The ride to the Davenport estate is quiet. Nico stares out the window, occasionally checking his phone. I watch him, trying to read his thoughts. Since Eleanor’s unexpected visit and ourimpromptu “engagement,” he’s been more guarded than usual around me.
He’s right to worry. The burner phone message to Sienna was just the beginning. Today, surrounded by Chicago’s elite and their loose tongues, I plan to gather as much intelligence as possible. About Nico, about my mother, about the complex web of power and corruption that seems to have ensnared them both.
“Remember,” Nico says as the car approaches enormous wrought-iron gates, “this is a performance with very specific parameters. We arrive, we circulate, we smile for the cameras. We leave after precisely three hours.”
“And if anyone asks about our whirlwind romance?”
“We met through business connections. The attraction was immediate but complicated by professional boundaries. We maintained discretion until recently.” He delivers the fairytale story with practiced ease. “Keep it vague but believable.”
“Should I mention how you proposed? Perhaps over dinner at a charming little restaurant in Paris? Or was it sunset on your yacht?” I can’t resist needling him.
His eyes narrow. “Don’t get creative. Stick to the script.”
“There is no script, Nico. That’s the problem with improvisations; you can’t control every variable.”
Irritation flashes in his eyes. Good. Let him worry. Let him wonder what I might say or do. The more he focuses on controlling me, the less attention he’ll pay to my real objective today.
The car stops at the base of a grand circular driveway. Through the window, I can see the Davenport mansion all lit up. It’s like agiant Southern plantation plopped down on Lake Michigan, with immense columns and sweeping terraces. Servants in uniforms are standing by, and black cars keep pulling up, letting out Chicago’s most important people onto a red carpet.
Before the driver can open our door, Nico puts his hand on my wrist. His touch is light but commanding.
“One last thing,” he says, his voice low. “Whatever game you’re playing, whatever angle you’re working, remember this: I’m always three steps ahead of you.”
I meet his gaze steadily. “Perhaps. Or perhaps you just need to believe that to sleep at night.”
The muscle in his jaw ticks, a tiny tell that I’ve gotten under his skin. Then his expression smooths into practiced neutrality as the door opens and we step into the warm summer afternoon.
Camera flashes erupt immediately. Apparently, Eleanor has tipped off the society photographers about our attendance. Nico’s arm slides possessively around my waist, pulling me against his side as we navigate the gauntlet of reporters shouting questions.
“Mr. Varela, is it true you’re engaged?”
“Miss Song, how did you meet?”
“When’s the wedding?”
Nico guides me forward, offering the press a polite nod but no comment. The pressure of his hand at my waist increases slightly when I open my mouth, a silent warning not to engage. I close it again, playing the docile partner, but file away the interaction. His need for control extends to every aspect of our public appearance.
The interior of the Davenport mansion exceeds even my imagination’s expectations. The grand foyer soars two stories high, with a crystal chandelier that must weigh several tons throwing prisms of light across marble floors and gilt-framed paintings. Floral arrangements the size of small trees fill every corner.
Eleanor spots us immediately, breaking away from a conversation with the mayor to descend upon us like a diamond-encrusted hawk.
“The happy couple!” she announces loudly enough for heads to turn our way. “Everyone, look who’s here! Nico Varela and his beautiful fiancée!”
The surrounding conversations pause as curious eyes assess us. I feel Nico’s body tense beside me, though his expression remains pleasantly neutral. He detests being the center of attention in this way, not as a power broker, but as an object of social curiosity.
“Eleanor,” he greets her with a practiced smile. “Spectacular as always.”
“Oh, you silver-tongued devil,” she laughs, taking his free hand and patting it. “I’m so glad you both could come. Everyone is absolutely dying to meet the woman who finally captured Chicago’s most eligible bachelor.”
She turns to me, eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Lea, darling, you look stunning. That dress is divine. Zuhair Murad?”
“Yes,” I reply, impressed that she recognized the designer. “You have a good eye.”
“I’ve been collecting couture since before you were born, my dear.” She links her arm through mine, effectively separating me from Nico. “Now, you simply must meet everyone. Senator Mitchell is here with his new wife, who’s twenty years his junior, botoxed within an inch of her life. And Judge Lowell just arrived with his husband. Did you know Nico helped push through their adoption paperwork when those dreadful bureaucrats were stonewalling them?”
She’s already pulling me away, and I glance back at Nico. He gives me a slight nod—permission to parade around. Or perhaps he sees an opportunity in our separation. He can monitor me while conducting his own business.
Eleanor introduces me to a dizzying array of Chicago elite. I shake hands with three state senators, a federal judge, the police commissioner, two hospital board chairmen, and at least a dozen corporate executives whose combined net worth could probably end world hunger. Each greeting follows the same pattern: surprised recognition at my engagement to Nico, polite questions about how we met, and careful assessment of my suitability.
