Page 23 of Preferential Treatment

But to Kate’s astonishment, a courier buzzed her intercom at noon on the dot. Kate let him up and he appeared at her door with a heavy paper bag. Rich scents of garlic and butter and spices filled the air. Kate accepted the bag, peering inside at the nicest takeout containers she’d ever seen.

“This is… this is from Violetta?” she asked in quiet disbelief.

“Yes, ma’am,” the courier answered. “Could you sign here, please?”

Still incredulous, she signed for the delivery.

Carrying the bag like it was filled with explosives, Kate went to her little kitchen table, nudged up against a window overlooking the street. She pulled out the containers and silverware—real silverware wrapped in a cloth napkin—and opened the containers as quietly as she could. There was a crisp side salad of simple greens dressed in the most delicious vinaigrette Kate had ever tasted, a thin green soup that smelled like old socks but tasted like heaven, a single scallop on a bed of some sort of colorful vegetable puree with a buttery sauce, a crispy little puck of what was essentially very fancy scalloped potatoes, roast duck breast medallions with a rich au jus, and a gorgeous pistachio and raspberry mille-feuille with flakes of gold leaf and rose petals decorating the top.

Kate ate slowly, without the distraction of her phone or a book, savoring every bite. She’d never had such perfect food. She hadn’t known food this good existed. Memories of the shitty meals she’d had to sketch together as a kid kept rising, but Kate pushed them away, determined to enjoy this.

When she was done, she stared at the empty containers for a moment. Still somewhat in awe, she quietly slipped them back in the bag. She remained at the table for a while, toying with the handles on the bag, lost in thought. The food had been delicious—probably the best she’d ever had—but there was something else about it that was hitting her strangely.

It was the care.

It was maybe the first time in her life she’d been with someone who’d cared about fulfilling her needs. Her exes had all liked being dominated in bed, but in a selfish way, where Kate had to be both mistress and servant—in control of their pleasure, but expected to get her own satisfaction from the control alone.

She hadn’t dated in a while because she’d started to wonder if she actually liked the things she thought she liked. If she did like dominating men, why did she find them so exhausting? Maybe all the neglect and chaos of her childhood had affected her more than she realized, and taking control with romantic partners was just a coping mechanism.

Well. Maybe it was. But Mikhail’s style of submission had proved one thing to her—she did like dominating men. But she needed a man who gave as much as he took. And Mikhail might only see her as a paid contractor, but he treated her the way she wanted to be treated. His submission prioritized her pleasure, and in return, she was desperate to return the feeling. The next time she saw him, she was going to make him come so much, he’d be begging her to stop.

With a small, wicked smile, she started cleaning up. She’d just put all the containers in the dishwasher—they were too nice to throw away—when the buzzer rang. She frowned, looking toward the intercom panel beside the front door. Anybody who might swing by usually called or texted first. Suspicious that she was going to have to turn away religious loons, she got up and tentatively pressed the speaker button. “Hello?”

“Hey, Trina. Let me in.”

Kate’s stomach dropped. Her blood turned to ice. “Angel?” she asked, desperate to be wrong.

“Who the fuck else would it be? Buzz me in, bitch.”

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s cold as balls out here,” her sister snapped impatiently. “Let me in!”

Kate hesitated. Despite living only a couple of hours away in Milwaukee, Angel had never visited her in Chicago before. Kate hadn’t seen her sister in person in more than three years. It felt absurd not to let her in, but her gut was telling her not to do it.

While she was deliberating, Angel laid on the buzzer. This close to the intercom, the sound was like a knife in Kate’s eardrum. She flinched, clapping her hand over her ear.

She stabbed the button for the speaker, about to tell Angel to fuck off, but Angel’s voice drifted over, already speaking to somebody else.

“—my sister. Yeah. She lives here. Oh, thanks, I appreciate it.”

The sound of the entry door swinging open and shut hit Kate like a slap. Some stupid motherfucker had let Angel into the building. She slumped against the front door, hand on the deadbolt, not sure what she was going to do. A few minutes later, she heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairwell. She peered through the peephole, watching as Angel stepped into view.

Angel had changed a lot since Kate had last seen her. She’d lost a lot of weight—and she’d already been thin before. Her skin was dry and colorless, with small open sores scattered over her cheeks and forehead. She had a new tattoo on her left cheekbone—it was probably supposed to be a word or a name, but it was so badly done that it was just an illegible scribble. Her hair was dyed a deep, burgundy-plum color, but her blonde roots had grown out enough to make it look like she was balding. Her bright blue eyes looked unnatural and ghostly behind tangled, grown-out lash extensions. She raised her hand to knock on the door, revealing a set of brightly colored acrylics so badly in need of a fill that more of her nail bed was bare than painted.

Kate’s lip curled. That haphazard, cheap-ass, no-taste, lazy attitude to her appearance permeated every other aspect of Angel’s life. She acted without thinking. She made stupid choices and then tried to pretend the consequences didn’t exist. She thought she was the baddest bitch around when, really, the rest of the world looked at her and saw a sad clown.

She was Kate’s worst nightmare.

“TRINA!” she bellowed through the door, pounding on it with the side of her fist. “Open up, bitch! I know you’re in there!”

Goddamn it. Kate couldn’t make her neighbors listen to her sister’s endless screaming. Gritting her teeth, Kate slid the deadbolt and ripped the door open.

“Well, hey, twinnie,” Angel said with a smirk. She pushed her way into the apartment, using her weight to shoulder Kate aside despite the fact that she had to be at least twenty pounds lighter.

“What are you doing here?” Kate asked flatly, shutting the door. “I thought you were in jail.”

“I got released. No thanks to you, you fucking cunt.” She said it without any real heat, her attention focused on tracking over the details of Kate’s apartment—the cleanliness, the matching furniture, the hardwood floors, the high ceilings, the framed art on the walls, the bookshelves.

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