Page 26 of Gatsby's Starlet
Gatsby stood beside me oblivious to how hard my head was spinning, one hand resting lightly at the small of my back, the touch so natural I didn’t think he even realized he was doing it.
Mystic stepped forward next, extending his hand.
Up close, the scars were worse, Burns tracing across his cheek and jaw before disappearing beneath his collar, but when I met his gaze and took his hand, there was nothing in him that felt dangerous in the way I had braced for.
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
His grip was firm, but he didn’t let go right away. His eyes lingered just a fraction too long, flicking briefly toward Zeynep before returning to me, like he’d caught the way my attention kept drifting in that direction.
“You too,” he said quietly.
It passed easily enough that no one else seemed to notice, but I had the distinct feeling I’d just been weighed.
Around us, the clubhouse carried on like nothing had shifted, music pulsing through the speakers, pool balls cracking somewhere off to the side, laughter rising and falling near the bar, but I couldn’t quite lock back into any of it.
My attention kept pulling back to her.
Zeynep had already turned toward Gatsby, asking him something about whether he’d eaten any of Fiona’s Hummingbird cake, her tone easy, familiar, like she belonged here in a way that didn’t leave room for doubt. There was nocaution in her, no sense that danger might be following her into the room.
Nothing hidden.
Which meant one of two things.
Either she had no idea what her being alive could bring down on this place…or she trusted the people here enough not to worry about it.
I wasn’t sure which one unsettled me more.
Gatsby’s fingers closed lightly around mine. “You doin’ alright?” he asked, leaning in just enough for me to hear him over the noise.
I blinked, realizing I’d been staring again. “Yeah,” I said quickly. “Just… taking it all in.”
His grin came easy. “Clubhouse can do that the first time.”
I smiled back, hoping it looked natural, though it probably didn’t, because my thoughts were still somewhere else as I found myself glancing back toward her again, alive, standing in the middle of a room she clearly belonged in, with a man she clearly loved, and a quiet unease settled into my chest, because if Drago ever learned that truth, nothing about this would stay simple.
The music and voices followed us as Gatsby led me down the hallway, the sound dulling with each step until it softened into a low, steady hum behind closed doors.
“This way,” he said, glancing back at me like he wasn’t entirely sure why he’d decided to bring me here.
I followed without hesitation.
The hallway felt different from the main room—quieter, more personal, the kind of space that belonged to the people who lived here instead of the ones just passing through.
He stopped at one of the doors and pushed it open. “Don’t expect anything fancy.”
I stepped inside and paused, because it wasn’t what I expected; the room was neat, almost deliberately so, but thatwasn’t what caught me, it was the feeling of it, like stepping into a different time.
A record player sat on a low shelf against the wall, a small stack of vinyl beside it. The posters were real, framed instead of taped up, their colors softened with age in a way that felt chosen, not neglected. A diner-style clock ticked quietly above the dresser, and a chrome-edged lamp cast a warm glow across the room that didn’t match the harsher lighting out in the clubhouse.
Even the bedding fit, clean lines, subtle pattern, like it belonged somewhere decades back.
I moved further inside, my fingers brushing lightly along the edge of a shelf as I took it in. “It’s like walking into a different time,” I said softly, a small smile pulling at my mouth. “I always find that kind of thing peaceful.”
Gatsby leaned against the doorframe, but he wasn’t looking at the room. He was watching me. “Yeah,” he said. “Something like that.”
My attention shifted toward the corner.
And that’s where it broke.
