Page 97 of The Tower

The moment she releases me, she nods in Grimm’s direction. “Well?”

I glance around to make sure we can’t be overheard before I give her the full run-down. Most of it she already knows, since I’ve been updating her during our various avatar conversations in Elysium.

“You and Liam Grimm. Who would have thought?”

“Don’t say it like that. We’re not a couple. We’re just …”

“Friends with benefits?”

I shrug. “Maybe.” Though even as I say the word some little part of me screams that no way am I settling for that consolation prize. “And you really mean it—about my father? He’s not blaming you for my escape?”

“Cross my heart,” she says, miming that very thing.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” I ask. “At a Grimm party, of all places?”

“Reconnaissance,” she admits. “Your father has been on the warpath since you bolted. When I heard about this event—and that Alexander Grimm was hosting instead of Elias—I thought I might learn something useful. Granny knows the cook, so I snuck in that way, changed in the kitchen, then slid into the elevator with a group that had already started drinking.”

She shrugs, then sighs. “Not a challenge at all.”

I shake my head, thinking of all the stunts she used to tell me about during her days in undergrad and into her first semester of business school before she quit to be my PA. I’d wanted her to stay in school, but after all that went down, I understood the decision.

She studies me, her expression softening. “You’re doing good? Really?“

“I am. Really.”

And you’re not just blowing smoke up my skirt. Because, you know, mortal enemies and all …”

“No smoke,” I tell her, a bit surprised myself. It’s true, but this is the first time I’ve said it out loud to anyone. “Yeah. It really is good.”

She grins. “You look happy. I haven’t seen that in your eyes for a very long time.”

Happy. I take a step back, caught off guard. Am I happy?

I’ve been so focused on survival, on escape, on bringing my father to justice, that I haven’t stopped to consider something as basic as my own happiness.

But she’s right. Despite the chaos and uncertainty, there’s a lightness in me that I can’t remember feeling before. A sense of possibility that has nothing to do with freedom from my father and everything to do with the Liam.

“It’s complicated,” I say finally. “But, yeah.”

“Just be careful, okay? The Grimms have been at odds with the Reeds since forever. And they always have their own agenda. Always.”

“Liam isn’t like Leo,” I reply, surprised by my own defensiveness.

“Leo’s in a problem class all by himself,” she says. “And don’t worry, I’m taking my own advice and staying far away.”

“Good.” I hesitate, suddenly fascinated with the point of my shoe peeping out from under my dress. “And Liam’s not like the rest of them at all.”

“I think you’re right,” she says, her tone making me look up again. Immediately, I see Grimm striding back through the crowd toward us. “He’s the dangerous one.”

Before I can respond, photographers swarm around a new arrival—Alexander Grimm himself, commanding attention in a way that reminds me of his father. Cold, calculated charisma that seems to vibrate from him like a force field.

“Speaking of dangerous Grimms,” Ruby murmurs. “I should make myself scarce. Your father will have people here, and I’d rather not be seen talking to you.”

We share a quick hug, then she heads off. I see her pause as she passes Grimm—who is holding two plates with cake, but since I lack any lip-reading skills I don’t have a clue what they’re saying. Then I see Ruby grin, and moments later Grimm is at my side with two fabulous-looking pieces of chocolate cake. “I thought you’d like this,” he says, passing me one. I go a little gooey. It’s only cake, but the fact that he went out of his way to get it for me knowing how long I’ve been deprived of sweets …

No one ever paid such close attention before. No one except Birgit and Ruby. And, of course, my mom when I was a little girl.

I take a bite, then moan as the rich chocolate melts on my tongue. I can’t remember the last time I allowed myself such an indulgence. My father’s voice was always in my head—calories, measurements, image, control.