Chapter 2 - The Escape into the Fog
The fire door burst open, and Graham Whitmore stepped into the corridor, his face flushed red beneath his spray tan. His tuxedo jacket was unbuttoned, and his eyes were wide with a toxic mixture of irritation and embarrassment.
"There you are!" Graham snapped, striding toward her and grabbing her right elbow with a force that made her wince. "What the hell are you doing lurking in the linen hallway like a maid? The press secretary from the Philadelphia Inquirer is waiting at our table!"
Evelyn looked past Graham’s shoulder toward the dark alcove where Vincent had stood a moment before.
The shadow was empty. Vincent had vanished into the service maze like a phantom.
"I was helping the server," Evelyn said, her voice trembling slightly.
"Forget the damn server!" Graham hissed, pulling her toward the ballroom doors. "Do you have any idea how bad it looks when my fiancée wanders off during our own engagement party? People are starting to ask questions! The council chairman asked me why you looked like you were about to faint on stage!"
He squeezed her arm harder, leaning down until his teeth were inches from her ear.
"You smile, Evelyn," Graham murmured, his tone dropping into a terrifying, icy threat. "You walk back out there, you hold my hand, and you pretend I am the best thing that ever happened to your pathetic little life. Do you understand me? If you embarrass me again tonight, I swear to God I'll audit your father's hospice records and sue his estate for fraud."
Evelyn stared at him. The last remaining illusion of gratitude she had held for Graham Whitmore shattered into dust.
He hadn't saved her father out of kindness. He had bought her debt to possess her—a beautiful, submissive working-class prop to humanize his cold, predatory political career.
"Let go of me, Graham," Evelyn said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it contained a cold, quiet stillness that made Graham pause.
"What did you say?"
"I said, let go."
Graham’s eyes narrowed into angry slits. "You're hysterical. We're going out there now."
He tugged her forward.
Evelyn didn't scream. She didn't cry.
Using the heel of her heavy designer shoe, she stomped directly down onto Graham’s polished leather loafer with all her weight.
Graham let out a sharp cry of pain, staggering backward and loosening his grip. "You crazy bitch!"
Evelyn didn't wait. She turned around, gathered the heavy folds of her ice-blue gown in her hands, and ran down the concrete service corridor toward the red exit sign marked Loading Dock.
"Evelyn! Come back here!" Graham’s footsteps thundered behind her, but he was limping, cursing loudly as his voice echoed off the concrete walls.
Evelyn pushed open the heavy crash bar of the exit door and burst out into the freezing November night air.
Rain was pouring over the alleyway behind the Bellweather Hotel, filling the air with cold fog and the smell of exhaust and wet pavement.
Parked near the dumpster, idling silently in the rain, was a massive black Maybach sedan.
Standing beside the rear door, holding a giant black umbrella, was a built man in a dark trench coat.
"Miss Harper?" the man asked calmly. "I'm Leo."
Behind her, the heavy metal door clicked open again. "Evelyn!" Graham shouted from the top of the concrete steps.
Evelyn didn't hesitate. She ran straight through the freezing rain, her high heels splashing through muddy puddles, and stepped into the open rear seat of the Maybach.
Leo instantly closed the door with a solid, heavy thud that completely blocked out the sound of the storm outside.
The interior of the car was warm, smelling of dark leather and sandalwood.
Sitting in the far corner of the plush leather seat, holding a glass of amber crystal whiskey, was Vincent Marchetti.
He didn't look surprised. He didn't smile. He simply pulled a thick cashmere blanket from the seat beside him and laid it gently over Evelyn’s shivering, rain-soaked shoulders.
May you like
"Drive, Leo," Vincent commanded quietly.
The Maybach pulled smoothly out of the dark alley, its red taillights reflecting off the wet pavement as Graham Whitmore reached the bottom of the stairs, standing alone in the pouring rain, screaming into the fog.