Chapter 8 8

The next morning, Iris's head throbbed. Not from a hangover-she had only had one glass of champagne-but from the adrenaline crash.

She woke up in Sienna's guest room. Her phone had forty-two missed calls. Thirty from Hunter. Ten from Eleanor. Two from Kamala.

She ignored them all.

Then she saw a text from Gigi. Hunter's grandmother. The matriarch.

Tea at 10? I want to say goodbye properly.

Iris couldn't ignore Gigi. She was the only Rutledge who had treated her like a human being.

"I have to go back," she told Sienna over coffee.

"It's a trap," Sienna warned. "They're going to ambush you."

"I know," Iris said. "But I owe Gigi."

She borrowed a suit from Sienna. It was white, sharp, and tailored. She pulled her hair back into a sleek ponytail. She put on dark sunglasses to hide the lack of sleep.

When she went down to the garage, Sienna was leaning against the purple McLaren, dangling the keys from her finger.

"You're not taking the Porsche," she said. It wasn't a question.

"It's your car," Iris started to say.

"No," Sienna interrupted. "That place is a tomb. You need to show up looking like a resurrection. The Porsche is a scalpel. This," she said, slapping the hood of the McLaren, "is a statement. Take the statement."

Iris took the keys. The carbon fiber fob was light in her hand.

She drove the McLaren to the Rutledge estate in Greenwich. The gate guard did a double-take when he saw her in the purple supercar, but he opened the gates.

She walked into the main drawing room. They were all there. It was a tribunal.

Hunter sat on the sofa, looking haggard. Dorothea was next to him, wearing a pastel yellow dress, looking like a delicate flower. Eleanor and Kamala sat in high-backed chairs, looking like vultures.

When Iris entered, silence fell.

Dorothea stood up immediately. She picked up a teapot.

"Iris," she said, her voice trembling. "I'm so glad you came. I... I wanted to apologize for last night. I didn't mean to upset you."

She walked toward Iris, holding a cup of tea. Her hands were shaking. It was a perfect performance.

Iris didn't take the cup.

"Cut the act, Dorothea," she said.

Hunter stood up. "Iris! She's trying to be nice. She feels terrible about the misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding?" Iris asked. "You mean the part where she called me a hooker in front of half of New York?"

Dorothea sniffled. A tear rolled down her cheek. "I just... I was confused! You looked so... different."

"I looked happy," Iris said. "I know that's confusing for you."

Eleanor slammed her hand on the armrest. "How dare you speak to her like that! You are a guest in this house now, Iris. Show some respect."

"Respect is earned, Eleanor," Iris said. "And you're overdrawn."

Before Eleanor could explode, the butler cleared his throat.

"Madam," he said. "Mr. Garth Burris is here."

The room went still. Garth Burris. The right hand of the Lindsey family. The fixers. The kings of New York.

Garth walked in. He was carrying a silver gift box. He ignored everyone and looked straight at Iris. His eyes were calculating.

"Mrs. Rutledge," he nodded to Eleanor. "Mr. Lindsey sends his regards. He heard it was... a time of transition for the family."

He placed the box on the table.

"A token," Garth said.

Hunter looked nervous. "Mr. Lindsey? Auguste Lindsey? Why would he..."

Garth didn't answer Hunter. He looked at Iris again.

"Ms. Gutierrez," he said. "Good to see you again."

Iris frowned. "Have we met?"

"Briefly," Garth said. "Last night. At Velvet."

Hunter stiffened. "You saw that?"

"We saw everything," Garth said. His tone implied that 'everything' included Hunter's cowardice.

Garth bowed slightly and left.

The silence he left behind was heavy. Hunter looked at Iris with new suspicion.

"Why does Auguste Lindsey know who you are?" he demanded.

"I don't know," Iris said honestly.

"Did you sleep with him?" Kamala shrieked. "Is that where you got the money?"

"Enough!"

A cane struck the hardwood floor.

Gigi stood at the top of the stairs. She looked frail, but her eyes were burning.