Page 52

Vivienne

The closet in the Head of House suite has more than just ballgowns, but it does take me a solid ten minutes of talking out loud to the oak panels to get it to show me something that doesn't scream seventeenth-century widow in mourning.

Eventually, the racks rotate to reveal clothes that look like they were pulled straight off a mannequin in a private salon on Rittenhouse Square.

I pick out a pair of tailored black wool trousers that hit right at the ankle, a fine-gauge charcoal cashmere turtleneck, and a camel hair coat with sharp, structured shoulders. I slide my feet into a pair of leather loafers that are butter-soft, completely broken in, and definitely cost more than my car.

I stare at myself in the gilded mirror. I look like a woman who fires people for a living and enjoys it. It’s perfect.

For a treat, I practice an evil laugh. “Call me Deville, Kirk. Cruella Deville.”

The strange wooden cat gives a plaintive meow, and I scrunch my mouth to the side as I consider him. “Don’t worry, I love puppies and am all about that faux-fur life.”

He licks his paw at my confession.

“I don’t even want to think about the kind of hairballs you’re going to produce,” I mutter before turning back to my transformation into evil heiress.

I pull my hair back into a sleek, low knot, securing it with a plain gold pin. No makeup except for some tinted lip balm, and on my right middle finger, a heavy signet ring carved from dark obsidian I found in a velvet box. It’s the only visible piece of House Midnight I’m taking with me.

When I walk down the front stairs, Lachlan is waiting by the mahogany table.

I stop on the fourth step, my hand freezing on the banister.

The gray sweatpants are gone. In their place is a dark charcoal three-piece suit cut from heavy English wool. It fits him like armor, the broad cut of the shoulders barely containing his massive frame, the vest hugging his chest and flat stomach so tightly it looks custom-tailored to within a millimeter. He hasn't worn a tie; the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt are open, showing the thick column of his throat and the faint edge of dark chest hair.

He looks like old money, ancient blood, and immediate physical violence all wrapped into one bespoke package. My ovaries do a respectful little salute.

His eyes track me as I finish descending the stairs, his gaze heavy and slow. "You look like you own the city, Vivienne."

"I don't want the city," I say, sliding my trembling hands into the pockets of the camel coat so he can't see them shake. "Just one specific, terrible office on the third floor of College Hall. How are we getting into Center City?"

"Town car is waiting outside," he says, stepping toward the heavy double doors. "The bank sent it."

The firm of Biddle, Sterling & Vance occupies the top three floors of a discreet limestone building on Walnut Street. It is completely invisible to anyone who isn't managing nine figures of generational wealth.

The senior partner, an elderly man named Arthur Vance whose family has apparently managed House Midnight’s mortal paper trusts since the War of 1812, doesn't even ask to see my driver’s license.

He just asks for my right hand.

I press my palm flat against an ancient brass plate set into the surface of his mahogany desk. A single, cool pulse of cyan light ripples beneath the metal, matching the thrum in my wrist brand, and Vance’s hands begin to tremble.

"Welcome back, Miss Estrella," he whispers, taking off his wire-rimmed spectacles and wiping his brow with a silk handkerchief. "We were beginning to think the line had ended."

"Not ended," I say, sitting in the leather armchair across from him while Lachlan stands behind me, silent as a gargoyle. "Just, uh,” I pause, searching for the right word, “delayed. I need two things from you today, Mr. Vance."

"Anything, ma'am. The accounts have accumulated uninterrupted interest for nearly ninety years."

"First, I need a certified cashier's check drawn on the estate's primary capital trust. Payable to the University of Pennsylvania, specifically earmarked for the School of Arts and Sciences." I lean forward, resting my elbows on the armrests, praying I don't throw up. "Ten million dollars."

Holy shit. The words ring in my own ears. Three days ago, I put a block of cheddar cheese back on the shelf at the grocery store because it wasn't on sale. And now I am currently requesting ten million dollars out loud to a stranger. This kind of power should literally be illegal. No one should have this. It is completely, morally corrupt that I can just throw money at an institution to destroy a man’s life.

But to be fair, Cole started it.

Vance doesn't even blink at the number. "A capital gift. Of course. And the second?"

"A legally binding endowment agreement drafted by your trust attorneys, with very specific bylaws." I pull a sheet of notebook paper from my pocket—petty demands I scribbled in the back of the car on the drive over—and slide it across the blotter. "The funds establish the Estrella Endowment for Historiographical Integrity. It funds graduate stipends, subsidizes health insurance for all humanities doctoral candidates, and finances a brand-new climate-controlled archive wing."

Vance scans the paper, nodding slowly. "A noble charitable venture, Miss Estrella. Very generous."