The Pawn (Endgame #1)(43)

He isn’t taking me to the theater so that we can enjoy ourselves. This isn’t a pretend date where we both act like he isn’t paying for the pleasure of my company. This is a show, an example, as surely as my father’s demise. I’m going to be put on display, a bird in a gilded cage.

“I see,” I say, my voice flat.

He looks almost regretful. “You’ll do fine.”

His pity burns like acid. If I have to be trapped in this cage, if I’m going to be forced to sing, I’m going to sound beautiful doing it. Somehow I smile. “Of course.”

I hold his arm as he escorts me downstairs, as if I’m not heading to the guillotine. I find a bland expression for the limo ride to the theater, as if my heart isn’t beating a million times a minute. There are going to be so many people there. The men Daddy was friends with. They all know what Gabriel Miller did to my father. What will they think about seeing me with him?

Some of them will know about the auction.

Then a worse thought strikes me. Some of them could have attended the auction.





Chapter Twenty-Three





The whispers start as soon as we walk into the room.

They follow us as we pause for pictures at the step and repeat backdrop at the end of the carpet—not actually red but purple instead. They follow us up the grand staircase. They follow us to the drink station where Gabriel asks for a glass of champagne for me and a whiskey neat for himself.

“I could have wanted a whiskey,” I mutter, more because I need to fight back. And I can’t yell at the old women to stop pointing at me, can’t scream at the men to stop staring at my ass.

“I’ve seen you drunk,” Gabriel says mildly. “No whiskey.”

Yes, and that’s probably not something we need to repeat in public. I can’t deny that I’d love some oblivion right now, though, because I see several of my father’s friends approaching. One owns a large housing development corporation, the other a manufacturing plant for tampons, of all things. I only ever see them together. Daddy played poker with them all the time.

They smile genially as the bartender finishes our drinks. “Miller! Great to see you here.”

Gabriel hands me a flute, and I take a fortifying sip—then scrunch my nose as the bubbles tickle me from the inside. I hear the amusement in Gabriel’s voice as he says, “You too, Bernard. How’s work been treating you?”

“Very stiff,” he says solemnly. “But we have plans to expand.”

Do not laugh, Avery. I manage to keep a straight face as he turns to me.

“And how has school been treating you? Are you still on leave to help your father?”

Technically my absence is being recorded as leave by the school, but everyone knows I have no means to go back. And I’m standing here beside Gabriel Miller, which shows exactly how academic my life has become. Even the auction won’t be enough to send me back to Smith College, once the house and my father’s caregivers are covered.

“Yes,” I say, keeping my voice polite and distant. “He’s doing very well.”

“Good, good,” the other man says. “I hope we can resume our poker games soon.”

I want to punch him in the face, because it’s clearly a lie. He was one of the first men to stop answering Daddy’s phone calls once the scandal broke. And even if Daddy were able to sit upright at a poker table, he wouldn’t have anything to gamble. This is the kind of bullshit that I always hated, but it strikes a little harder when it’s directed at my family.

“Of course,” I say, teeth clenched. Apparently that’s become my go-to answer when what I really want to say is go to hell, asshole.

Gabriel smiles as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen. There’s something I want to show Ms. James.”

A firm hand on my lower back guides me deeper toward the atrium. We’re not even two feet away when I hear those bastards snickering about the things Gabriel Miller is going to show me.

“I hate them,” I whisper, tears stinging my eyes.

Gabriel pulls me along, his voice almost droll as he adds, “Fucking brownnosers.”

I glance at him in surprise. “I thought they were your friends.”

“They’re not anybody’s friends. If your father thought otherwise, that was his mistake.”

My jaw clenches hard because he’s right. I hate that he’s right.

Damon Scott breaks from a group of men and lopes over to us, all casual confidence. He’s wearing a different three-piece suit, this one with tiny gold fleurs-de-lis stitched into the blue fabric. “Good evening. And here I thought to worry about you, Ms. James. But you look radiant.”

Radiant? I manage a thin smile. “Thank you.”

Damon leans close. “How is Gabriel treating you? Tell me honestly.”

The sparkle in his eye says it’s more filthy curiosity than concern for me. Gabriel makes a low growling noise that has Damon chuckling. They’re sharks, I realize. Sharp teeth. A taste for blood. And I’m wounded.

“Is Candy here?” I ask, hoping Ivan Tabakov likes the theater. I could use more of her advice. These men might be sharks, but she’s learned how to tame them.

“No,” Damon says with a smirk. “I think this is past her bedtime.”