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“I am not going to make you go like some tyrant,” her father replied. “But I would strongly prefer it if you attended with me.”
“Bàba,” Juliette whined. “I did enough partying in New York to last nine lives. The French can say they want to discuss the state of affairs in Shanghai all they like, but we know they’re useless.”
“Juliette,” her mother scolded.
“What?” Juliette retorted, righteous.
“No, no, she is right,” Lord Cai said. “The French wish to meet only to discuss the Scarlet militia. They wish to hear how many people I have under my control and they wish to have my cooperation under the possibility of a Communist revolt. That is all true.”
Her father leaned forward then, pinpointing his gaze on her, and suddenly Juliette regretted whining, because she felt like a child being told off for protesting an early bedtime.
“But we still need allies. We need power, we need customers, and we need their support. And I need you to be my little translator when they mutter among themselves in F
rench, thinking I cannot understand them.”
Juliette made a disgruntled noise at the back of her throat. “Very well,” she said. She reached for the letter of invitation and shoved it in her pocket, wanting to examine it more in her own time. “I’ll go, mais ce n’est pas de bon gré!”
She strode for the door, dismissing herself. She was so close—one hand was already on the handle and her body was in midstride—when her mother called out, “Wait.”
Juliette halted.
“This… Paul,” Lady Cai said. “Why is he calling after you?”
Lady Cai had said his name like it was some magic spell used for summoning. As if it held some grand weight to it rather than it be one syllable of lackluster annoyance.
“He is Walter Dexter’s son,” Juliette replied, apathetic. “They are still trying to hire us as middlemen for their drug trade.”
Lady Cai mulled over that for a long moment. Then she said, “Is he handsome?”
“Ugh, please.” Juliette pushed forward. “He is using me, Mama. It is that simple. Please excuse me now. I have work to—what are you doing?”
That latter part was directed at Tyler, who had been lurking close enough to the door that Juliette had hit his shoulder when it opened.
“Calm down,” Tyler said. “I’m on my way to the washroom.”
They both knew that was a big, fat lie—as wide as Tyler’s monstrous smile and as long as his list of crimes.
Juliette closed her father’s office door after herself with a solid thud. She stared at her cousin, waiting, and he only stared back. His cheek was still bright with its cut, having not yet fully scabbed over.
“Do you have something you’d like to say to me, Tyler?” Juliette asked.
“Only one,” Tyler replied. His eyes flitted up, knowing her parents could still hear this conversation. “I’m very excited to attend this party. Le moment où tu n’es plus utile, je serai prêt à prendre ta place.”
Juliette stiffened. Satisfied with the reaction he had incited, Tyler grinned again and merrily pivoted on his heel, strolling down the hallway with his hands shoved into his pockets and a low whistle sounding from his mouth.
When you stop being useful, I’ll be here to replace you.
“Va te faire foutre,” Juliette muttered. She took the stairs down two at a time, glared at the relatives who were still chatting on the couches, then made a beeline for the kitchen. There, she found Kathleen, who was still peering at the stains in the floor tiles. She was also chomping on an apple, though it was beyond Juliette how her cousin managed to have an appetite.
“Any luck?” Juliette asked.
“Oh, I gave up trying to clean out the stains ten minutes ago,” Kathleen replied. “I’m just inspecting that one because it looks like a cat.”
Juliette blinked.
Kathleen took another bite of her apple. “Too soon?”
“Way too soon,” Juliette said. “Are you busy right now? I need your Communist ties.”
