Chapter 63
Elara
The Vanderbilt Club occupied a converted nineteenth-century townhouse on Fifth Avenue. From the outside, it looked like just another piece of old New York money—red brick, black shutters, discreet brass plaque by the door. No sign. No indication of what went on inside.
Atlas led me through a side entrance, down a hallway lined with oil paintings I probably wasn't cultured enough to recognize. Persian rugs muffled our footsteps. The air smelled of cigars and old wood and something else—something sweet and slightly chemical that made my head feel fuzzy.
From somewhere deeper in the building came laughter. Music. The clink of glasses.
Atlas stopped in front of a carved wooden door. Knocked three times—a pattern. The door opened from inside, releasing a wave of noise and smoke and light so bright it made me blink.
He guided me forward with a hand at my elbow—polite, impersonal—and then I was inside, and the door was closing behind me, and I was alone.
The room was huge. Too huge. It had been two rooms once, maybe three—you could still see where walls had been knocked down, where moldings didn't quite match. Now it was one vast space, all leather furniture and crystal chandeliers and floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over Fifth Avenue.
There were people everywhere. Draped over couches. Clustered around a marble-topped bar. Some dancing, some kissing, some doing things that made me look away fast. They were dressed like they'd come from a gala—tuxedos and cocktail dresses—but their clothes were disheveled, ties loosened, straps falling.
The smoke was thicker here. Made my eyes water. Made it hard to breathe.
And there, in the center of it all, in a high-backed leather chair that looked like a throne, sat Julian.
He had a glass in one hand—whiskey, probably, from the amber color. His jacket was gone, his shirt sleeves rolled up. He was watching me with an expression I couldn't read.
Around him, the party continued. People laughing. Music pounding. But he just sat there, still and controlled, like he was watching a play he'd already seen.
Then someone moved—a man, mid-twenties, expensive haircut, cologne so strong I could smell it from across the room. He detached himself from a group by the bar and came toward me.
"Well, well." His eyes raked over me—my wrinkled school uniform, my scuffed shoes, my hair that had come half out of its bun during my sprint across the street. "Julian brought a new friend. Aren't you a fresh little thing?"
He reached out. Touched my shoulder. I flinched back.
He laughed. "Shy? That's cute. Come on, sweetheart. Let's get you a drink. Help you relax."
"I don't—" My voice came out hoarse. "I don't drink."
"Everyone drinks here." He grabbed my wrist. Not hard. Not yet. "It's the rules. Julian's rules. You want to be here, you participate."
I looked past him to Julian. Our eyes met across the room. I waited for him to say something. To tell this man to let go of me. To explain that I wasn't here for—for whatever this was.
But Julian just raised his glass slightly. A small gesture. Acknowledgment. Nothing more.
The man pulled me toward a side table covered in bottles. Crystal decanters. Cocktail shakers. He picked up something pink and sweet-smelling, thrust it toward my mouth.
"Drink."
"I said no."
His hand moved to my jaw. Squeezed. "And I said everyone drinks. Now be a good girl and open your mouth, or we're going to have a problem."
The room felt too hot. Too small. The smoke was making me dizzy. Or maybe it wasn't the smoke. Maybe it was fear, pure and simple, making my heart race and my palms sweat and my breath come in short, panicked gasps.
I opened my mouth. He poured. The liquid was cold and sweet and burned going down. I choked, coughed. Some of it spilled down my chin.
"There we go!" He was laughing. So were other people. A woman in a red dress came over, handed him another glass. "Again. You're way too sober, sweetheart."
"No—" I tried to push the glass away. "I'll get sick—"
"Then get sick. That's what the bathroom's for." He tipped the second glass to my lips. I tried to turn my head. His other hand caught my face, held it still. "Drink it. All of it. Julian's orders."
I couldn't see Julian anymore. There were too many people. The music had gotten louder. Or maybe it was just that my head was spinning now, that the room was tilting sideways, that everything had gone slightly blurry at the edges.
The third glass. The fourth. Someone was holding my arms. Someone else was laughing. A flash went off—a phone camera—and through the haze I heard someone say "this is going on Instagram" and someone else say "Julian's going to kill you."
But Julian didn't kill anyone. Didn't stop anyone. I could see him now, still in that chair, still watching. Still perfectly, terribly calm.
The fifth glass made me retch. I bent double, one hand on the table, trying not to throw up. The man—Marcus, someone had called him Marcus—rubbed my back in mock sympathy. "Poor baby. Can't hold her liquor. Should we get her something else? Something to help her feel better?"
"I have just the thing," the woman in red said. She held up a small plastic bag. White powder inside. "A little pick-me-up."
"No." I straightened. The room swayed. "No, I need to leave. I need to—"
"You're not going anywhere, sweetheart." Marcus's arm went around my waist. "The night's just getting started. Come on. We're going to play a game."
He pulled me toward the couches. I stumbled. My legs weren't working right. Everything felt distant, muffled, like I was underwater.
"Game time!" someone shouted. People clustered around. Faces I didn't know. Eyes that looked through me, not at me. "What are we playing?"
"Truth or dare," Marcus said. "Strip version. Loser takes off a piece of clothing. Simple, right?"
I tried to pull away. His grip tightened. "Julian," I said. My voice came out slurred. Weak. "Julian—"
But Julian was talking to someone else now. A blonde woman in a silver dress. He didn't even look my way.
"First round!" Marcus pushed me down onto the couch. Someone handed out cards. "Lowest card loses. Everyone understand?"
I didn't understand. Didn't understand any of this. Didn't understand how I'd gotten here, why Julian had brought me here, what was happening.
The cards blurred in front of me. I drew one. People laughed.
"Looks like our new friend loses!" Marcus grinned. "Come on, sweetheart. Rules are rules. Off with the jacket."
My hands shook so hard I could barely work the buttons. Someone helped—grabbed the fabric, yanked it down my arms. More laughter. More camera flashes.
"Again!"
Another round. I lost again. My sweater this time. Then my shoes. Then my socks.
By the fifth round, I was down to my undershirt and skirt. The room was spinning. People were chanting. Marcus kept refilling my glass—I hadn't noticed when I'd finished the others, but there they were, empty on the table.
"Last round," Marcus said. He was too close. His hand was on my knee. "This is the good one. You lose this time, and that skirt comes off. Or—" He leaned in. His breath smelled like alcohol and something rotten. "Or you come with me to one of the private rooms. Just you and me. We'll have our own party."
I couldn't think. Couldn't process. Couldn't make my mouth form words.
I looked at Julian one more time. He was watching now. Really watching. Our eyes locked across the smoke-filled room.
I mouthed two words: "Help me."
Five seconds of silence. Five seconds where the music seemed to fade, where the chanting stopped, where everything hung suspended.
Then Julian lifted his glass to his lips. Took a slow sip. And said, in that quiet, carrying voice I knew so well:
"Do whatever you want."