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Right now, that’s good enough for me.
“Cora is not happy there, which is why I need to get to her.Now.”
Marcus nods. “Absolutely. If there’s anything I can do, then I’ll—”
“Tell me everything you know about Alexander McAllister.”
He pauses and sighs. Then he starts to talk.
* * *
As it turns out, Marcus has less information than I hoped. He scribbles Alexander’s address down on a napkin as well as a few other businesses that are connected to him—lawyers and accountant’s offices, mostly.
But it’s a start.
Though, as he starts to slide the napkins towards me, he stops. “Just one thing. A favor.”
I eye the napkin. “Ask.”
“When you find Cordelia, I want to meet with her.” He lowers his gaze to the table. Finally, a sign of the shame I wanted to see before. “I want to apologize to her. I should have fought harder. I should have—ah, fuck, let’s just leave it at. There’s a lot I want to say to her.’”
“I won’t make you any promises.”
Marcus frowns. “But she is my—”
“She’s her own woman,” I interrupt, my voice sharp. “It will be her choice if she meets with you or not. But I’ll pass the message along.”
He sighs, but nods slowly. “That’s fair. I only want to see her if she wants to see me, too. I don’t want to be like Alexander.”
“Nobody does,” Yasha mutters.
“I couldn’t agree more.” Marcus slides the napkin over, meeting my eyes. “Give him hell.”
As we leave the cafe, the napkin tucked in my back pocket, I feel something I haven’t felt in days.
Hope.
17
CORA
I lean against the dressing room wall and watch the bubbles float to the surface of my champagne flute.
A stack of dresses in every imaginable cut, shade, and material are piled on the bench next to me. Looking at it makes my eyes cross. My mother and a pair of her friends are hunting down more things for me to try on from the showroom floor, so I close my eyes and try to absorb the peace and quiet while I can.
It doesn’t last long.
I hear the gaggle of voices drawing closer and I toss the rest of my champagne back. Mom told me I shouldn’t partake when we arrived, so I’ve been drinking a bit every time she’s out of the room. There’s a healthy buzz percolating under my skin now. It’s better than the fear and uncertainty that has been stabbing at me since the moment I woke up in that dank basement with my wrists bound.
“Here we go!” Mom sing-songs, pushing back the curtain so the attendants can cart in another metric fuck-ton of fabric. “More options.”
“Everyoption,” I correct. “This has to be most of the store.”
A blonde woman Mom introduced as her “dear friend” laughs from the hallway. “If you want the store, you can have it. God knows Alexander can afford the bill.”
My mom chuckles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Pink rises in her cheeks.
I take her blush as confirmation that I was right about the four staff members serving us breakfast this morning: Alexander doesn’t have the money for them or any of this. It’s why he needs me to marry Mikhail.
