Chapter 2 - The Monogram in the Corner
When I returned to Table Nine twenty minutes later, the mess had been cleared away. Marcus himself had rushed over with a bucket and a fresh tablecloth, muttering apologies that Victor Morgan had apparently ignored with quiet indifference.
I carried a fresh tray with a clean tumbler, a small glass bottle of chilled vodka, and a steaming bowl of clear beef broth. My hand was neatly bandaged with white medical gauze I kept in my locker, but the silk handkerchief sat neatly folded in the front pocket of my apron, stiff with dried crimson blood.
“Your soup, Mr. Morgan,” I said softly, setting the items down with deliberate, hyper-cautious care.
Victor looked up from his hands. He hadn't touched his fresh drink. His gray eyes swept over my newly bandaged hand before settling on my face.
“Sit down,” he said.
I froze. “Sir?”
“You look like you are about to collapse,” Victor said, gesturing toward the leather banquette across from him. “Sit for two minutes. Marcus won't fire you. I’ve already spoken to him.”
My mouth felt dry. Servants didn't sit with men like Victor Morgan. It violated every unwritten rule of the Red Lion Pub, and probably every safety rule in the city of Chicago. But my legs were trembling so badly from exhaustion and adrenaline that the leather seat looked like a lifeline.
I slowly slid into the booth across from him, keeping my hands folded in my lap.
“Why do you work here?” Victor asked, pouring a splash of vodka into his glass, though he made no move to drink it. “You’re in school. You work long hours. You carry yourself like someone who hasn't slept a full night since the summer.”
I let out a soft, bitter breath. “I work here because the campus bookstore only pays eleven dollars an hour, and nursing tuition doesn't care if you’re tired. My rent is due on the first, my textbooks cost six hundred dollars a term, and I don't have a family trust fund to fall back on.”
“Honesty,” Victor murmured, setting the glass down. “Rare in this neighborhood.”
I reached into my apron pocket and pulled out the blood-stained silk handkerchief, placing it gently on the dark wood between us. “I washed my hands and bandaged it properly. I’m sorry about ruining your linen. I’ll take it home, wash it properly, and bring it back next Thursday.”
Victor glanced at the fabric, then pushed it back across the table toward me with one long finger.
“Keep it,” he said.
“I can’t,” I insisted. “It’s yours. And... it has an initial embroidered on it.”
His gaze locked onto mine. The temperature in the booth seemed to drop three degrees in an instant.
“You saw it?” he asked, his voice low and flat.
“I saw the silver letter E,” I whispered. “I didn't mean to pry, Mr. Morgan. I just... I know silk like this isn't off-the-rack. It belongs to someone important to you.”
Victor sat back in the booth, his broad chest rising and falling in a long, slow breath. He turned his head to look out the dark, rain-streaked window toward Wabash Avenue, where the headlights of passing taxis reflected off the wet asphalt like smeared gold.
“You’re right,” he said after a long silence. “It’s replaceable fabric. But the memory isn't.”
“Why give it to me, then?”
Victor turned his gray eyes back to me. The harsh, cold stone in his expression had softened slightly, replaced by something deep, heavy, and profoundly dark.
“Because,” he said softly, “you’re the first person to touch me in twelve years.”
The words hung in the air between us, heavy and terrifying.
My breath hitched in my throat. I stared at him, my mind scrambling to make sense of what he had just said. Twelve years? A man who walked through the city surrounded by bodyguards, who sat in expensive restaurants, who commanded hundreds of men—how could he not have been touched in twelve years?
“I... I don't understand,” I breathed.
“I don't expect you to,” Victor said. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills, and laid two of them on the table beside his untouched soup. He stood up, towering over the booth, buttoning his charcoal suit jacket with practiced ease.
“Get some sleep, Aaliyah,” he said quietly, using my name for the first time.
May you like
He turned and walked toward the front entrance before I could say another word. The two massive guards in dark coats immediately fell into step behind him, opening the heavy oak doors and escorting him into the waiting black sedan parked along the curb.
I sat in the empty booth for a long time, staring at the two hundred-dollar bills and the silk handkerchief embroidered with the letter E.
