Page 35 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
Durga: Misery likes company. Have fun suffering.
Benkinersophobia: Ass.
I pocketed my phone, a smile on my face that Ben never failed to stamp there. With Chantilly gone, I pivoted in the other direction, narrowly avoiding this month’s Forbes 30 under 30 cover model.
What had I said to Nash Prescott all those years ago?
Aren’t you supposed to be in New York, opening some destined-to-fail business venture?
Well, that business venture had turned into the first Prescott Hotel, which soon morphed into a second. Then a third. Then a fourth. Until the Prescott Hotels brand cemented itself as one of the most well-known and coveted luxury hotel companies in the world. A powerhouse hotel chain that put names like Hilton and Kensington to shame.
The boy who borrowed suits from my dad and spent his nights getting in fights had become the king of Monopoly, collecting property even when it wasn’t his turn. I wanted to hate him for it. I couldn’t. Not after what had happened to Hank.
A hand caressed the fabric of my dress, followed by a compliment intended to stroke my ego. I smiled politely at the girl, told her I absolutely died over her Carolina Herrera gown I’d seen on two other women tonight, and snagged a gruyere sandwich from a waiter before she could sentence me to mundane conversation.
When I finally made my way back to the table, the emerald-masked stranger had left. I gave myself two-and-a-half seconds to indulge my fantasies of stealing all the food in the ballroom and slipping upstairs to the sixteenth floor. All my worldly possessions sat in a closet there.
A crate of plain Winthrop Textiles t-shirts.
My t-shirt printer.
A cardboard box of random knick-knacks and jeans.
Pricey tourist traps like Haling Cove were a real estate investor’s dream. An excess of small units crammed into sky-high buildings, then up-charged by five-hundred percent. Rather than choose between food and shelter, I slept in the closet.
It felt duplicitous, but so was getting a job at Nash’s company without him knowing.
Beggars can’t be choosers, Emery.
Shuffling through the crowd and into a small opening, I came face-to-face with one of Dad’s old friends. He stood in a corner, his gray hair glistening as he spoke to an older couple.
“Have you considered investing through a new firm? The stock market is ever changing, but at Mercer and Mercer, we are always ahead of the curve.”
Yeah, through insider trading.
I pretended I had something in my nose when a guest stared at me.
Dad once told me the Mercers had spies inside every large American corporation and had made a science out of insider trading. I’d balked at the idea back then, but now, it seemed like the least significant crime in a room full of people who had done worse than my dad and only hated him for getting caught.
I dodged past Jonathan Mercer, fake smiling at his mistress who clutched onto his arm with her umber coffin nails. The tight corset of my floor-length gown labored my breaths. I plucked a bottle of water from the bar, ignored the persistent feeling of being stared at, and chalked it up to paranoia. The sensation often pricked my skin since my last semester at Clifton, after everyone had figured out who I was.
The dress I’d repurposed from a woven black curtain I’d found at a swap meet had the distinct displeasure of being made from black-out fabric. I stopped for drink breaks every fifteen minutes to fight the heat, alternating between ice water and Amaretto sours because something had to make this night tolerable.
I pressed my back against the standing freezer, exactly where the dip in the dress exposed a stretch of skin. The thigh-high slit had risen from half-assed stitch work, but it did the job. I looked like I belonged here, which pissed Chantilly off.
I’d done nothing to her, yet she’d hated me from the moment I stepped foot into this building a week ago. I slanted my head until my hair covered my face and adjusted my self-made masquerade mask. Too many familiar people here to take chances.
A violent thunderstorm brewed outside, but you wouldn’t know it with the way the investors laughed and drank without a care in the world. Meanwhile, Chantilly had sent the other intern off to make sure our back-up plan was ready in the likely event the storm made its way inside. Hannah had been stacking buckets in the utility closet beside the ballroom all night.
Two shoes popped into my line of sight, and I followed them to their owner, a Daniel Henney lookalike. The Roman nose, sharp brown eyes, and gentleman’s cut—all eerily familiar echoes from a past I’d rather bury.
Still, my skin itched.
I tried and failed to place him.
Chantilly eyed me from across the room as he offered a hand.
“Brandon. Brandon Vu.”
