jaw and fists.
The hotel rooms come and go. White doors and eggshell-colored walls go on forever, twisting as mazes do. We pass black and white photos of the city, lilac sitting chairs tucked into alcoves, and grand sconces. Evangeline matches me step for step, our heels muffled against the royal blue and gold carpet.
"Oops, never mind then." Evangeline's smirk is sharp. "Based on how wound-up you look, I'm guessing that you and Maven didn't do the dirty. Or it was just really, really bad sex."
I don't have time for this.
Thank God I get to the elevator fast enough. I almost jam my finger in the process of pressing the elevator button. I watch in pain as the arrow indicates that the elevator is coming up.
Cal, Lucas, and who knows who else could be coming up.
"I guess that you and Maven haven't been dating for that long," Evangeline says, sounding thoughtful as she leans against the wall. "Still, I would've thought that two hormonal, overworked teens would like . . . you know."
As if Evangeline isn't unfiltered enough to call it sex.
I swallow my cry of relief as the elevator door opens. The space inside is empty.
"You don't need to worry about my love life, Evangeline."
I stare at my ballet rival. The mirrors rimmed in gold within the elevator make copies of us.
"Well, I figure that I should, considering how you were gawking at Cal like he was a piece of meat in the hot tub. You looked like you wanted to take a bite out of him, Mare. Or let him do a few different things to you."
A blush ravishes my face.
It was silly for me to think that she could just forget about that.
"It's okay to be attracted to another guy. That's human nature," she continues, shrugging. "Not that I can relate, but most women find Cal sexually appealing. They more or less think that it's their civic duty to admire him. Cal is an ideal mate. Tall, strong, handsome. Big dick, assumably. Take a look at his hands sometime."
I keep my eyes forward as the golden elevator descends. Evangeline's monologue rages on.
But my mind drifts to thoughts of Cal's hands on my hips.
"Just don't act on your lust or start developing feelings for him. I'm watching out for Maven. This is, like, the first time he's had anything going for him that his brother hasn't. It would break his heart to find out that you were pining for his brother."
My teeth are gritted.
"I'm hardly lusting or pining after him, Evangeline. I don't like Cal."
In that way or any others.
"Hmm." Evangeline releases an unbelieving sound from her throat. "I don't see why you wouldn't. Maven and Cal are brothers with that same luscious Calore hair. But Cal's taller, stronger, more handsome than Maven. Cal's the better dancer. He's richer, more powerful, if that matters to you. You can't possibly be attracted to Maven but not give Cal a second look. And you did give him a second look on the yacht, Mare."
The elevator doors glide open with a gust of air.
The hallway to the ballroom looks the same. High society comes and goes through the doors, wearing their clothes and drunkenness with elegance.
"But it's not like Cal likes you, so none of this should be a problem," Evangeline says, her dress moving like molten metal as the elevator lights shift across her body. She saunters to the elevator's threshold. "Remember to compare hand sizes, though. Just for fun."
"You're shaking," Maven murmurs as his hand finds mine.
"I know."
The words are so quiet, so incredibly weak.
I meet Maven at the edge of the ballroom, where he leans against one of the massive marble pillars. He waits for me, just as he said he would.
"Dance with me," I whisper. It comes out as a shaking rasp.
"Okay." Maven's voice is inquisitive as he leads me through high society's fray. The Plaza seems more drunken than it was before as people sway to a jazz song. The ballroom looms, dresses and lights mixing with wine and shadows.
My initial kick of adrenaline wears off, and I find myself standing on shaking limbs. Maven feels my nerves through his skin and makes the wise choice of not weaving through the dancing.
I manage a shaky smile. Maven returns it. I see no fear on his face.
I focus on his curls. On his hand at my hip, on the other anchoring my own hand. The fabric of his tux feels cool beneath my grip, and I let myself lean into my boyfriend.
He might as well be holding me up.
I'd fall apart, collapse to the floor in a nervous panic if he wasn't here.
A camera flashes from somewhere, capturing the moment. We pretend to smile, pretend to look drunk over nonexistent wine. His touch is real, though. I wonder if I'll see the photo later.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see two heads of black hair.
Cal doesn't run, but his tall legs take him far. His powerful body is tensed like a beast ready to strike as he crosses the ballroom. Cal's face is sheet-white and wears anger.
He can't know.
He didn't see me.
He didn't.
Mister Calore, meanwhile, wears rage.
He prowls at his son's side. Lucas and Dane Davidson stumble to catch up. His face is quickly turning red, and he wears murder in his eyes. Mister Calore turns on Davidson, looking about ready to slap the man.
But he speaks quietly. Softly.
Ah.
They don't want anybody to find out that there was a breach in the Plaza.
Mister Calore points fingers. Davidson goes off in his own direction. He already has a phone to his ear. With a glance around the ballroom, I realize that the men in black suits are moving in, standing by all of the grand exit doors.
There's a near-imperceptible buzz to the room that I wouldn't notice if I wasn't looking for it.
Finally, Mister Calore turns on me and Maven.
I almost flinch.
But Tibe's gaze softens as he takes a couple of steps towards his younger son.
"Go find your mother," he tells Maven, only glancing at me for a moment. "Tell her it's time to go home. There's a security issue here. Lucas will drive you home."
Lucas loiters behind Mister Calore, anxious hands stuffed into his pockets.
Mister Calore gives me another look.
I force myself to hold his fiery gaze.
"You'll stay the night at our penthouse, Mare. I'm not sure exactly what's going on, but I'd like for you to be safe. You're part of the family now."