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GABRIEL
A courierin a black suit delivers the envelope to my front door at four o’clock on Sunday afternoon.
I missed yesterday’s brunch. None of my siblings said anything about it. They didn’t text to see if I’d be coming to what might be the last brunch we’d have.
They didn’t know it could be the last one.Ididn’t know it could be the last one.
I haven’t even been back to see Elise.
Not much timeis less than I thought.
Inside the envelope—black, of course—is an invitation. Or a summons, depending on your point of view.
It’s a black vellum card with the time and place printed in white.
Tonight. Midnight.
No signature. No mention of the consortium or initiation. It’s just how Jacob said it would be. An invitation for tonight, delivered unexpectedly.
My laugh echoes in the foyer of my brownstone. Such drama. Suchmystery.The black stationery has the same energy as a treehouse with a handwritten sign that reads KEEP OUT.
Though this metaphorical treehouse wouldn’t have billions of dollars inside. Or murder plots, hopefully.
My laughter fades into dark brooding. Into a strange regret. I’ve been planning this for years, and now that the day is here, now that the next step is mine to take…
I wish there weren’t so many loose ends.
I tried not to let my family become them. I tried to keep them locked away. Separate.
It’s too late now.
Time to get ready for this possibly violent, possibly sexual initiation.
The people in the consortium are sick fucks. This little hazing ritual is proof of that.
I arrive at the Bettencourt International headquarters at two minutes to midnight. The building itself is a testament to how much Bettencourt loves power games. He has floors nine through twenty-six, all brimming with luxury office space in the heart of Manhattan. The rest, he rents out to people who beg him hard enough. I’m sure that’s why he had it constructed in the first place—to lord it over everyone.
Hundreds of architects entered a competition for a chance to design it. Bettencourt chose an up-and-coming architect who was making a name for himself with geometric designs.
I did a bit of research this afternoon. Before the Bettencourt project, the architect had been dogged by rumors of a sexual assault he committed in college.
After the project?
Not a word about it. The building got all the attention, and its designer shot up in status. The Bettencourt International headquarters have graced the covers of multiple magazines. Angles climb the side, creating a feeling of movement. Of space, flexing and pulsing.
It peaks in a tall needle that looks like it’s made out of glass.
The building isn’t made to be practical. It’s made to impress. To intimidate.
Some of my father’s money was used to fund this construction. His sweat and tears are in the cement blocks. His blood and bones are in the steel frame.
I hate that.
All the lights are off right now. Every office, empty.
A wide curved entry is designed for hundreds of people to flow in and out. There’s only a single person wearing a white shirt and black dress pants. A valet. He gives me a quick grin of thanks as I hand him my keys and a hundred-dollar bill.
The glass revolving doors turn without passengers, moving air around.
