Smarter than the rest
Smarter than the rest
Crest arrived late on purpose. He always did. To be the last one through the doors was to ensure every head turned, every glass tilted in acknowledgement. At General Harland’s estate, with its dripping chandeliers and shallow laughter, Crest was determined to own the room.
The party was for the General’s daughter—sixteen today, or was it seventeen? Crest didn’t care enough to remember, but he noticed her. Of course he did. The way she glowed under the lights, hair pinned with cheap glitter, shoulders awkward in a dress cut too mature for her age. He admired the curve of her hips in the same breath he sipped his champagne. His eyes lingered just a beat too long. That was the sort of man Crest was—he liked the thrill of watching what was forbidden.
Around him, officers, businessmen, and their wives shuffled in their uniforms of wealth. Crest worked the room with a smile, slipping jokes that weren’t funny but always landed. He slapped shoulders, accepted cigars, nodded at the wives he’d once bedded when their husbands were away. The General liked to keep Crest close. Everyone did, until they realized too late what it cost them.
The General himself clapped a meaty hand on Crest’s back. “Glad you could make it, old friend.”
Crest’s grin was practiced, his voice warm. “Wouldn’t miss it, Harland. Your daughter is radiant. You’ve done well.”
The General chuckled, chest puffing with pride. “She is, isn’t she?”
Crest’s eyes flicked toward the girl again. She was dancing now, giggling with her friends, pretending not to notice the men who noticed her. He felt a curl of satisfaction. Youth was wasted on the young, he always thought. He knew how to appreciate it properly.
They moved into the dining hall, where roast duck gleamed under silver domes and brandy glasses clinked like wind chimes. Crest sat close to the General, leaning in as deals were whispered between bites of meat. Contracts, troop movements, supplies going missing and reappearing in places that filled Crest’s pockets. He never took notes. Notes were dangerous. Everything lived in his mind until it was transferred into favors owed.
“You’ll have the shipment by next week,” Crest murmured, voice smooth as butter. “No questions, no inspections. All I ask is that your men look the other way when my trucks pass the border.”
Harland didn’t even blink. “Done.”
And just like that, hundreds of thousands changed hands without a single paper signed. This was how Crest lived—off whispers, shadows, and greed.
At one point, he excused himself from the table. In the hallway, he stopped, watching the General’s daughter again. She stood near the cake, lips stained with frosting, laughing. Her dress slipped slightly off her shoulder, revealing pale skin that made Crest’s jaw tighten. He adjusted his cufflinks, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Another time, another place, and she’d be his plaything. For now, he contented himself with the fantasy.
A hand landed on his shoulder. He turned sharply, but it was only Captain Rowe, drunk and sloppy.
“You’re a devil, Crest,” Rowe slurred. “Don’t know how you always get away with it.”
Crest’s smile was thin. “Because I’m smarter than the rest of you.”
Rowe laughed too loudly, then stumbled back into the party. Crest watched him go, irritation flickering. Loose tongues could sink more than ships.
Later, as fireworks split the night sky, Crest stood on the veranda, savoring a cigar. His mind ticked through accounts, bribes, debts owed. Everything in order. Everything profitable. And yet, a ripple unsettled him. He thought he caught sight of someone at the edge of the grounds. A shadow too still, too deliberate.
He narrowed his eyes, but when he blinked, it was gone. Probably a guard. Probably nothing. Still, the hair at the back of his neck prickled.
He dragged deep on his cigar, blowing the smoke out in slow rings. He told himself he was imagining it. But Crest was not a man who believed in coincidences. Someone had been there, watching.
And whoever it was, they’d seen him at his most unguarded.