Page 46 of Her Sloth

“Audrey Whitney-Morgan,” I say, “I need to speak with her.”

The receptionist looks at me like I am some sort of pest, and for the people here, I am. Never in my life have I felt more out of place than here.

“It’s important,” I say. “I know she is here. Call her, tell her it’s Cass.”

For one second I am convinced he is going to have me removed, but then he takes a phone and dials.

Time goes by, and I am close to snapping. I am sweating and caught in a limbo of images running through my mind. What if I pushed her over the edge? What if she’s choosing the same path as Elise? What if⁠—

“Miss Whitney-Morgan,” says the man suddenly, and I inhale deeply. She’s here. On the phone. Alive. “There is a young woman here by the name of Cass; she says she needs to speak with you, urgently.” The man’s eyes wander up and down my outfit. A hoodie and baggy pants, dirty shoes and grease I can’t get off my fingers.

“Of course, Miss,” he says. His look is as unreadable as it can get, and my heart skips a beat.

He takes his time, clicking something on the PC next to him, and I am close to strangling him if he delays the answer any longer. Then, he steps around the counter. “She awaits you upstairs,” he says and walks me to an elevator, where he uses a card to activate it, points me inside, and presses the upper button. “If you may give me your car keys, otherwise it might be removed.”

Car. Right.

Do I trust him with my car?

“Valet will keep it safe in the garage,” he says as if he read my mind.

“Still in it, I believe,” I say as I check my pocket. “Was kind of an emergency.”

The man nods, and I am riding up for what must be an unbearable minute.

The elevator door opens.

I stick my head out, and I’ve landed directly in a—Fuck me.

I don’t even have words for the marble corridor leading to a sitting area with huge glass windows overlooking the city.

“What the fuck,” I breathe out as I walk out of the corridor into the suite.

This is fucking insane.

“Addy?” I ask, walking slowly towards the sitting area, but she isn’t there. I glance to the right; there are doors everywhere leading to just another room.

I find a room with a table. A bedroom. A whatever room; I don’t even know how to name that thing in there. And then I find her. Sitting with her head leaned against a massive window in a study sort of room with a desk, loads of wood, strange art I have no clue about, and a grand piano in the back. The desk looks like it’s from the white house itself, and the overall superiority of the room repels me.

She just sits there, with a bottle of alcohol in her hand, almost empty and ignoring me.

“Addy,” I say. She doesn’t even react. I sit down opposite her with crossed legs.

“I’m sorry for what I said,” I say and swallow hard. Apologizing is not really my area of expertise. “I was—I sometimes don’t think, and just act. I don’t understand your world; you were right.”

She lifts her head from the glass.

Eyes red.

“You were right,” she says in a faint voice. “I’m captivated, stuffed into a cage. I’ve tried to flee my entire life from it, but it’s like I am escaping one cage just to be stuffed into the next.”

Heavy tears drop down her cheeks. All these tears. I don’t know what to do.

“I mean, look at this crap here,” she says. “80k per night, and no one fucking cares. 80k could save so many lives. And yet, I am in here. Caged. Shackled. Impossible to do anything. I hate being here. If I could burn it all down, I would. But I can’t. I don’t know how to escape the hell I am in, because there is just another one opening up to swallow me whole.”

I have a million questions. A million things to say. But only one of them is important.

“What happened in L.A.?”