Page 112 of The Contract

Just another glaring reminder that the world reeks of injustice…and Paco freaking Rabanne.

Someone else barrels through next, and my patience finally fractures.

If one more person bumps into me—just one more—I swear to God, I. Will. Fucking. Snap.

Breathe.

Just breathe.

I snatch my phone off the ground, inspecting the carnage. The screen’s a mosaic of spiderwebbed glass and dead pixels.

Mila gives me an apologetic grimace.

Not her fault—though stuffing me into a pale pink dress completely unsuited for Chicago’s bone-biting chill absolutely is.

I’d chosen something sensible, something with sleeves and a chance at survival. Six dresses later, she picked this. A skimpy engraved invitation to hypothermia.

I shrug it off. “I needed a new one anyway.”

True enough. Outbound calls were already a fifty-fifty gamble. But needing and affording are galaxies apart.

An hour later, we’re still here—packed shoulder-to-shoulder in a line that coils endlessly around the block. The air is thick with desperation, drugstore cologne, and the unmistakable stench of regret.

Somewhere behind us, a baby wails. I silently pray its parents aren’t twisted enough to bring a baby here.

I tap the knife under my skirt. “This will be worth it,” I mutter darkly, mostly to myself.

“Exactly,” Mila chirps, forever the misguided cheerleader for poor decisions. She thrusts her phone toward me, flashing a shot of a bar plucked straight from a Moulin Rouge fever dream. “They’ve got a signature cocktail called Heartfuck. How the hell could you not want to taste that sin?”

Easy. Already sucked one down straight from Satan himself.

I’m fucking good.

I shift my weight, and instantly regret the choice.

I’m wedged into Kennedy’s shoes that according to Mila are, “so fucking cute” that sacrificing circulation and possibly a toe or three is totally worth it.

“My feet are ten minutes from full rigor mortis. Can we go?” I mutter, shifting from one mangled foot to the other.

Mila, utterly unfazed by the seventh circle of hell we’re marinating in, just grins. “Nope.”

“All I want to do is crawl into my hermit cave, drown myself in shitty wine, and pretend this line never happened.”

She buries herself in her phone. “Relax. A few more minutes, tops. I predict a rescue’s coming.”

“By who? The fucking coroner?”

The line shuffles forward—maybe half a goddamn inch.

“I’ve never wished so hard for a zombie apocalypse.”

A shoulder bumps roughly into mine. I turn, already braced for annoyance. The guy’s eyes roam slowly up and down my body, settling into a smirk that screams punch me.

Then his arm slides around Mila’s waist. “Did someone dial 9-1-1 for a rescue?”

Instantly, my hackles shoot sky-high.

Oh, for the love of God.

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