Page 59 of The Toy Collector

Cy joins me, ordering a drink before turning to me. “I thought the point was to have the interns mingle. Not just stand by themselves,” he observes, giving Alice an appreciative glance.

Chuckling, I slap him on the arm. “Go ahead,” I say. “If you can pry her away from Ben.” I finish my whiskey and set the glass down on a passing server’s tray.

I don’t approach my toy right away. Instead, I orbit—positioning myself with the precision of a war strategist. The room becomes my chessboard, the guests my pawns, and Piper, my queen, though she doesn’t know she’s playing yet.

Every move I make is calculated to draw her attention without seeming to seek it. Every conversation I join has a dual purpose—political utility and optimal sightline.

I insert myself into a circle of federal judges whose careers depend on my family’s good graces. They laugh too loudly at my observations, eager to please. I make a mental note of which ones might be useful later. Which ones might be expendable.

Throughout it all, I maintain my awareness of Piper’s location. The space between us is electric, charged with possibility. I talk to the right people, shake the right hands, but I always end up in her line of sight, making sure she can hear my voice.

The Chief Justice of the D.C. Circuit Court is mid-sentence when I feel it—the shift in the air that tells me she’s looking directly at me now. I turn my head, unhurried, and our eyes lock across the crowded room.

For one perfect, crystallized moment, it’s just us—everyone else fades to background noise. Her lips part slightly. The champagne glass in her hand tilts dangerously before she catches herself. Recognition and shock flitters across her face before it’s replaced by something else entirely.

I allow myself a small smile, lifting my glass in the slightest acknowledgement before I move through the crowd toward a group that includes the Secretary of State, positioning myself so Piper will have to pass by on her way to the bar. When she does, I reach out, my fingers barelybrushing her bare elbow.

“Miss Harrington,” I say, my voice low enough that only she can hear. “Won’t you join us? Secretary Whitman was just discussing the diplomatic corps internship program.”

Her eyes widen fractionally, surprise flickering across her features before she composes herself. “I wouldn’t want to intrude,” she says, her voice remarkably steady despite the tension I can feel humming through her.

“Nonsense.” I move my hand to the small of her back, guiding her into the circle. The touch is brief but deliberate, my fingers pressing just firmly enough to feel the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of her dress.

It’s a test—to see if she’ll play along, to see if she understands the opportunity I’m creating for her. She handles herself well, her intelligence evident in how quickly she adapts to conversations. Until Senator Darnell joins us and asks her a pointed question about loyalty.

“Tell me, Miss Harrington, where do your allegiances lie when policy conflicts with the party?” The Senator’s eyes are sharp beneath his ornate mask. It’s a trap—answer one way, she’s principled but difficult; answer another, she’s a soulless operator.

I watch her hesitate, caught between her genuine answer and the politically expedient one. She meets Darnell’s gaze steadily, a flash of defiance in her eyes. “I’d rather be honest than pretend politics is ever fully separated from self-interest.”

The Senator’s eyebrows rise as he gives a small respectful nod, and I feel a surge of something dangerous in my chest. Pride, perhaps. Or hunger.

I note how she keeps trying to act unaffected throughout the evening, but every brush of my fingers against her bare arm, every moment I lean too close to whisper some observation about the person we’re speaking with, breaks something small in her façade.

A quick intake of breath. A momentary loss of her train of thought. The way she shifts her weight when I stand too near, as if her body can’t decide whether to move closer or pull away.

By the time midnight approaches, the party has reached that comfortable level of inebriation where secrets start to spill. A supreme court justice is laughing too loudly at a senator’s joke. Two congressional aides are exchanging meaningful glances by the terrace doors.

Excusing myself, I go to the bathroom, and when I return, Piper’s nowhere to be seen. I frown, immediately searching for Ben. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something about him I don’t trust.

But he’s lip locked with… well, isn’t that interesting. He’s not-too-discreetly kissing someone he definitely shouldn’t be. I scoff at the predictability, and go looking for my toy.

I find her hiding out in a quiet, dark alcove. It’s far enough away to offersome privacy, yet close enough it can still be considered part of the party.

“You’ve made quite an impression tonight,” I say, close enough that my breath stirs the wisps of hair by her ear. “Secretary Whitman asked for your contact information.”

“Thank you for the introductions,” she replies, her voice carefully neutral despite the slight tremble I can see in her fingers. “Though I’m curious why you’re taking such an interest in my career.”

I allow myself a small smile. “Who says it’s your career I’m interested in?”

She doesn’t move when I step behind her. Not right away. Just keeps her back straight, her breath steady. But her hands twitch at her sides, like she doesn’t trust them not to reach for me.

I lean in slowly, letting my presence fold around her like a shadow. The silk bow tied around her neck brushes my chest. I lower my head until my lips nearly touch her skin.

“This alcove is supposed to be off-limits,” I murmur. “You seem to be good at worming your way into places you shouldn’t be.”

“So are you,” she retorts.

With a chuckle, I kiss the curve where her neck meets her collarbone. Her skin is still cool from the air but warms beneath my lips in seconds. She draws in a sharp breath when I trail upward, teeth grazing the edge of her jaw.

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