Page 45 of A House of Gold
“We’ll do our best.” Croesus signs the visitor log with a flourish. I glimpse the name. Not his real name. Robert Smith. Generic enough to forget. I’m still standing here and absolutely a statue with all the attention the guard pays to me.
He pushes the log toward me now, though.
I sign below his signature, Sarah Smith, keeping the fiction consistent, my handwriting looking cramped and nervous next to Croesus’ elegant script.
“Have a good night,” the guard calls as we head toward the elevators, already returning to his coffee and his book, probably feeling good about himself for helping a concerned friend.
Never knowing he was manipulated.
“You too,” Croesus replies, all warmth and charm.
The moment the elevator doors close behind us, everything changes.
The warmth bleeds away as if someone flipped a switch. His expression goes cold. Calculating. The friendly concern vanishes completely, replaced by something that looks almost bored.
Like he had just performed a role and now the performance is over.
It’s jarring. Seeing the mask drop so completely.
“That was disturbing,” I say.
“Effective,” he corrects, pressing the button for the fifteenth floor. The elevator lurches into motion with a soft hum.
“He wanted to help you so badly, he didn’t even think twice about letting two strangers up to a private floor after midnight.” I can hear the edge in my voice. The accusation. “He broke protocol and could lose his job if anyone finds out.”
“He made a choice.” Croesus’s tone is matter-of-fact. No guilt. No remorse. “I simply made that choice feel appealing.”
“You manipulated him.”
“I encouraged him.” He turns toward me, and even in the elevator’s harsh fluorescent lighting, those gold eyes glow faintly. “There’s a difference, Raven. I didn’t force him to let us through. Didn’t compel him. Didn’t remove his free will. I just...made saying yes feel better than saying no. Made helping me feel like the right choice. The good choice. The choice that would make him feel like a decent human being.”
“That’s still manipulation.”
“Yes. It is.” He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t soften it. “That’s what I do. That’s what I am. I make people want to give me things. Want to say yes. Want to please me. It’s my nature, Raven. It’s how angels like me survive. How we’ve always survived.”
The elevator continues climbing. I watch the numbers tick upward. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
“You think angels got where we are by playing fair?” Croesus continues, his voice quiet but hard. “By following human rules about honesty and consent? We’re predators. We just are very good at looking like something else.”
Thirteen. Fourteen.
“You don’t have to like what I am,” he says. “But you should understand it. I am greed. I want things. I take things. I make people want to give me things. That will not change just because you find it distasteful.”
Is he angry at me now?
The elevator dings. Fifteenth floor.
The doors slide open onto a dimly lit hallway. Plush carpet, cream-colored walls, expensive art that could be sold to pay for a Kia. A space designed to make you feel tiny and inadequate. The perfect place for greed to hunt.
Croesus steps out, and I follow, the silk dress whispering against my legs with each step.
“I know what you are,” I say as we walk, ignoring the fact that he’s pissed now. “I’m not naïve enough to think you’re going to suddenly develop a conscience. But that doesn’t mean I have to enjoy watching you work.”
“Fair enough.” We stop in front of Suite 1520. Lights glow through the frosted glass door, and I can see a silhouette moving inside. Working. Always working. “But let me ask you something.”
“What?”
“You saw the guard. Did he look unhappy? Upset? Violated?”
