Page 23 of The Tallest Tower (Underbelly Enchanted)

The people want gossip. And gossip is exactly what they’re getting this week.

Pushing away from my desk at a little after seven p.m., I grab my phone, laptop, and keys, though I rarely need the latter, since I don’t drive and my apartment is keycard-accessible. I slip everything inside my bag, and grab my coffee, the remains of lunchtime’s caffeine a shallow puddle at the bottom. I bring the cup to my lips, my lipstick long ago worn away, and tip my head back, taking the cold coffee like a shot of tequila.

It’s beyond gross, but I’ve reached such low lows today, I’ve run out of cares to give.

Setting the cup back on my desk, I take my reading glasses from my face, fold the arms, and slide them into my bag. Finally, I grab the straps and circle my desk, blowing through my office door without slowing, and make the trek toward the elevator.

It’s a walk of shame, in a sense. At least, that’s how it feels as I pass desks and ignore the beady stares ofCannon Dailyreporters who clearly also subscribe toBeguile Magazine.

I give them nothing. No facial expression. No attention. No words, beyond those going to print first thing tomorrow morning. I keep my eyes trained forward while my heelsclip-clip-clipalong tile.

My bag rests in the crook of my arm, and my hair tickles my shoulders.

My bladder is overfull, but there’s no way I’m going to stop in the bathroom and risk getting cornered and interrogated. I’ll pee when I get home.

Maybe I’ll call my father, too. Talk to him about his day. Revisit the only real home I know, and make sure he hasn’t read a certain article about me today.

I enter the waiting elevator, relieved when I find it empty, and after riding it all the way to the lobby, I stalk out again and cross the only publicly accessible floor of my building. I pass the security desk, and the random looky-loos who probably readBeguiletoo, and are brave enough to spy on the next alleged mafia bride.

MaybeBeguiledidn’t put those exact words in black and white, but that’s essentially what they printed. A photo of me and Felix Malone together, and then a quote wherein that asshole mentions vows. The combination has ultimately tagged me as the next Mrs. Mafia.

Disgusting.

I shake my head and keep my eyes down, but even so, I catch the flash and glint of paparazzi cameras outside the building, swarming my town car and sending a lance of dread sprinting through my veins.

Fishing a pair of sunglasses from the depths of my handbag, I slide them on just two steps before I reach the doors, then I emerge outside, stride the width of the sidewalk, and quickly duck into the open and waiting back seat.

“Thank you, Edward.”

The interior of the car is dark, my sunglasses making it darker still. So it takes a beat for my vision to adjust, even after I toss the shades off. When it does, I look to my right and jump in my seat when the door is shut behind me and the locks engage.

My eyes zero in on a pair that are forest-green, then down to a smirk partially hidden by stubble that is just days away from becoming a full-grown beard. “What the?—”

“Hi, darling.” Felix reaches out like he intends to caress the side of my face, but he stabs me with a teeny tiny needle. The prick feels like a bee sting, and its contents, hot enough to make me gasp.

“You’re safe,” I hear him murmur, my vision already clouding and my body slumping in my seat.

The car begins moving, leaving behind the crowds outside. Leaving behind anyone who might be willing to help me.

“You’re not dying,” he croons. He releases the side of my neck but leans in closer, inhaling a deep whiff of my perfume until it almost feels intimate. “I heard that you get carsick, and thought sleeping through the ride would help you.”

“I’m gonna kill you,” I breathe out. Though I’m not entirely sure my words register anywhere but inside my mind. “You’re dead.”

“We need to talk,” he responds, talking right over what I may or may not have said out loud. “But first, you sleep. You look tired, anyway.”

6

FELIX

YOUR MOVE

“You continue to amaze me.” Micah stops at our front door, his expression shrewd the way it so often is, his hand wrapped around a sandwich made up of bread, butter, and potato chips. He looks to the woman I carry in my arms, her hair dangling to my thighs, and her face completely and totally slack in sleep. Dark shadows mark the skin beneath her eyes, proving she needs rest anyway.

I’m doing her a favor, really.

“You kidnap the loudest fucking journalist in the state of New York? What the fuck is wrong with you? Archer is gonna kill you.”

“I’m not kidnapping her.”Well, I mean, according to Meriam Webster’s dictionary definition, I guess it’s possible I am. But I’m not asking for ransom, so… loophole!“I’m merely bringing her on our honeymoon ahead of time.”

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