Page 89 of The Bet
I make a note to myself: never let Stella talk me into anything, ever again.
She slings an arm around my shoulder, warm and heavy. “I’m glad we’re buddies again. I mean it.”
I nod, biting back a smile. “Me, too, although I have no idea what you’re getting into, girlfriend.”
There’s a soft click behind us: the terrace door sliding open. Thomas stands there in a sharp black shirt, top button undone, his hair silvered at the temples in the evening light. He looks like a billionaire, but also like a dad, and also like a man who’s just found the one thing he’s willing to ruin himself for. He spots us, and the corner of his mouth lifts—just for a second, just enough for me to feel it in my knees.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, voice low. “How are my girls doing?”
Stella grins, “We’re just talking about DP, Dad. You want to weigh in?”
Thomas goes very still. His eyes flick to mine, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the three of us.
I cover my face with my hand. “Oh my god.”
He shrugs, deadpan. “I’ll leave you to your plotting. Just wanted to see if you needed anything.”
Stella nudges me. “She needs a ring, Dad.”
I punch her in the arm, and Thomas just smiles—a real smile, with teeth—and says, “Noted.” Then he slides the door closed, but not before giving me a look so full of heat and promise I nearly drop my glass.
Stella leans in, mouth at my ear: “You are so fucked. In the best way.”
I can’t even argue.
We stand there, arms linked, watching the city change color. Behind us, the party swells and crests; ahead, the future is as wide as the river and twice as deep.
And for the first time in forever, I don’t want to run.
I want to stay.
I want to see what happens next.
After the last glass is emptied and the last guest gone, the penthouse echoes with its own afterimage. The ice in the bar trough is mostly water now; the white linen on the tables is wrinkled and spattered with gold; the air is strange, half-lit, fullof the smell of sugar and citrus and something else—maybe the ozone of anticipation.
I wander, bare feet on slick tile, feeling the apartment exhale with relief. The party was a performance, and now the set has gone dark, the actors scattered to rideshares and late-night diners and, in Mary Kate’s case, apparently, to the halls of her stepdad’s mansion. Kayleigh finally got her text from her stepbrother, and Simone and her hot professor ducked out an hour ago, her arm looped through his. Even Stella is gone—vanished to an afterparty, or maybe a rendezvous with one of her two men, but she leaves a note for me, scrawled on the back of a cocktail napkin: “You got this, boss. Don’t let my dad chicken out. xoxo, S.”
The living room is quiet, a few lamps still on. The city beyond the glass is a galaxy of office windows and sodium vapor, the bridges burning pale in the night. I find Thomas at the window, his back to me, the cut of his shirt a hard line against the soft drift of city glow. He has his hands in his pockets, looking every inch the mogul, but when he hears me pad in, he turns and his face is younger, unguarded.
“Hey,” I say, voice small. It’s all I can manage.
He holds out an arm, and I go, settling into the curve of him, my head on his chest. There’s a faint whiff of aftershave, and under it, the raw salt of his skin. His heartbeat is steady, unhurried. I close my eyes and let the hum of the city fill the quiet between us.
“You survived the party,” he says, amused.
“Barely. Your daughter is trying to get me to join her next bet.”
He laughs, the sound a rumble under my cheek. “She’s a terror.”
“She’s perfect,” I say, and mean it. “I’m glad we’re all on good terms again.”
We stand there for a minute, maybe five, watching the city. I feel the air shift as he turns to look at me, and when I meet his eyes, they’re so blue they resemble sapphires, but also soft, almost shy.
“I got you something,” he says, and for a second I think it’s a joke. But he means it.
He breaks the hug, moves to the bar, and pours two fingers of whiskey into a crystal glass. He hands it to me, pours another for himself, then leans against the ledge, arms crossed.
I take a sip, and it burns all the way down, sweet and mean.
