The drive to the Commission’s headquarters was a funeral procession for a girl who no longer existed. I sat in the back of the armored sedan, draped in a black silk dress so dark it seemed to absorb the meager Chicago sunlight. It was high-collared, long-sleeved, and sharp—a mourning shroud reimagined as a suit of armor.
Roman sat beside me, his presence a heavy, grounding weight. He hadn't spoken since we left the estate, his eyes fixed on a leather-bound folder. He looked like a man preparing for war, his jaw set in a line so rigid it looked carved from granite.
"They are going to try to provoke you," he said, his voice cutting through the hum of the engine without him looking up. "They’ll mention your father. They’ll mention the money. They’ll try to see if you’re a liability I’m codd
