The Blue Velvet was dark, loud, and smelled of expensive perfume and regret.
Francesca sat in a booth in the back, nursing a glass of water. Anna was next to her, rubbing her back.
"They are garbage," Anna said for the tenth time. "Human garbage."
Francesca stared at the table. She felt hollowed out.
"I need a drink," Francesca said.
"You have a concussion," Anna warned.
"I don't care."
Anna signaled the waiter. "Two whiskeys. Doubles."
Francesca's phone buzzed. A text message. From Janeen.
Why does she still have this number?
It was a voice memo.
Francesca's thumb hovered over the play button.
"Don't," Anna said.
"I have to know," Francesca whispered.
She pressed play.
Janeen's voice, tinny and distorted, cut through the bar noise.
"Oh, one more thing, dear. Since you're already at rock bottom. That doctor in Switzerland? The one who said it was a stillbirth? He sent a letter to your father's office today. A blackmail attempt. He says he has records proving the child was born alive. That he cried. He wants more money to keep quiet about where we sent him."
The phone slipped from Francesca's hand. It clattered onto the sticky table.
Time stopped. The music faded. The laughter of the crowd became a distant hum.
He cried.
Stillborn babies don't cry.
Dead babies don't cry.
"Did you hear that?" Francesca whispered. Her voice was barely audible.
Anna picked up the phone, her face pale. "Fran..."
"He cried," Francesca said. The shock was cracking, revealing a core of molten lava underneath. "They told me he was dead. They showed me a... a bundle."
"They lied," Anna breathed. "Oh my god, Fran. They stole your baby."
Francesca grabbed the whiskey glass. She downed it in one swallow. The burn felt good. It felt like fuel.
"He's alive," she said. She wasn't crying anymore. Her eyes were dry and hard. "My son is alive. And they... they gave him away? Sold him?"
"We'll find him," Anna said, gripping her hand. "We will burn the world down to find him."
A commotion at the entrance.
Laughter. Loud, obnoxious laughter.
Francesca looked up.
Lance walked in. He was wearing a tuxedo. And hanging on his arm, in a shimmering silver dress, was Dollie.
They were celebrating.
Francesca felt a physical blow to her chest.
Lance looked around, scanning the room for admirers. His eyes landed on the back booth.
He froze.
Dollie followed his gaze. She smirked. She whispered something in Lance's ear and pulled him toward the booth.
"Don't," Lance muttered, trying to hold back.
"No, let's say hi to my sister," Dollie chirped.
They stopped at the table.
"Celebrating your freedom, Fran?" Dollie asked, flashing the diamond ring. It caught the dim light, mocking her.
Anna stood up. "Get the hell away from here."
"Relax, Anna," Lance said. He looked at Francesca. There was no pity in his eyes. Only annoyance. "You look like a mess, Fran."
"You stole my life," Francesca said. She stood up slowly.
"You gave it away," Lance sneered. "You were always too weak for this world. Too emotional. That's why your father chose Dollie. She knows how to play the game."
"The game?" Francesca laughed. It was a terrifying sound. "You think this is a game?"
She reached for Anna's whiskey glass. Full to the brim.
"Francesca, don't," Lance warned.
Francesca threw it.
The amber liquid splashed squarely into Dollie's face. Ice cubes hit her forehead.
Dollie shrieked like a banshee. "My eyes! My dress!"
Lance shoved Francesca. Hard.
She stumbled back, hitting the wall.
"You crazy bitch!" Lance raised his hand.
From the shadowed corner of the bar, a large figure detached himself from the wall. He had been watching them since they walked in.
The bouncer stepped forward, but the man in the shadows moved faster.
Cooper stepped between them. He didn't touch Lance. He just stood there, a wall of kinetic violence waiting to happen.
"Problem here?" Cooper asked, his voice low.
"She assaulted my fiancée!" Lance yelled.
Cooper looked at Francesca, then at Lance. He turned his back on Lance, facing Francesca. "Time to go."
Lance, feeling ignored and humiliated, reached out to grab Cooper's shoulder. "Hey, I'm talking to you!"
Cooper didn't even turn. He simply shifted his weight, and as Lance lunged, Cooper hooked his foot behind Lance's ankle.
Lance stumbled, flailing, and crashed to the floor in a heap of tuxedo and humiliation.
The bar erupted in laughter.
Francesca looked at the man. Cooper. She knew it instantly. He had been here the whole time.
