CASS
They’re gone.
After the wedding planner shuffles off with the outraged senator and the security men have frog-marched Matvei through the exit, there’s no one left behind but me. Well, except for the drunken creep who thought whispering “Don’t scream” in my ear was a good pickup line, but to say he doesn’t count is to really overstate his importance.
The walls are starting to close in, so I do my best to take a deep breath and stave off the impending panic attack. It’s not a cure-all, but it at least keeps me upright for the time being.
One thing’s for certain: The plan is over. It has been ripped to shreds and scattered around this gaudy ballroom like confetti. There will be no execution at this wedding. Tomorrow morning, I’ll still be married—and that much closer to a one-way trip to the Cayman Islands.
Okay. Okay, okay, okay.
Breathe. Breathe, girl, just?—
Ah, shit. I’m panicking.
My chest constricts like someone’s cinched a belt around my ribs. The air I just dragged in won’t go anywhere useful. It pools behind my sternum, useless and sticky, utterly unbreathable.
I press one palm to the wood paneling and one to my stomach, like I can hold the two of us steady from the outside in. But my head is already several steps down a road I do not want to walk. It’s imagining all the horrible things that are waiting for me if we should fail.
I see the Caymans. A white room with shuttered windows and a ceiling fan that stirs air that’s too humid and hot to really go anywhere. I see a bathtub, and me slumped beside it, bleeding all over the tile, just like Giana. The light in my womb flickering, fluttering… gone.
I dig my fingernails into the wood paneling of the wall until the half-moons hurt. My little fruit basket baby can’t hear me, but I think it anyway:We are not dying, okay? Not here. Not today.
That is enough to ground me. I straighten up and press a knuckle to the corner of each eye to dab away whatever moisture is threatening to ruin the illusion that I’m still a woman who has her shit together.
Then I walk back into the ballroom like nothing happened.
Raymond is where I left him. He’s standing by a column wreathed in white roses, swirling his bourbon, watching the bandstand, unusually quiet. Brittany is nowhere to be seen, and the other partners have drifted into their own little eddies of small talk. It’s just Raymond, alone, sipping his drink.
I touch his elbow. He turns slowly. “There you are,” he says, and it’s just this side of tender. If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost think hecaredabout me. “I was starting to worry.”
“I’m not feeling well, Raymond.” I let a little tremor sneak into my voice. It isn’t even hard. “I’m so sorry. I’d really like to go home.”
His eyes drift down over me, taking in the pallor, the way I’ve curled in on myself just slightly. He doesn’t look concerned so much as he doesinterested.
“Go,” he says.
I blink in surprise. “… Really?”
“Of course. Take the car. Tell the driver to drop you and come back for me.” He raises his glass to his lips, watching me over the rim. “I’ll be late, though. Don’t wait up.”
“How late?”
He smiles mysteriously. “Very.”
There is a brittle something inside me that wants to pry. But I know better than to do that. “Okay,” I say instead. “I’ll see you later, then.”
“Feel better, dear.” He bends and kisses the top of my head. His mouth is warm and bourbon-damp and there’s a half-second where I’m certain his nose lingers an inch too long in my hair, like he’s smelling for something. Then he pulls back, and it’s once again that same flat gleam in his eyes. “Go on. Get some rest. You’ll need it.”
He turns back to the bar and lifts his glass to flag down someone to refill his drink. Just like that, I’m dismissed.
The town car pulls away from the Plaza into the snow-slushed brightness of Fifth Avenue. I rest my forehead against the cold tinted window and cry without sound.
The driver, bless him, pretends not to notice. He’s one of Raymond’s usuals, which means he’s been trained to pretend he is incapable of witnessing human suffering. For once, I’m grateful for that.
I don’t cry for long. There isn’t time for that, and self-pity will not change a damn thing. Once the tears dry up, I scrub my face with a tissue from my clutch and fix my mascara in the little mirror. By the time we pull up to the building, I’m halfway decent again.
The doorman tips his hat and greets me as I slip in. One quick elevator ride later, I let myself into the penthouse and stand in the foyer with my back against the door for a count of ten.
