Chapter 229
Chapter 229:
“I know,” Azalea said, pulling her off the sofa. “And he’s going to rot. But you are alive. And you look like a Victorian widow.” She steered Eliza toward the bedroom. “Put on a dress. We’re going out. You need noise. You need alcohol p>
Eliza was too tired to argue. She put on a simple black dress.
Azalea took her to The Velvet Lounge, a high-end jazz bar in midtown. The music was loud, the air thick with perfume and expensive cologne.
“To justice,” Azalea toasted, ordering two strong martinis. “And to moving on p>
Eliza sipped her drink. The burn of the alcohol was grounding.
“Look who’s over there,” Azalea murmured, nudging her and nodding toward a dark corner booth.
Eliza turned.
Dallas was sitting alone. A bottle of whiskey stood in front of him, half empty. He wasn’t looking at his phone. He wasn’t working. He was staring at a small, square photograph in his hand.
𝗥оma𝘯с𝗲 n𝘰𝗏𝖾𝗹ѕ о𝗇
“He’s been miserable since you moved to the guest room,” Azalea whispered.
A waitress in a tight red dress approached Dallas’s table and leaned over, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Can I get you anything else, honey p>
Dallas didn’t look up. He shrugged her hand off. “Leave the bottle. Go away p>
The waitress huffed and retreated.
Eliza watched him. In the dim light, stripped of his jacket and his CEO armor, he looked like that lonely boy behind the fence again.
“He blames himself for everything that happened with Buck, you know,” Azalea said.
Eliza frowned. “Why? He didn’t kill them p>
“He feels responsible. He thinks that if he had been more involved — if he had found a way to intervene all those years ago when he was watching your family — he could have exposed Buck and saved your parents.” Azalea paused. “He carries the world on his shoulders. Even things that were never his to carry p>
Eliza felt a crack open in the wall she had built around herself. He was suffering too. He was grieving her parents in his own quiet way.
She stood up. “I’m going to him p>
Azalea smiled over the rim of her glass. “Finally p>
Eliza crossed the crowded room. The jazz faded into the background. Dallas looked up as she approached — his eyes unfocused at first, then widening slowly as they found her face.
Eliza reached the booth. Dallas tried to stand, but swayed. He caught the edge of the table for support.
“Eliza?” he slurred. “Are you real p>
“I’m real,” she said softly. “Sit down p>
She slid into the booth beside him and gently pressed him back onto the leather seat.
Her eyes fell on the photo resting on the table. An old Polaroid, its edges worn soft with age. It showed a young Eliza — maybe five years old — in the garden of the Solomon Estate, smiling at a butterfly perched on her finger.
“Where did you get this?” she asked, touching the corner.
Dallas covered it with his hand instantly. “Took it through the fence. My only souvenir.” He looked at her, his blue eyes swimming with unshed tears and whiskey. “I’m sorry about Buck p>
“It’s not your fault,” Eliza said.