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The Owner doesn’t provide an answer. The chauffeur drives on. We drive for so long, I begin questioning if we’re headed outside of the city.
Until we pull up outside the Winchester. The valet opens our doors, and the Owner leads the way inside. My teeth remain gritted as I follow.
The night sky has eased from deep plum to an opalescent blend of lilacs and cobalts. The forecast claimed we wouldn’t see much sun. With summer ending in a few days, the weather will soon turn drearier.
It reflects the mood entering the Winchester.
We come to a formal dining room where a fanciful breakfast has been set and a table of guests have already gathered.
Celeste is who I notice first. How can I not when she’s sitting with her sharp chin at a defiant angle and bony shoulders poised. Some delicate lace dress drapes her, the pearly color clashing hideously with her pallid complexion. Her delusion wins out, and her lips, painted a red so dark they’re almost black, form into a smile.
I want to throttle her.
A current of near-blinding anger surges through me. It’s staring me in the face.
Celeste told. That’s what her smirk says. The devious glint in her eyes.
“Take your seat,” the Owner directs.
I do so. Not in the first empty chair as he seems to imply, but after walking around to the other side. The chair that’s unoccupied next to Celeste.
No one seems to notice nor care what’s happening. They’re too self-involved to pick up on the rapidly rising tension in the room.
If the Owner does, he leaves us be. He sits at the head of table and launches into a slow, composed explanation about the breakfast. He brought us here to clarify recent misunderstandings among club members.
“A bit unusual,” admits Mr. Vanderson. He gives off a perturbed sound he hopes sounds like an easygoing chuckle. “But I can always do with a grand breakfast—and the Winchester’s is grand.”
“Yes,” agrees Mr. Newton, glancing at the Owner. “Thank you for inviting us.”
“Thank you, indeed.” Celeste only wants me to hear her. No one else catches the murmur of her slithery voice.
Similarly, no one catches my hand gripping her thigh under the table. My hand is large enough and her thigh slender enough that I’m able to grab onto it whole. I clamp down until I’m crushing her limb and she winces.
“Ow,” she breathes. “Baby. You’re… hurting me.”
“I know. I will do so much worse soon.”
“Mmm. I like the sound of that.”
My lips barely move. “You will live to regret what you’ve done here. Actually, you won’t live at all.”
“Don’t be mean.”
I give another brutal squeeze of her thigh and she yelps.
“I will break it.”
“I love when you touch me.”
“Why?” I grit out, picking up a glass of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice with my free hand. I pretend to sip from it as I demand answers. “Why did you do it?”
“She shouldn’t live. Those are orders.”
“Excuse us,” I say loudly, suddenly.
Every head at the table, engrossed in chatter about the Easton stock market and current events, snaps in mine and Celeste’s direction. I rise up and lift Celeste along with me by the elbow. She winces at how roughly I do, though no one cares enough to question.
“Okay,” Mr. Newton says, pushing his square-shaped glasses up his nose. “But you may miss out on the Winchester’s famed Halloumi and Zucchini Frittata. I’ve been saving room.”
