Chapter 3 - THE TORN DRESS
Penelope backed away until her spine hit the fire exit door at the end of the service corridor.
“I... I was looking for the coat check,” she stammered, her voice shaking violently. “I got lost.”
Richard didn't answer. He walked toward her with slow, deliberate steps, his face completely devoid of expression. He stopped two feet away, his tall frame blocking the light from the hallway ceiling. He looked down at her navy dress, his eyes lingering on the torn seam where her hips pressed against the silk.
“You heard,” he said. It wasn't a question.
“I didn't hear anything,” Penelope lied, tears springing to her eyes. “I swear, I didn't—”
Richard reached out, his hand wrapping around her throat with sudden, terrifying force. He slammed her back against the steel door, the impact rattling her teeth and knocking the breath from her lungs.
“You shouldn't have come tonight, Penelope,” Richard whispered, his face inches from hers. She could smell the expensive scotch on his breath, mixed with the cold scent of gun oil. “Nathaniel sent you that dress, didn't he? He thinks he can hide you out in Mercer Street like a little prize. He thinks no one notices where he goes every Thursday.”
Penelope clawed at his wrist, her short fingernails digging into his skin, but his grip was like iron. Air refused to enter her chest. Dark spots began dancing across her vision.
“Do you know what Volkov is going to do to him tonight?” Richard sneered, stepping closer, pressing his weight against her body to hold her against the door. “He’s going to tie him to that velvet chair in his living room and make him watch while we take every contract he owns. And then we’re going to search the Lower East Side for his little flower girl.”
A sudden, sharp surge of rage cut through Penelope’s terror.
It wasn't fear for herself—it was the image of Nathaniel, the man who had bought white anemones and sat quietly on her stool for eight months, being broken in his own home by the man he trusted most.
Her right hand slid down Richard’s arm, searching for anything to break his grip. Her fingers hit the heavy brass fire extinguisher mounted on the wall beside the exit door.
She didn't think. She didn't pause to weigh the consequences.
She grabbed the heavy iron nozzle of the extinguisher, pulled it from its bracket with a sharp wrench, and swung it with everything she had.
The heavy brass head struck Richard across the left side of his jaw with a sickening, wet crack.
His grip on her throat vanished instantly.
Richard stumbled back two steps, his eyes wide with shock, his mouth opening as if to speak, but only a deep spray of blood escaped his lips. He reached for his gun, his fingers fumbling with the leather holster inside his jacket.
Penelope swung the heavy extinguisher a second time.
This time, the iron base caught him directly across the side of his neck.
Richard crashed to the carpet like a felled oak. His head struck the sharp corner of the steel doorframe with a heavy, hollow thud.
He didn't move.
A dark, wide pool of crimson began spreading immediately across the beige carpet of the service hallway, soaking into the fabric, reaching the hem of her navy gown.
Penelope stood over him, the iron fire extinguisher falling from her numb fingers, clattering loudly against the floorboards. She was panting, her chest heaving as air rushed back into her starved lungs.
“Richard?” she whispered.
He didn't answer. His eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling tiles above, completely lifeless.
The blood reached her shoes.
Penelope turned and ran.
She pushed through the fire exit door, her heels clicking against the concrete stairs as she flew down four flights into the dark lower basement level. She didn't look back. She didn't look at her hands. She ran through the boiler room, out through the service alley into the freezing Manhattan rain, her navy gown tearing as she squeezed past the iron garbage dumpsters.
She didn't take a taxi. She ran six blocks through the storm, her feet bleeding inside her dress shoes, until she reached the private underground entrance of the Cross Tower on 57th Street.
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She had used the silver key card Nathaniel had given her four months ago—a card he had slid across her counter with a quiet, “If you ever need a place where no one can touch you.”
She had passed the unmanned security desk in the private garage, taken the private elevator straight to the thirty-first floor, and crawled into his bed like a wounded animal.
