The Scent and The Siren

‎♡‧₊˚chapter twenty-six ‎♡‧₊˚

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𓆩♡𓆪 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐬𝐢𝐱 𓆩♡𓆪

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"We are here, Ms. Rothschild," Oliver pulls me out of my thoughts as he pulls over at 153 W 57th St. in front of Park Oriental Hotel.

"Right, thanks," I finish the remaining content of the Snickerdoodle Cold Brew in one big slurp and put it in the cup holder. 

I run a hand on my structured cream Dior mini dress, with a flattering bateau neckline and black velvet buttons that match my suede Manolos, for a last-minute check of my look before lowering my shades and gliding out of the Maybach. 

"I hate that I have to see this conceited bitch. Shouldn't be more than 10 minutes," I mutter. 

An Asian man who introduces himself as the secretary of the Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States nominee greets me at the hotel reception and ushers me into the presidential suite. His boss, Vanessa Scott, currently serving as a Circuit Judge of the US Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit, is stroking the coat of a small dachshund in her arm. She's wearing a full-length white gown that can easily be mistaken as a bride's wedding dress.

"I have been to many private parties hosted by your mother at the Rothschild Mansion but never got an opportunity to introduce myself to you," she rises off the white L-shaped couch, cradling a glass of wine, a cigarette in the same hand, and a dachshund in the other.

"I choose to maintain occasional distance from my mother's extravaganza, so we can blame that," I speak as we exchange the air kiss. "I am glad you could fly down on such short notice."

"Of course, I had to. I am glad you invited me for an in-person meeting with you. I have been trying to set up a meeting with you for a couple of months, but all my attempts have been unfruitful because of your busy schedule."

I settle opposite her, crossing one leg over another. "I believe you require my support for the senate to pass you with a majority for the nomination?"

"Straight to the point?"

"That's a quality I am known for."

"I admire that," she speaks in her deliberately cultured accent, dropping the cigarette butt into a flower-shaped ashtray and pressing the bell on the side table, calling for someone to take the lap dog away. "Your personal connections with senators could greatly help me. My team tells me just like your family, you hold a great deal of influence on both Republicans and Democrats. I want you to help me, and I'll return the favor." She says, squeezing her palms together once we're in complete privacy.

I study her desperation for a brief moment of silence while tapping my nails against the arm of the couch. "Good. I want Jeffrey Garrity out of the picture."

She frowns. "I understand you two are at loggerheads on a restaurant chain acquisition. Do you want me to have him back out? I can do that."

"I want him gone completely out of the scene, Vanessa," I note calmly. "He has always used you as a PR prop, and you have helped keep all his exploits safe from the public eye. But that ends now. Fuck him up. Gloriously so."