She's quiet for a moment, mixing another drink for a waiting customer. When she returns, her expression is thoughtful.
"You know what I think?" she says, leaning against the bar. "I think all money is blood money. The whole fucking world runs on it."
I blink, surprised by the bluntness of her statement. "That's dark, even for you."
She shrugs, the purple strands of her wig shifting with the movement. "It's true though. You think the money that pays for your textbooks is clean? The cash that funds your scholarships? The bills that patients hand over for their care?" She shakes her head. "It's all dirty somewhere down the line. Exploitation, corruption, suffering—it's baked into the system."
I stare at my drink, letting her words sink in. There's a harsh truth to them that resonates, that aligns with the cynicism I've cultivated over years of watching the world reward the ruthless and punish the vulnerable.
"So you're saying I should take his offer?" I ask.
"I'm saying I wouldn't blame you if you did." Orchid's eyes are steady on mine. "We're all just trying to make our lives a little easier in a world designed to grind us down. The question isn't whether the money is clean—it isn't. The question is whether you can sleep at night after you earn it."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Can I sleep at night? After whatever Blackwood will ask of me? After crossing lines I've promised myself I never would?
"I don't know," I admit, my voice barely audible over the pounding music.
Orchid's expression softens slightly. "Then that's your answer, isn't it? At least for now."
She's called away to serve another customer, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my half-empty drink. My eyes drift across the club, landing on Ian again. He's speaking into his earpiece, his expression tense, his body radiating controlledpower. He hasn't noticed me yet, too focused on whatever security issue demands his attention.
I watch him work, this man who makes me breakfast and holds me through the night and kills for Richard Blackwood without hesitation. This contradiction of tenderness and violence that I can't reconcile no matter how hard I try.
Is this what my life will become if I accept Blackwood's offer? This constant dance between light and shadow? This fragmentation of self?
Orchid returns, her purple wig slightly askew from the heat and movement. "Your boy's spotted you," she says, nodding toward Ian.
I look up to find his eyes locked on mine across the crowded club. Even from this distance, I can feel the intensity of his gaze, the silent question in it.
"He's not my boy," I say automatically.
Orchid laughs, the sound surprisingly genuine in this place of manufactured pleasures. "Keep telling yourself that, med school." She slides another drink toward me. "On the house. For whatever you decide."
I take the drink, grateful for her friendship, for her understanding. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it." She winks at me. "Just remember me when you're a fancy doctor with your own practice."
"If I make it that far."
"You will." Her certainty is startling. "With or without Blackwood's money. You're too stubborn not to."
The faith in her voice catches me off guard, warming something cold inside me. I didn't come to Rhapsody looking for friendship, didn't expect to find connection in this place of transactional relationships and performative intimacy. But Orchid sees me—really sees me—in a way few people ever have.
"I should go," I say, finishing my drink. "Early class tomorrow."
Orchid nods, already turning to her next customer. "Take care of yourself, Claire. Whatever you decide."
I slip off the barstool, making my way toward the exit. I can feel Ian's eyes following me, but he doesn't approach. Too busy with whatever security crisis demands his attention. It's probably for the best. I don't know what I'd say to him right now, how I'd explain the storm of confusion and fear and temptation raging inside me.
As I push through the exit into the cool night air, Orchid's words follow me.
The question is whether you can sleep at night after you earn it.
I don't know the answer. Don't know if I ever will.
CHAPTER 6
Richard's office feels different tonight. Less theatrical, more functional. The man himself sits behind his imposing desk, dressed in a charcoal suit. The contract lies between us, that single sheet of paper. Somehow that makes it more dangerous—like whatever I'm agreeing to is too dark to commit fully to paper.
