But she showed up in full force at the bar the next day for drinks, where she nursed one drink much more slowly than she had at the rooftop party, and she and Estelle got on like old friends, the three of us squeezed into a basement corner by an exposed brick wall and low mood lighting. Cassandra shared stories from last night’s venue and the day’s work today, how she’d gotten her hands on an invite for a mixer that Marion was going to be at, thanks to a little string-pulling from her Kingmaker friend, and how she was planning to finish the close there. She was a different woman than the one I’d met at the rooftop bar, and she effortlessly held conversation with both me and Estelle, who gave her a hug on her way out and wished herluck, telling hermake sure to take a nap at some point,and Cassandra looked like there was nothing in life she’d like better.
But a nap clearly wasn’t forthcoming for her, because she looked dead on her feet when I saw her again the next day to help talk business with another studio. She was good at hiding it, flipping like a switch and putting on a smile and laying the charm on thickly when she talked to the studio manager at the place in lower Manhattan, but the second we were out, she had a thousand-yard stare that she assured me was nothing, that she’d get plenty of good sleep tonight now that this was done.
I was pretty sure she still didn’t, but she managed, nonetheless. We kept meeting for work and for conversations with Krysten and the rest of the team, and we got a few different groups to sign up with us, the outreach paying off quickly with Cassandra leveraging some good talent she was promising at the event, and I only finally broke the threshold of concern when she showed up late for something, looking frazzled, her hair a mess as she burst in the doors of the club that was pumping with music and pushed her way through to me at the back wall.
“I am so sorry,” she blurted, brushing herself off. “Traffic on the way here, you know… I didn’t account for it.” She forced a smile. “I hope you didn’t show up early. My god.”
“Cassandra,” I said, and she flinched, but I wasn’t pulling any punches this time. “What’s been going on?”
“I’m just stupid and didn’t account for any traffic in the travel time,” she said. “You do not need to worry. Sometimes things just slip my mind.” She scratched her head, and I saw something wet matted there in her hair, and my stomach dropped.
“Are you bleeding?”
“What?” She pulled her hand away, looking at her fingertips, and she grimaced. “Ah, shit.”
My stomach clenched painfully. She’d insisted her husband wouldn’t hurt her, but… everything she’d said and done made it sound like she was keeping a wide berth, avoiding him as much as possible. Had she just been sure she’d be safe because she thought he wouldn’t find her? “What happened?” I said, my voice more pressing than I meant it, and she winced.
“Oh, god. I thought we’d move past it.”
“Talk to me.”
She hung her head. “I had an accident.”
“What kind of accident?”
“An embarrassing one.”
“Cassandra.”
“Oh my god. I fell off my moped. I was going, like, five miles an hour, so I’m not like, actually hurt, I just wasn’t paying attention and I hit a pothole and I did not have the speed to clear it, so the bike went ass-up and I fell. I hit my head on the handlebars.”
I’d known enough women in abusive relationships to know a coverup story when I heard one. The way she wouldn’t quite look at me, how reluctant she was to share anything, how specific and tidy a coverup story she had. “Did he hurt you?” I said, and she blinked.
“Who?”
“Your husband.”
“Oh, god. No. No, it’s nothing like that.” She shook her head, wide-eyed. “Jesus, I’m not making it up. I literally did fall off my moped.”
“Since when did you even ride a moped?”
“Since forever,” she groaned. “I just didn’t want you to see me riding that hunk of junk around because it’s embarrassing, and now I’m doubly embarrassed. I’m genuinely just fine. Can we focus on the night? I’m stressed because of how late I am,and I just need to make sure this gets done. I’m meeting with Stephen and Sheila after this.”
“Cassandra, please. You arebleedingfrom yourhead.”
“I’m not bleeding anymore, it’s just a little blood stuck in my hair. I’ll pop into the bathroom and get it cleaned up.”
“No, you are not,” I said, my hand on her arm, and she went rigid, eyes wide. “We’re getting out of here.”
“Getting out? Where to?”
“My apartment isn’t far.”
Even in the low lights of the club, I could see the way her breath caught, eyes wide. “I can’t—I’m not crashing your place.”
I did not give a damn what she thought. I wasnotletting her go back somewhere that man could find her tonight. “You’re coming back with me,” I said, “or our arrangement is off.”
“What? Helena—”
