Prologue: That Night.

He wasn’t comfortable with this part at all. To get rid of the woman? Well, that was the job. But this? This was a one-way ticket to hell that he wasn’t trying to cash in. He could feel sweat bead and trickle until the collar of his shirt absorbed it. 

He had to decide. And he had to decide now because–shit…

As expected, the phone rang in the woman’s house at the appointed time. 

He answered, “Yes?”

“Is it done?” He looked at the woman on the floor, sprawled and unmoving, still positioned as she had fallen. Her color was rapidly draining, leaving her brown skin ashen. The odd angles of her limbs spoke of broken bones–she had fought more than he’d anticipated–but no broken skin. Her thick hair collected the blood from the seeping wound in the back of her head. 

There’d be little cleanup, as they’d demanded. It was to be a simple disappearance–a young single woman and her child…gone. Had they been white, the plan would have never worked. But a black woman and her little mixed baby? There’d be a perfunctory inquiry at best.

“Yes.”

“And the other?”

The man’s gaze tracked to the playpen in the corner of the well-appointed but small apartment. The child was quiet, almost unnaturally so. And she watched him; she watched him with those odd eyes that had no business in that dark face. It wasn’t natural. And it scared him. Eyes like that held power.

So, he lied.

“Done.”

“Good.” The voice on the other line was satisfied. Smug. Female. “Make sure there’s no trace.”

“Understood.”

“This can’t track back to me. Or, to him.”

“Understood.” He hated taking orders from her. But again, it was the job. This job, at least.

The line went dead.

He got to work moving the woman, dead, and the child, alive, to his truck. He had a long night ahead of him. He’d drive for hours before stopping to bury the woman. He’d drive for hours more before leaving the child somewhere. But he wouldn’t kill it. Even his soul couldn’t absorb that sin.

Chapter 1. Twenty Years Later

Cassandra.

“Andi! Heads up!” 

Hearing my name pierced my daydreams and slammed me back into the hustle and bustle of the catering kitchen, where I was supposed to be collecting another round of appetizers to circulate in the area of the ballroom I’d been assigned. 

The ability to dissociate from my surroundings was one that I had developed long ago. It was both a gift and a curse. I could easily tune out almost anything happening around me, which was a great protective mechanism when bullshit was afoot. But it also meant I tended to drift…something that wasn’t always handy. Like now, when I was supposed to be carrying a tray of canapes into the grand ballroom so the guests could slake their hunger before the main meal was served.

“Coming!” I hustled to take my place in the line of servers, all wearing identical black pants, white tuxedo shirts, and black vests. We looked like a family of penguins, but the anonymity was comforting. I could move through the dining room without having to worry too much about my interactions. The likelihood that the guests could pick me out from among any of the other servers was slim. My hair, relaxed and bone straight, was sleeked back into a low, nondescript bun, just like most of the other girls working tonight. And I learned long ago that my skin was that particular shade of brown that left people confused about my ethnic makeup. So, I blended.

I’d been called everything under the sun: Mexican, Indian, light-skinned, mixed, Dominican… I’d learned to both accept and reject all the labels because I had no idea which, if any, was correct.  I knew what my roots looked like when my relaxer started to grow out, though, so I had my suspicions. And since most people, when I couldn’t give a definitive response, defaulted to some sub-category of Black, I did, too. 

“Take this to the far end, by the terraces. After this round, we’ll guide everyone in for dining. Once we get the entree rounds on the table, your group can cycle for a twenty-minute break while we prep dessert and they start the program.”

The head caterer rattled off the instructions as he settled the serving tray in my hands and, with a gentle but decisive push to the small of my back, sent me onto the floor with my offerings.

I immediately headed toward the terrace area. Past experience had me walking quickly with little eye contact. The tray dipped and swooped as I navigated the crowd, avoiding hems and reaching hands until I reached the appointed area and slowed to allow the guests to sample the appetizers. They went quickly. I’d learned that most people, no matter how much money they had, were greedy as hell. I had barely slowed before the vultures emptied my huge tray. Sighing, I began the trek back to the kitchen.

This time, though, my feet moved far slower as I took in the scene. The wealth in the room was staggering. The women were draped in the best fabrics. Fabrics that were pulled, nipped, and tucked into a range of styles on a range of bodies. 

Most of the gowns were gorgeous, some were horrible. My mind was whirling, redesigning, cataloging the changes I would make for this woman or that. Considering how the woman in the peach gown should have chosen something with an empire waist to better flatter her neckline and camouflage her tummy. How the woman in the royal blue floor-length sheath could have carried a far more dramatic piece, tall and confident as she was. 

By the time I made it back to the kitchen, helped the crew serve and clear the salad course, and finally got the entrees on the table, I had a laundry list of ideas to add to my final portfolio. I would make the updates on my break. Twenty minutes wasn’t long, but I had to get the ideas out of my head before they flitted away.

“Girl. My feet!” Margeaux grumbled as we dipped out of the kitchen and into the little annex that was reserved for members of the catering team and our personal belongings. 

A little smile ghosted my lips. “I told you.”

“Yeah, I know. And you were right.” Margeaux fell into one of the surprisingly plush club chairs in the room. “Never wear new shoes on a job. But hell, they’re tennis shoes. Why the fuck wouldn’t they be comfortable.”

She pulled the offending sneakers off and wiggled her toes. I pulled my backpack from the bottom of a pile of coats and bags and headed toward the exit that led to the gallery’s wraparound terrace. I sympathized with her plight but only had twenty minutes to braindump.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. But I’ll run you an epsom salt soak when we get home. I’m going outside.” I gestured toward the terrace doors.

“Okay, well, I’ll be here. I’ll come get you when it’s time to go back in.” Gogo was more than familiar with my tendency to wool-gather. We’d been sisters for a decade. Not by blood, but by choice. When we crossed paths through the same group home three times in twice as many months, we cautiously became friends—and later, sisters. I can’t say that having a friend made the hell of child protective services pleasant, but it certainly helped. 

“Thanks,” I said. “I only have a few notes to make, but I don’t want to forget them.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m setting an alarm.” She set the alarm on her digital watch and settled more deeply into the club chair. “I’m going to take a power nap. I have to pull an all-nighter when we get back. Business law tomorrow.” She said, referring to the next exam on her schedule.

We were both seniors at NYU. Both on full scholarship. Both determined to eke out success from our shitty starts in life. I knew without a doubt that if she and I hadn’t found each other, we’d be in very different places right now. 

When a distant relative had finally come for Margeaux we had fought to stay together. It had been a little like a fairytale since that relative was comfortably established and determined to do right by Margeaux for the last few years before she reached adulthood. Everything they had taught her about college, she had told me. Those messages had been sent through slowly delivered snail mail, and late-night whispered phone conversations with me on the shared group home line. I had become an expert at trading fifteen-minute phone privileges so that she and I could have longer snippets of time to plan my great escape. They had ultimately fostered me, giving me a glimpse of what stability looked like.

We had fought for it and we had almost made it. All that stood between us and the next stage of our dreams was two weeks of final exams.

On the terrace, the air was warm and thick. We were miles outside of the city. The catering company had offered transport vans for the crew, most of whom didn’t have cars to get them to the venue, which was nowhere near the transit lines. The venue was particularly exclusive, with part of that exclusivity attributed to its distance from the hustle and bustle. I had been surprised when I first entered the ballroom to find that the majority of the guests and the hosting family were Black. 

Those thoughts drifted away once I found a seat on the terrace, pulled my sketchbook out, and flipped to the page of the design I was currently finalizing. I was deep in my thoughts, trying to recreate the vision in my mind using paper and soft lead, when someone stepped into my light, throwing shadows over my work.

“I’m almost there, Gogo. Two more minutes.” 

“I’m not Gogo.” A deep voice poured over me. I was startled at the unexpected response and turned to see who had interrupted my moment of quiet. I was annoyed; only years of experience and a deep-seated desire to not have to start over had prevented me from leaving a random streak of gray across my sketch.

Brows twisted in irritation, I looked up and up…and up until my eyes landed in the vicinity of where this person's eyes would be if I could see them clearly. 

“I’m sorry. I startled you.” The deep, slightly amused rumble sank into my skin and poured over my nerve endings setting them to tingling. I shook myself.

“Well, yeah.” I said, belatedly trying to school the irritation out of my voice because my visitor was obviously part of the party and not on the service side. His tall frame was clothed in a conservative black tuxedo that had clearly been made specifically to fit his trim form. Brushed merino wool, and heavy satin combined in the well-made garment. The seams were perfectly aligned, the nap of the fabric flowing in the same direction across all the areas I could see. It was exquisite workmanship that made the simple traditional suit scream money. 

“I’m sorry to be in your space,” I said, peeved that I had to stop early, but cognizant that a significant part of my job was to remain invisible and unobtrusive. Even though he was intruding on me. “I’ll head back in.” I began to gather my things.

“No, no. Take your two minutes to finish. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

That deep baritone eased over me again, and I shivered even in the heavy humid New York summer night. I wasn’t sure I believed his words, given that he was standing over my shoulder, staring at me and my work.

I said as much. 

He chuckled. That huff of amusement wrapped in the deep, melodic voice had me tilting my head further and shielding my eyes so I could see him better. He was standing almost directly in front of one of the sconces that threw soft, warm light across the terrace. His features were backlit and barely visible.

“Hmm. You’re right. And now I’m making you crane your neck to see me.” He shifted his position, coming around to settle into the remaining empty chair at the little bistro table I’d commandeered. Woah. My heart thumped once. Stopped. And then started a frantic beat.

Deep-set dark brown eyes, heavy eyebrows, peanut butter brown skin, and a close-cut Caesar fade. All set off by a strong, straight nose with flared nostrils and almost too-full lips; the top one sported a light shadow. His ears were slightly pointed at the top and curled at the lobes, making him look like a mischievous warrior elf even though he was clearly trying to exude hot and sexy. And he wasn’t missing the mark. The whole package oozed wealth and sex. It was a heady combination, and my stomach clenched in a natural feminine response.

“I’m Abe.” He held out a hand. I didn’t shake it. Only stared like an idiot. “You’re…Andi?” 

That shocked me out of my stupor. “Yeah..yes. How…?”

“It’s on your nametag.” 

Oh, yeah.

“Oh, yeah. I’m Andi.” He already knows that. “I’m working the party. I’m just on a little break. But I can go in.” I repeated the offer to vacate his space, reaching to gather my things. “Or did you need something? Wine or…” I trailed off.

“No, nothing. Really. Sit.” He waved me back to my seat from the awkward half-crouch I was holding, midway between sitting down and getting up. 

“Your lines are excellent.”

“What?”

“On the day dress you’re sketching. The lines are beautiful. What fabrics are you thinking for it?”

“What?” I repeated because one, he’d said ‘day dress’ as opposed to just ‘dress’, and two, what the hell did this beautiful man know about lines?

“Are you thinking chambray? It would be a surprising choice, I think.”

I looked at my sketch because I had indeed been thinking about combining chambray and linen, which would create a more structured bodice with a beautifully draped skirt. I shared as much.

“Mm. It’s a good point. It’s really going to be about the colors, right?”

“Right. It’s a simple enough design. It’s the patterns that will make it pop. But I have to make sure it’s not too much.”

“What’s too much?” He seemed genuinely curious. His heavy eyebrows drew together.

“Well. There’s a balance between color and pattern, right? I have trouble walking that line sometimes, I think,” I said quietly, remembering the last feedback I’d gotten from my final project supervisor. Cassandra, your work is lovely, but the colors you choose are sometimes too…aggressive.

“Mm.” He hummed again. A deep rumble that I felt in the most unexpected places. I wasn’t much about the dating scene. I wasn’t naive. Naivete was a trait lost early in child services. I knew all about boys and men and what happened between men and women behind closed doors. I wasn’t interested in either the distraction they seemed to provide or the deterrence from my goals. But I could appreciate beauty in all its forms. And he was beautiful.

“You’re right about making it pop, though. It’s such a simple piece. The right combination of color and pattern…something simple but big scale maybe…will keep it from being boring.”

“Exactly. But I’m thinking about recreating it as a jumpsuit. Lengthen it here, pull it in here.” I made a couple of quick updates to the sketch and tilted my notebook toward him.

“Yes. I can see that. What if you…,” he held his hand out for my pencil. I just looked at him, one eye-brow up, because I wasn’t interested in having him mess up my work with some ham-handed additions. 

“Okay,” he laughed. “What if you add darts here,” he tapped a finger on the sketch, “and here, but then loosen it up here,” another tap, “and here.” I considered, and rather than adjust the piece I was working on because I liked where it was going, I quickly drafted a new model on a clean page incorporating the ideas he’d shared but also adding my own because this was mine.

“Like this?”

“Exactly,” he nodded twice, considering. “You’re really good.”

“Thanks,” I sent a smile his way, stunned again by how strikingly fine he was…Jesus, he’s dangerous. 

I was confident in my abilities, but validation was something I received little enough of in school, so I appreciated receiving it from what seemed like a knowledgeable source. It was something Destiny had told me I would need to work on my need for. “You are, too. You know a lot about this stuff for a guy.”

Another deep chuckle. His smile was wide and open. It made his sleepy brown eyes crinkle at the corners. “What? Guys can’t do fashion?”

“I mean, they can.” I leaned into the word a little bit. “But they usually don’t.”

“Word. I can’t front like you’re not right. But I’m not most guys.” He winked. Another shot of electricity zinged to that hollow right between my legs. I shifted in my seat. Abe’s eyes slipped quickly to my lap and back again. An extra light flashed in their depths, faintly amused, definitely interested. 

I felt my eyes roll a little. But not too much. He was still a guest.

“Seriously. I’m special.”

“Really?” I tilted my head at him.

“Yeah, really.” He leaned toward me, and I realized he had scootched closer to me while we collaborated. Odd. Because I was usually hyper-sensitive to men in my space. I didn’t have a problem with them, per se, but I wasn’t wholly comfortable around them. A byproduct, I knew, of living in the home, a man-free zone where girls talked and where self-presevation became an offensive pursuit. But I didn’t lean away when he shifted closer. And that’s when I learned how good he smelled. And how the smell of a man was a thing. Wow. 

My eyelids fluttered. I inhaled. Deeply. 

“Andi!” And my eyes popped wide. Damn! He was right there, gazing at me. Contemplating…what?

“I’m coming!” I called back, certain that I was going to be late getting back to my station. I couldn’t afford to lose this gig or to be sent home early. I needed every single cent of the two hundred dollars that had been promised for tonight’s six hours of work.

“I have to go.” I quickly gathered my items, stuffing the pencils and sketchpad back into my worn backpack. It had seen me through all four years of college. It was a gift from Destiny, a luxury I would not have splurged on.

“Yo, Abe!”

His face broke into another grin, and I found myself frozen by how his face shifted. All the sexy slipped away, and he looked like a little boy caught. Laugh lines deepened around his eyes and mouth. So pronounced for him to be so young. How much laughter did a person have to have in their lives to have laugh lines at what? Twenty-five? Twenty-six?

“Let me get your number. Clearly, you need me to help you finish your little project here.”

This time I let the full weight of my eyeroll loose on him.

“Puh-leez,” I scoffed. “You wish.”

“I do. I do wish.” Then he, too, stood from his chair, responding to whoever it was who had called his name. 

“Yo!” He called to let them know they’d been heard. He turned back to me, “Lemme get the digits, though. For real.”

After another moment’s thought, I decided why not. I scribbled the number to the phone in my dorm on a scrap of paper from my sketchbook and lay it on the table between us. I don’t know why, but putting it directly in his hand seemed too personal, too invested. But he scooped it up and slipped it in the inside breast pocket of his seriously well-made tuxedo jacket. I hadn’t touched it, but my fingers itched to smooth over the wool and satin lapels. 

One day, I promised myself, you’ll be wearing the same quality fabrics with the same level of ease and comfort.

But on this day, I needed to get back to the kitchen before I lost the last installment on my tuition payment.

“Talk to you soon, Andi.” He said and patted his coat pocket where he’d slipped my number.

“We’ll see,” I replied and dashed inside.