Page 9 of Wild Card
It’s all marble and fountains and rose gardens that look too perfect to be real. Even the driveway sparkles. I don’t know how that’s possible, but I hate it.
Presley and I pass through the massive wrought-iron gates after a silent nod from the security guard in the glass booth. The guy barely glances up—probably used to the parade of lawyers, jewelers, and stylists who cycle through this place like clockwork.
As we approach the front door, I catch my own reflection in the polished glass of a Greco-Roman statue. My blouse is tucked, my heels are silent on the stone, and my face is all business. But inside, my nerves are twisted tight.
We stop at the foot of the oversized front door—double panels, ten feet tall, black lacquered wood with gold lion knockers. Of course.
“This place gives me hives,” I mutter, adjusting the strap on my bag.
“You sure it’s the house?” Presley murmurs, standing too close.
Before I can tell him to step back, I feel it—his hand brushes over the back of my skirt, then gives a quick pinch.
My eyes widen. “Did you just?—?”
He winks. Actuallywinks.
I spin toward him, jaw tight, voice low and furious. “Are you out of your mind?”
His smile is completely unapologetic. “Just making sure you’re awake.”
I glare at him, trying to ignore the heat climbing into my cheeks. “If our bosses find out what happened between us—anything—we’re both done. Fired. Blacklisted. I amnotletting the thing ruin my career.”
“Pretty sure that was more than a thing.”
“Presley.”
He lifts his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Message received. No more distractions.”
I cross my arms, still fuming. “Keep your hands—and your mouth—to yourself.”
He’s just about to open his smug mouth again, probably with some clever remark that will make me want to punch him and kiss him in the same breath?—
But that’s when the door opens.
Slowly. Silently. Like the reveal of a stage show. And there she is. Talia Brandt. Perfect in silk and diamonds at 10 a.m., her lips painted the color of blood oranges, her cheekbones sculpted by either God or a very expensive surgeon. Her gaze sweeps over both of us like she’s selecting wine.
“Oh,” she says in a voice that could freeze champagne. “I was told security was sending someone. I didn’t realize I’d be entertainingtwo.”
She smiles faintly. But it doesn’t reach her eyes.
She leads us through her mansion like she’s walking a red carpet. Every step echoes on polished marble floors. The walls are draped in velvet and hung with oil paintings that are either priceless or tacky—I can’t tell anymore.
We pass a crystal chandelier that looks like it could flatten a sedan and stop in what she calls the “morning parlor,” which is somehow larger than my entire apartment.
She gestures to the white velvet chairs like we’re here for tea. “Please. Sit.”
Presley flops into the chair like he owns the place. I stay standing.
“Mrs. Brandt,” I begin, tone polite but firm, “we’re reviewing security footage from the night of the transfer between the Citadel and Jade Petal exhibits, and we noticed you were seen wearing the sapphire necklace. One of the Weeping Jewels.”
Her painted lips curve. “Yes. I wore it to a gallery opening that evening. It photographed beautifully.”
“Was that the real piece?” I ask.
Her eyes flash. “Of course not. I was explicitly told I couldn’t wear the real jewels. I had a replica made for promotional purposes. I was helping your little exhibit, darling.”
My jaw tightens at the condescension. “Just to clarify—you’re saying the necklace you were wearing was a fake?”
