“tHe DoWnS hAs A dReSs CoDe,” I said to myself in the mirror. The reflection staring back was a stranger. A fucking stranger.
I was wearing a black business suit—blazer, white blouse, and pencil skirt. With heels. And, sweet baby Jesus, pantyhose.
My black hair, normally a moppy mess pulled back into a sloppy ponytail, was slicked to the sides of my head and neatly held in a tight bun. I looked like someone’s secretary. Or the star of a porno about a librarian. I was simply too young to be dressed so conservatively.
But The Downs’ website was clear. The restaurant required “business attire,” but I understood three things.
One, the site’s wording implied preference for a more formal interpretation of “businesswear.” There was a subtle brand of snobbery to the way they described the dining experience and expectations of guests. I could have rolled in wearing a khaki skirt and a polo, and they might have let me in, but I would have stood out like a cop at a donut convention.
Two, Margaret wasn’t going to approve of anything I wore, but it would be far better to mildly disappoint her than to offend her delicately fashionable sensibilities.
And number two is because of number three. Simon was testing me.
Simon was almost always testing me. Every single interaction was a gauge for him. And that’s not just a me thing. He’s like that with everyone. The people close to him—Margaret, Leslie, and, God help me, me, I guess—all understand this. Every comment, every reaction, every entrance and exit is a litmus test. For him, it all has to be.
He’s been an assassin long enough that he’s made plenty of enemies. But it’s more than that. Part of how he survives is by assuming that everyone around him wants to kill him. Hell, he probably doesn’t even think I’m safe.
And the more he teaches me, the less safe I become.
But this lunch with Margaret—he would read into her version of it. She won’t say, “Mary can handle this,” or “The girl’s way out of her league.” That’s just not Margaret’s style. Instead, she’ll make catty comments about my wardrobe choices and my utensil etiquette, but there will be subtext. Hints that she found me charming, even in my brutishly uncultured ways, or that she was fundamentally offended and (even worse) bored.
Simon would pay close attention to that subtext. He trusts Margaret’s opinion on such matters. She’s quite wealthy, herself. And her particular brand of snobbery is a good indication of how other rich assholes will view me.
This job would put me elbow-to-elbow with folks well outside of my tax bracket. (As if I pay taxes.) I wouldn’t have to blend in like I was old money. I doubt I even could. But if I could come off as a non-offensive novelty, sort of a pretty, nouveau riche noobie, then they’d invite me closer just so they could laugh at me.
And fuck me. I’m attractive. They’ll probably want to fuck me, too.
So the goal of the whole thing is to blend in just enough to come across as a harmless oddity to some wealthy dipshits. Margaret would be able to size up my ability to do that over lunch.
I doubted we would even talk about work.
✦ ✦ ✦
Her lips were tight as I made my approach.
The maitre d’ pulled out my chair while I waited, acting as though I were accustomed to such nonsense. When I was seated, he withdrew.
“I see you managed to make it on time,” Margaret said by way of greeting.
We’d met a few times before. The first couple of times, she was absolutely delighted by my wide-eyed desire to take in everything about my new life. But the charm wore off. The last time I’d bumped into her with Simon, she hardly acknowledged me.
I was the protege of her bestie. Why should she give two shits about my well-being? The sooner I was killed, the sooner he’d be free of a distraction that took him away from her.
“I appreciate the car service,” I said matter-of-factly. Never thank the super-rich. It makes them feel like you owe them something.
“Of course,” she said, lifting her menu.
I casually reached for mine, noting that nothing listed included a price. So The Downs is that kind of restaurant. I probably don’t even want to know what anything costs.
Skimming my options, I was at a loss. I had no idea if an appetizer was customary for lunch, let alone if something like the Regiis Ova Ossetra Caviar would seem appropriate or over-ambitious. So after a quick once-over, I returned the menu to the table.
“I trust you’ve dined here before,” I said. “Perhaps you’ll do me the kindness of ordering on my behalf. Surely, you know what’s best and what’s better avoided.”
A chill ran down my spine as I said it. It was so fucking arrogant. But that’s what these people like.
She gave me a slight nod over her menu.
When the waiter came to the table, she handled the entire exchange, ordering everything from what I’m sure was considered a sensible cocktail (it was lunch, after all), to salad, to my entrée. I handed the waiter my menu with a dispassionate lack of interest and turned my attention to her.
“Well done, Mary,” she said. The corners of her mouth hinted at a grin. That surprised me.
I raised both eyebrows.
“Your choice of attire is acceptable,” she said, “though I think I can help you elevate that a bit. Still, nothing untoward. You entered like you belong here, you side-stepped the tricky business of ordering from a menu beyond any you’ve ever seen before, and you treated the staff like respectable trash. You might just pass for new money, after all.”
I exhaled slowly. That was hefty praise from Margaret. That probably meant she was still testing me.
“I want this job,” I said at last. “If you have critical feedback, I’m here to listen and learn.”
That won me a genuine smile.
“So you are,” she said.
The waiter delivered our drinks. The crystal glassware probably cost more than everything I was wearing. One glass.
After taking a single, delicate sip, she continued.
“You know, when Simon …,” she paused ever so slightly to remind me that she knew his true name, “… first told me that he planned to take on a student, I was shocked. It’s not like him to bother with charity. I expected you to be dead within a week—either by his hand or during your first engagement. But you exceeded expectations. And you continue to.”
I took a small drink of my cocktail. It was refreshingly delicious. I could taste cucumber, mint, and just a hint of jalapeno. The liquor was probably vodka. A spiraled lemon rind accentuated its understated elegance.
“I’m not sure how to take that, Margaret. You’re not one to be loose with compliments.”
She grinned. Again. Either I was losing this game by a huge margin, or I was actually winning her over.
“I don’t know a great deal about what Simon does,” she said. “I’m sure you understand. It’s more than plausible deniability. It would be inappropriate for me to take a detailed interest in his business dealings. That said, he’s likely shared more with me than any other human on the planet—both about his business and about you.”
Now that got my attention.
It was bait. Sure, sure, sure. I got that. She wanted to pull me in. I just didn’t know why. Was she trying to get me to like her? Trust her? Drop my guard to her so she could prove I really wasn’t ready? What game was this luxurious monster playing?
“Everyone needs a confidant,” I replied.
“Well said,” she confirmed. “Even him.”
There was a lull in the conversation. I took the opportunity to casually glance around the dining area. I’d scoped out every exit, possible entry point, makeshift weapon, and staff member on my way in. It wasn’t my first rodeo. I’d also sized up the other clientele.
Businessmen taking a long, expensive lunch break. Women whose children were either with nannies or at boarding school. Even a couple of older men with younger companions who absolutely had to be mistresses or marrying for money.
But this was my chance to really appreciate my surroundings. Nothing here was gaudy. All gold everything doesn’t look refined. It looks desperate. Instead, I was surrounded by simple elegance. White tablecloths. Navy blue napkins folded into neat triangles. Fresh flowers on every table. Lilies. There was a baby grand in the corner, but no one was playing it at lunch. Instead, classical music played quietly enough on hidden speakers that you might not even notice it unless you listened for it.
Our salads arrived. I picked up the correct fork before Margaret.
“Alright,” she said. “I like you.”
She said it so casually, it took me off guard. I put my fork down, giving her my full attention.
“You’re so like him, you know. Except in the ways in which you aren’t.” She laughed at her own wit. “I can see his influence in you, and something more. A raw hunger. A desire to do what you do effectively. As I’ve remarked to him, I suspect that anyone could kill, if properly motivated. But to endeavor to kill efficiently is a whole other matter.
“I see it in you. That drive. It’s a bit like seeing a younger version of him.”
I was very close to believing she was sincere. But Simon had taught me to be suspicious of fucking everyone. And few things should arouse suspicion like hearing exactly what you want to hear.
This was bait. All of it.
She was pushing to see if I’d drop the act and revert to my normal, very not-rich self. If she could coax me into letting down my guard in less than 30 minutes in a room full of wealthy fuckheads, then there was no way I’d be able to navigate a truly exclusive crowd without making it clear I didn’t belong.
So instead of returning her smile or allowing my posture to slip, I picked up my fork, speared a small bite, and said, “You flatter me, Margaret.”
Her eyes flashed wide. It was subtle, but I saw it. And when they did, it was the first time her smile had reached her eyes.
That. That was true approval.
We ate the rest of our lunch discussing makeup, fashion, proper manners, and performative arrogance. We concluded by agreeing that we should meet the following day for a shopping trip. She would personally ensure that my clothing was up to snuff.
We parted ways with a gentle handshake and kisses on each other’s cheeks that didn’t make contact.
I waited until I got home to fist pump the air.