Page 29 of From Hell

“I’m so sorry. Traffic was sluggish to the point of standing still most of the way here.”

“Babe, you’re fine.” Nola waves the apology away just as a horn blares, startling me and almost running me over. Her eyes dance over my dress, and a smile steals her bad mood away. “Girl, you look amazing. Who did you dress up for?”

I shake my head as if to sayno one, as butterflies erupt through my insides calling me a liar.

But Nola isn’t paying me any more attention. She looks pissed enough to throw her dangerous-looking heel at someone. “If another posh wanker so much as looks down his nose at me for walking in front of his overcompensating shit wagon, I swear to God, I’m going to ram my heel up his nostril.”

Not for the first time do I wonder if it would have been better to bring Sage tonight instead. But our friend is spending the weekend at the lakes with her fiancé…so Nola it is. Hopefully, she won’t damage anything or anyone this time.

Nola threads her arm through mine as we walk through the huge wooden doors, showing my invitation to the staff in the foyer. “Any news from your stalker?” she hisses in my ear.

“I don’t have a stalker,” I say under my breath once I’ve dragged her through security.

Nola gives me a look. “Oh, the person who broke into your house the other night is in your head, too?”

“Sage told you?”

“Uh-huh.”Damn, Sage. “And what’s the chance he’s the fucktard you’ve been looking for this entire time?” she continues.

A chill claws through my insides. “I don’t know who they are,” I admit, ignoring it as best I can. The last thing I need is to fall apart.

“You need to figure out who is playing with you because it’s all of us he’s toying with.”

Feeling like I need to escape this interrogation, I look around the room for my mother. Scanning the myriad of doors and walkways off the main room, this place is like a maze. One could get lost here easily.

Finally, I spy her talking to Pierre, who looks dashing in a peacock blue suit, his dark salt and pepper hair slicked back. And Abe Simmons, graying at the temples, an imposing figure wrapped in a well-cut black dinner jacket.

Everyone here is part of London’s elite society medicine, which my father not so affectionately calls the legal drugs trade—designing, manufacturing addictive medication en masse and supplying pharmaceuticals to the unsuspecting everyday patients who don’t need them, ramping the prices up for the national health service. My father isn’t wrong in despising everything the private healthcare sector stands for. It’s one of the reasons I find it hard to work for Pierre in the first place.

I scan the rest of the faces but don’t see Jaxon.

As if reading my thoughts, Nola side-eyes from her left. “We’re not here to party, are we?”

I shake my head.

“Then I could use a drink first,” Nola murmurs. From across the room, Fiona catches my eye.

“You go to the bar. I’ll meet you there. I need to speak to my mum, show my face.”

Nola peers over, leaning in. “Which one is she shagging again?”

I let out a sigh. “The older one with the beard.”

Nola’s brows raise, a smirk teasing her lips. “Hello, Daddy Warbucks.”

I elbow her, and she laughs and heads toward the bar. As my friend effortlessly glides through the crowd, those around her moving out of the way without realizing it, I steel myself and head over to where Fiona, Pierre, and Simmons are.

“Ah, Elaine,” Pierre slurs, already a little drunk. “Come, liven up the party, and drink with us.”

My mother’s brow furrows when she sees what I’m wearing and sweeps her hand over my dress like it has imaginary dust bunnies clinging to it. “You’ve met Abe, haven’t you?”

I glance at the chairman of the foundation and nod. He’s fucking my mother, so yes, I’ve met him. I’ve also read every article, every press release, every comment he’s given, and the connections he has that he flaunts. Anything widely known or not about Simmons, I know it too.

For instance, he gives Pierre Sander’s clinic just enough money to do the research they want. I don’t know what he gets from the relationship, but it must be mutually beneficial, if not illegal. Rich people, in my experience, do nothing for free. They buy their cakes and eat them whole.

Regardless, Simmons shakes my hand, introducing himself like we haven’t. Now I know Jaxon is his son, I can’t help but stare at him, trying to see the resemblance.

They have the same soul-piercing eyes.