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I could have sworn it was taller than Dante’s penthouse.
Am I really so afraid of heights that I can’t judge the height of a building when I’m standing in it?
Valentine enters the limo behind me, the door shutting behind him as it cuts off these thoughts along with my view. The car windows are tinted to a point that I can barely make anything out beside the soft glow of lights as we drive.
So much for knowing where we are, let alone where we’re going.
Valentine leans forward to open a panel in the car, revealing several bottles set in ice.
“I think we should celebrate,” he says, popping the cork from one as he pulls out two flutes and fills them.
“Celebrate?”
“Of course,” he says, turning to push a glass into my hand as I eye it warily. “Tonight should be a night to remember.”
Valentine clinks his glass to mine before taking a long sip as he eyes me over the edge. I glance down nervously at the contents of my own flute, wondering how alcohol is supposed to help either of us remember anything.
Despite my friendship with Charlotte, I’ve yet to allow myself to actually drink any alcohol. You’d think after a lifetime of being sheltered, not to mention everything else I’ve been through the past couple weeks, drinking alcohol would be the least of my hang-ups.
“I can’t drink this.”
“What do you mean?” Valentine asks, his eyebrow raising in question.
“I … I’m not old enough,” I answer, feeling more embarrassed by the second.
Valentine blinks at me.
“Not old enough?” he snorts. “How old do humans have to be to drink these days?”
“Twenty-one,” I answer, ignoring the strange way he phrased the question.
“And you’re not twenty-one?”
“No.”
Valentine sets his own half-empty glass down at this as his eyes bore into me.
“Just how old are you, Evelyn?”
“Eighteen.”
“And how long have you been eighteen?”
“Just a few weeks.”
Valentine’s face blanks as if he’s trying to process everything I’ve just said before the corner of his mouth begins to slowly lift.
“And Dante knows this?”
“I don’t know. He never asked.”
His grin deepens, as if I’ve just given him the best possible answer yet, and I can’t help but feel like I’ve just given away some vital piece of information about myself.
“Fascinating,” he mutters to himself, leaning back against the seat to stare out the window, “tonight should be very memorable, indeed.”
Not knowing what else to do, I turn my attention back to the glass still in my hand.
Screw it, what’s a little alcohol when I’ve already had nearly everything else taken from me? I might not live through the night anyway. Why not go out with a bang?
