I nod, a binding contract with the Empress, with Towerfall and most importantly, with myself.
I’m in control.
And it’s about fucking time.
Twenty-Eight
The Waldorf Astoria is one of Chicago’s most expensive and luxurious hotels. Not that I know that firsthand. Well, not until now.
Two doormen, clean-cut and dapper in their tailored uniforms, swing open the glass front double doors. I step onto the lobby’s gleaming marble floors that stretch out like a polished sea and reflect the crystal chandeliers dangling from the high ceilings. Plush velvet sofas are artfully scattered throughout, inviting guests to sink into luxury while they’re lulled by the soft hum of classical music piped in through hidden speakers.
I stride to the front desk, the credit card practically burning a hole in my pocket. Behind the slab of black marble with veins of gold, the front desk attendant stands at attention.
McDougall!
His posture is perfect, his uniform immaculate—a dark suit complemented by a crisp white shirt and agold name tag that readsVIC. His perfectly groomed mustache twitches slightly as he smiles, both welcoming and assessing.
I want to run behind the desk and hug him and tell him I’ve been to another world and met his mirror image and that this is the first time I’ve been genuinely happy since I’ve been home.
Instead, anticipation settles in my chest, and I’m not completely sure what to do with my hands, so I grip the edge of the tall counter.
“The presidential suite, please. Just for tonight,” I say, my voice steady and confident.
Vic eyes me, his bushy white brows lifting ever so slightly while his fingers fly across the keyboard with soft clicks. “You’re in luck. The presidential suite is available. Since the room is open, and it’s so last minute, we can offer you a rate of—”
“It doesn’t matter.” With a smile every bit as dazzling as a teeth-whitening ad, I slide the credit card across the counter, my heart racing. Not once has the price not mattered.
“She knows what she wants.” A mischievous grin lifts his salt-and-pepper mustache. “I’m more than happy to oblige.” He swipes the card, his fingers moving swiftly over the keys. “Can I get a bellhop to help you with your luggage, park your car…?”
“No luggage. No car,” I reply, flashing him another grin. “Just me.”
The wrinkles around Vic’s brown eyes deepen with curiosity, but he simply nods and rounds the counter, a brass key card in hand.
“Follow me, and I’ll lead you to your manor,”he says, motioning to the wall of elevators with a flourish.
“First,” I say, holding up my credit card, “I need an ATM.”
“A woman on a mission. I respect it.”
Our footsteps mingle with the melody of classical music and hushed conversations from other hotel guests as Vic guides me through the lobby. When we reach the machine, he sidesteps to the elevator bay as I insert my card into the slot, the ATM whirring to life. The screen glows, reflecting off the gold veins in the marble walls.
I try not to look guilty, like I don’t actually have any money or business being here, as I punch in my details and max out the card’s cash advance. The machine dispenses crisp hundreds, the bills stacking neatly in the tray, more money than I’ve ever seen at once, much less held.
I fold the stack in half and meet Vic at the elevators, a wad of crisp hundreds fattening my pocket.
“Your chariot awaits,” he says, holding the elevator doors open with a theatrical flourish, and I can’t help but grin as I step inside.
Every surface gleams, and the subtle scent of jasmine floats in the air as the elevator smoothly ascends.
“What brings you to the Astoria, business or pleasure?” Vic asks, his tone light and curious as he leans against the polished brass railing.
“Pleasure,” I reply, longing for a place far from here bubbling up inside me. “But only after I’ve dealt with someone first. You know, take care of a little business.”
His smile is warm and infectious. “And who are we beheading, Queen Hannah?”
“Do I have to choose just one?” I quip, a sly smile curling my lips.
Vic’s laugh is rich and genuine. “Wealthy, powerful, fabulously unapologetic.” He ticks off on his weathered fingers, one by one.
