Chapter 236
Chapter 236:
As I watched, the rear door of the Rolls Royce opened. An elderly woman stepped out. She was the very picture of elegance, dressed in a tailored tweed suit with a string of pearls that likely cost more than my entire college tuition. Her steel-grey hair was coiffed into a perfect bob.
She appeared to be searching for something in her purse, her movements agitated. Then a small, rectangular object slipped from her grasp and clattered onto the pavement.
“Oh, blast it all,” she muttered, her voice crisp and authoritative.
Without thinking—driven by a lifetime of habit to serve—I rose on unsteady legs and walked over. I crouched down and picked up the object. It was an antique lacquer box, black as night, inlaid with obsidian shards that caught the fading light.
𝗨𝗉d𝖺𝗍𝗲ѕ e𝘃e𝗿y we𝗲k 𝘰𝗻
“Here,” I said softly, holding it out to her.
The woman looked up. Her eyes were a piercing, icy blue—sharp, intelligent, and assessing. She didn’t take the box immediately. Instead, her gaze swept over me, taking in my disheveled hair, my bare and muddy feet, and the tear-stained ruin of my face.
Most people would have looked at me with pity or disgust. She looked at me as though I were a puzzle she had already solved.
“Thank you, my dear,” she said, taking the box with a gloved hand. “Clumsy of me. I detest waiting for replacement vehicles. It makes one feel so terribly helpless.” She paused, tilting her head slightly. “You look like you’ve just escaped a war zone p>
“Something like that,” I managed, offering a weak smile.
“Good,” she nodded decisively. “I prefer survivors. The world is full of victims.” She gestured toward the black sedan that had pulled up behind her broken-down car. A driver built like a tank was already holding the door open for her.
“My ride has arrived,” she said, then turned those sharp eyes back to me. “You have honest eyes, child. A rarity these days. I am surrounded by sycophants who wouldn’t know the truth if it bit them on the nose p>
She stepped toward the open door, then looked back once more. “I am Eleanor Marshall. My friends call me Gigi. You look like you could use a lift, and I have plenty of room p>
Marshall. The name rang like a struck bell, heavy with power and old bloodlines, but my exhausted mind couldn’t place it.
“I couldn’t impose,” I stammered.
“Nonsense,” Gigi said, her tone leaving no room for argument. She patted the leather seat beside her. “Get in. Unless you prefer to bleed on the pavement p>
I looked back down the road, toward the darkness where Braydon Hyde existed. Then I looked at the open door of the warm, safe car.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
I slid into the backseat. The door closed behind me with a soft, expensive thud, sealing me in with the woman who would change my fate forever.
The interior of the Rolls Royce was a world unto itself. The silence was absolute, sealing out the chaos of the night, and the air carried the scent of expensive leather and a perfume that reminded me of winter frost—cold, crisp, and biting.