Chapter 8
The East Lounge smelled of old velvet, floor wax, and expensive dry cleaning. It was tucked away behind the main ballroom, an auxiliary sitting room meant for elderly guests who needed to escape the bass of the orchestra or corporate sponsors hashing out quiet acquisitions away from the press. Right now, it was empty except for a pair of high-backed wingback chairs and a low mahogany coffee table stacked with unread lifestyle magazines.
I sat down on the edge of the velvet chair, keeping Clara on my lap. She clutched her gray stuffed rabbit by one worn ear, its glass eye catching the dim light of a brass floor lamp. In her other hand, she still held the crumpled paper heart, the red crayon lines slightly smeared from the moisture of her palms.
"Are you really going to stay?" she asked softly, her voice barely carrying over the distant hum of the venue's air conditioning vents.
"I said I would," I answered, reaching out to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. "For today."
"What about tomorrow?"
The question hung in the quiet room, small and devastating. I didn't have an answer for it. My apartment was a cramped two-room walk-up above a print shop, filled with architectural blueprints, half-empty coffee mugs, and sketching pads. It was no place for a child, let alone a child whose life was apparently tangled in administrative red tape and missing guardians. Yet looking at her tear-streaked face, the thought of handing her over to a tired venue manager or an indifferent caseworker felt like walking away from a fire I had promised to put out.
"We'll worry about tomorrow when it gets here," I said, offering a small, reassuring smile that felt heavier than lead. "Right now, you're safe."
May you like
She nodded slowly, leaning her head back against my chest. Her breathing began to slow down, the frantic spikes of panic fading into the steady rhythm of exhaustion.
Outside the heavy oak door of the lounge, the muted sound of footsteps approached. Two pairs of hard-soled shoes stopped just outside the threshold, followed by the low murmur of voices—one belonging to the security guard we had met in the garden, and the other sharp, clipped, and unmistakably professional. The handle of the heavy door began to turn.
