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“There is nothing on the mainland, sweets. Not unless you have mula.” She rubs her thumb and forefinger in a universal sign for money.
“How do you know?”
“TV. Have you seen what’s happening? You thinkthistown is bad?”
“You have TV?”
“Sweeeeets!” She exhales wearily, throwing her head back. “It’s been two years. Wake up. Yeah, we have TV. And internet, however lousy. Thanks to Mr. Chancellor, again. I’ll tell you one thing—grass ain’t greener on the other side. Think of Zion but twenty times bigger.” She flicks an eyebrow. “That includes the Ashlands. The Savages. Gangs. And those who make a profit off it all, of course.”
I must have missed quite a bit being isolated on the Eastside. And maybe that’s the reason I want to get out of Zion—to know what really happened on the mainland.
8
KATURA
The closer weget to the “palace,” the faster my heart beats. Archer Crone makes me feel strangely giddy. Coming to his villa is like being granted an audience with his majesty.
I am low-key obsessing. He is just a guy in charge. Yet everything I know about him creates an image of a person who excels. He is the ten percent when it comes to money. And less than one percent when it comes to intelligence.
Be cool, I keep telling myself as Marlow leads us through the open gates.
There are no guards around. I don’t know why I expected Archer to have an entourage of bodyguards. But I sure notice enough cameras as I study the immaculate lawn with bonsai trees, a fountain, and a white gazebo before we are led through the large doors inside.
The cool and dim small entry hall is in stark contrast with the white stone and glass on the outside. It leads to a living room that could fit a party of several hundred. It’s giant and looks empty, like a reception area of a tech company.
But, wow.
Pale-gray stone floors and walls, like an enormous cubicle. A dark grey furniture set around a black coffee table that looks like a stone cube. The windows are floor-to-ceiling with dark-gray smart blinds halfway down, filtering the sunlight. They overlook the deck and the infinity pool with little waterfalls, yet the sound doesn’t reach us.
A small bar with a mirror behind it is on one side of the room. A desk that almost blends into the wall is on the other. The back of the living room consists of narrow slabs of stone—walls, I realize, that disguise other rooms, because I don’t see any doors.
The only décor is a large painting the size of a rug on one of the walls. It’s white and light gray with a splash of blood-red that is in stark contrast with the rest of the room.
No sockets, no light fixtures, no cupboards, not a single object lying around. It almost feels bare of furniture with all the space flowing around.
I’m mesmerized. Mr. Chancellor takes minimalism to a whole new level.
Lounge music trickles from the speakers that I can’t see. And I’m sure there is a camera somewhere. I wonder if Archer likes watching himself.
Even the surface of the gray stone floor looks so immaculate that I worry for a tiny moment whether my sandals brought in sand.
Nothing screams money—the interior is almost ascetic in a sense—but the textures are luxurious and seductive, making me want to touch the surfaces.
“Raven came back from town.” A voice comes from somewhere, and I turn to see Archer walk out from behind one of the stone slabs. “Said there was another riot there.”
Marlow flings himself onto the couch, slumping with his knees wide apart. “They can all kill each other for all I care.”
My heartbeat spikes as Archer walks past me and Callie toward the bar, not acknowledging us. Barefoot. In jeans and a button-up shirt with rolled-up sleeves. He smells as good as he looks, the scent of his expensive cologne making all my senses come alive.
“Drinks?” he asks, though I’m not sure to who. It’s eight in the morning, and the guy is pouring himself booze.
Tsk-tsk.
Slippery slope, Mr. Chancellor.
“No, thank you,” Marlow replies and pulls out his phone, disappearing in its screen.
Well, this is awkward.
