I shift my focus to Jade, but her face, a perfect copy of Marion’s, makes my heart squeeze. She and I have never had the same closeness I shared with Marion. With Jade, it’s all business. Friendship is earned like a medal—through achievements.
“I have to be honest,” Jade begins, her voice cutting through the steady drone of the tires on asphalt, “I was worried when you didn’t call or come in this morning. I get not coming in on Friday. We all expected that you would need a mental health day to recover, which is why I didn’t Slack or email.” She flips on the turn signal andslips smoothly into the next lane. “Last week’s presentation doesn’t have to be how your time at Posh Pulse ends. At least, not unless you want it to be.”
“No, I’ll go back. Iwantto go back. Wait for another opportunity like LuminaLuxe…” I stare out the window, watching the city lights rush past, my thoughts drifting to Towerfall. To Kane, to Marion, to the feeling that Pentacles was on the brink of making a change that could have meant the difference between suffering and salvation. Something bigger than convincing women to buy beauty products they don’t actually need.
“And nail it?” Jade prompts, her voice pulling me back to the present.
I mentally shake myself, clearing my throat. “Yeah. I’ll nail it.” I manage a smile and hope she doesn’t sense the doubt creeping through the cracks of my resolve.
Jade returns my grin, briefly glancing over at me before returning her gaze to the road. “Then Stephanie won’t be the only one with a new office.”
The mention of Stephanie makes my stomach churn. My mind flashes to Ivy and how much more damage she can cause in Towerfall than my office nemesis ever can with petty work politics. Together, she and Four are the ultimate villains, their influence spreading like a dark stain throughout the kingdom.
“I think I just gave up the chance to do something that mattered,” I mutter, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
Jade’s smile fades. “What do you mean?”
I shake my head, forcing a grin that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Nothing. Just talking to myself.”
But it’s not nothing.
The Empress heats against my skin, shooting pinpricks of energy through my chest along with the nagging feeling that I’ve left something important unfinished.
Jade glances at me, her brow furrowed. “You know, Hannah, without realizing it, you understand people. What they want, how they feel. You’re naturally nurturing and caring, but you internalize everyone else’s emotions. As a fellow empath, I get it, but can I give you some advice it took me far too long to figure out myself?”
I nod, afraid that if I speak, the floodgates will open.
“To survive, tothrivein the corporate world, you have to swallow your feelings and learn to use yourempath magick, for lack of a better way to put it, to build a story for the client.”
“You mean lie.”
“I mean manipulate. It’s not lying.” She scoffs. “It’s just good business.”
“And if I don’t want to use my magick for manipulation?”
“Then I don’t know.” She throws up her hands, but the car still manages to stay between the lines. “Find something you can impact while still being yourself. What’s your dream? What’s the light at the end of Hannah’s tunnel?”
“At this point, there are so many shadows, I can’t even see the light.” I press my forehead against the cool glass, watching the city slip by. Each passing block feels like it’s taking me farther from the world where, despite everything, I started to belong.
Twenty-Seven
The Mercedes’s headlights cast twin beams of frosty-white light across my shabby apartment building, highlighting the cracks in the bricks and the once-gray paint around the windows peeling away in strips like shedding skin. I step out of the car and give Jade a quick forced smile and a muttered thank-you before turning toward the steps to my ground-floor apartment.
I fumble with the hide-a-key I keep tucked away under a loose stone by the stoop, the metal cold against my fingers as I slide it into the lock. Inside, my apartment is exactly the way I left it—a mess. The air is stale, a mix of forgotten takeout and lingering mildew greeting me as I shut the door and flip on the light.
Somehow my small studio feels even smaller with the lights on. I head to the screen divider that serves as the wall to my bedroom and untie my dress. Not for a moment do my thoughts drift to Kane—his rough hands on my bare skin, his lips at my throat, the laces around my wrists.
The rich fabric falls away, and the tarot card drifts to the floor as the perpetually cold air in my apartment blows against me, evaporating the fantasy as quickly as it came.
I toss the dress onto the back of the chair I found at a thrift shop and promised myself I’d learn to reupholster. Even waterlogged, the crushed velvet looks like it belongs to someone else in some other life next to the worn chair and upturned crates draped with fabric I use as a coffee table. It’s fitting, though, since it was always someone else’s. I was never Lady Ashwood.
You should remember that, Hannah.
I shed my damp undergarments as I step into the bathroom, leaving behind a trail of lace and silk. I turn the water on as hot as it will go. The heat is a relief, an almost-scalding balm that leeches into my muscles, easing the tension and warming my core. I close my eyes and let the water cascade over me, the stream beating a steady rhythm on my shoulders. It’s not the same as the tub in Towerfall—the steaming herbaceous water, the candlelight, the wine, the pomegranates, Kane…
I scrub at my skin as if I can wash away the memories, the heartache, the past. When I step out, steam billows around me, filling the small bathroom and fogging the mirror. I don’t bother to wipe away the condensation as I dry off. I can’t bring myself to look at my reflection, to face the loneliness that stares back at me.
Towel tucked up under my arms, I pad back into the main room. The apartment is silent, except for the faint drip of water from the shower and the dull pulse of music from the apartment upstairs, the bass thumping through the ceiling. Each step I take feels heavy, my damp feet leaving faint prints on the worn wooden floor.
