The sun had set, and Cloud City had transformed into a grid of neon and gold.
A black sedan pulled up to the valet stand of La Rive, the most exclusive private club in the city. The doorman, a man who had turned away senators, checked his clipboard.
"Name?"
"Felix Vance," the agent said, stepping out of the car. He extended a hand to help Ivy out.
She emerged.
She wore a dress of crimson silk, backless and plunging. It was the color of fresh blood, the color of war. It clung to her curves like a second skin. Her hair was swept up, revealing the elegant line of her neck.
The doorman blinked. He didn't ask for her name. He just opened the velvet rope.
Inside, the club was dimly lit, the air filled with the soft crooning of a jazz singer and the clinking of crystal.
Ivy scanned the room as they walked to their table. She saw producers, oil tycoons, politicians. The air smelled of money and secrets.
"Don't look too hungry," Felix whispered as they sat down in a shadowed booth.
"I'm not hungry," Ivy replied, picking up the menu. "I'm full."
She ordered a glass of champagne, but she didn't drink it. She watched the door. She watched Braeden's usual table. It was empty.
After twenty minutes, she felt a restlessness in her legs.
"I'm going to the ladies' room," she told Felix.
She slipped away from the table, navigating the crowded room. The hallway leading to the restrooms was quiet, lined with plush velvet wallpaper and potted palms. The jazz music faded to a dull thrum.
Ivy paused in front of a mirror to check her lipstick.
Scritch. Scritch.
A soft sound came from behind a large fern in the corner.
Ivy turned. "Hello?"
Nothing.
She took a step closer. She saw a small shoe-a shiny black patent leather Mary Jane-poking out from behind the heavy velvet curtain.
Ivy crouched down. "That's not a very good hiding spot," she said gently.
The curtain moved. A little face peeked out.
It was a girl, maybe three years old. She had wild, curly dark hair and huge, terrified eyes. She was trembling.
Ivy's heart did a strange, painful flip in her chest. The girl looked... familiar. There was something about the shape of her eyes, the curve of her chin.
"Are you lost, sweetheart?" Ivy asked, extending a hand.
The girl stared at Ivy's hand but didn't take it. She shook her head frantically. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
Mute? Ivy thought.
Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed from the far end of the hallway. A man's voice, deep and angry, called out. "Search the perimeter!"
The little girl's eyes went wide with panic. She lunged forward and grabbed Ivy's hand.
Her grip was desperate, shockingly strong for such tiny fingers.
"It's okay," Ivy started to say.
But the girl didn't wait. She pulled. She dragged Ivy toward a mahogany door marked VIP - PRIVATE.
Before Ivy could protest, the girl reached up, turned the heavy brass handle, and pulled Ivy inside.
