Page 81 of Cruel Fate

“How much can I spend?”

Zarah shrugs. “Whatever you need to send a tasteful gift. It’s not a big deal.”

I pull out my iPad and start jotting down notes, my stylus flying across the screen.

She introduces me to the banquet manager and her assistant who are in charge of the event, and we sit at a conference table in a small meeting room that looks out to a garden at the back of the hotel. We go over the schedule again: the private cocktail hour, the dinner, the public cocktail hour that will conclude the evening. For forty-five minutes, Zarah and the banquet manager politely bicker between seafood and beef that will be served as the main entrée. I scribble notes like crazy in case I’m ever put in charge of something like this alone, and make no mistake, I know at some point I will be. The guests will have a beef option (Zarah won), a vegetarian option, a vegan option, and a gluten-free option to choose from. The list of accommodations seems to go on forever, and Zarah sighs. “Everyone is special,” she says, rolling her eyes.

Everything sounds delicious, and my stomach rumbles.

“Would you like to try the main course? It’s being served tonight, and Chef can give us samples,” the banquet manager says, glancing at me and pushing back a smile.

“Sure.” Zarah slips off her jacket. “Afterward, we’d like to speak to the mixologist on staff. I think a signature drink would be fun.”

“Of course, Miss Maddox.”

The banquet manager speaks into her walkie-talkie and requests a server to bring two of the main courses to our meeting room.

When the meals are delivered, shining silver domes covering the plates, she and her assistant leave to see to other things. “If there is anything else we can do for you, please ask.” She hands me a business card. “It was nice to meet you, Miss Mayfair, and it will be a pleasure working with you.”

“Thank you.”

They leave us in silence, and I lift the lid on my plate.

The beef melts in my mouth, and the potatoes are so creamy I don’t need to chew before I swallow. The meal is delicious, but it’s not enough to fill my stomach after the meagre lunch I ate during my meeting with Mina. It’s just another thing I have to get used to associating with the upper-class of King’s Crossing. Everyone is on a diet.

“This will do,” Zarah says, pushing her plate away after only a couple of bites. She laughs at my empty plate. “Come on, let’s go drink. I need one.”

The bar is just as glamorous as the ballroom, and we sit and talk to a mixologist who tosses around ideas for a one-of-a-kind cocktail. She asks Zarah what her brother’s preferences are, and she says Zane is a chocoholic, something I didn’t know. I’m embarrassed, learning something so simple about him I should have discovered it on my own. The mixologist concocts a whitechocolate martini, and because of the season, adds a dollop of whipped cream and a sprinkle of pumpkin spice.

I don’t particularly like it, but Zarah downs hers and nods in approval.

The vodka hits me after I finish mine. To be polite, of course.

“Before we tour the rest of the hotel, I’ll introduce you to the registration staff. Our guests may have questions about their accommodations, and if they ask you a question you don’t know the answer to, you can put them on hold, call the hotel, and find out what they need to know.” She pauses. “I hope you don’t feel like this is too much.”

I do, but I would never admit it. I want her to be able to trust me. She asked for help, and I can’t let her down.

She introduces me to the staff I’ll be working with from now until the end of Zane’s dinner. Several of the guests will stay at the hotel, and we go over the block of suites that has been set aside and the amenities the rooms offer. Everyone is extremely nice and patient, and no one seems bothered by the fact I’m a twenty-year old girl who’s living on the wrong side of the tracks.

They respect me because I’m with Zarah Maddox. No, scratch that. They respect me because I’ve been linked to Zane in the news, and everyone I meet already knows me as...what did the woman at Donna Karan call me? Zane’s girlfriend of the moment.

No one would complain except me. I was raised to make it on my own, and I’m only in this position because Zane took a fancy to me while his sister and I drank wine and ate cheesecake the day she toured payroll. I try not to be resentful. An opportunity is an opportunity, and what you turn it into is what counts. I sound like Maryanne, but she’s never wrong.

The head of housekeeping lets us peek into a couple of the suites so I can get a feel for where our guests will be staying. We explore one of the enormous executive suites, and I lovegazing out a wall made up of floor-to-ceiling windows. I don’t remember what floor we’re on, but I can look over downtown. In the distance, the Renegade River glimmers in the sun, and the outline of the industrial park where Quinn works spews smoke into the sky. The carpet is plush under my feet, and even the air smells rich, understated, and regal. In the bedroom, a gauzy canopy hangs from the four posters of a king-sized bed, and connected to the bedroom, there’s a bathroom that’s as big as my living room. I couldn’t guess how much it costs to stay in one of these rooms for a night.

Zarah’s kind, letting me get accustomed to the suite and everything in it, but it’s also because she doesn’t want to leave. Sinking onto a cream loveseat in a conversation area in the sitting room, she presses her lips together. She’s trying not to cry.

I search the bar and pour us two lowball glasses of whiskey. I’ll let the housekeeper know she’ll need to replace the bottle and refresh the glasses, but I’m getting used to the idea that when I’m with Zarah, I can do whatever I want.

“What’s the matter?” I ask, carefully setting a glass of the amber liquid on the table in front of her.

She doesn’t answer, and instead, digs into her purse and out of a small pocket inside, pulls out a huge diamond ring. Her hands shake as she slides it onto the ring finger of her left hand.

“Oh my God.” The rock must be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. I wouldn’t trust myself to wear something like that. Even though it must be insured to the hilt, I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

Zarah lets out a watery laugh. “It’s something, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is.” I hold her hand and study the platinum ring. The diamond sparkles, and it’s hugged by little, I think they’re called baguettes, on each side. It sits on her finger like it wasmade for her, and it probably had been. “Congratulations.” My voice is flat, but Zarah doesn’t notice.

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