Chapter 1 The Cage of Hatred
# Chapter 1: The Cage of Hatred
I've always been good at pretending. Smiling when I want to scream, nodding when I want to run, laughing when I feel nothing but hollowness inside. Tonight was no different, another performance in the grand theater of my life.
"Alicia, darling, come say hello to Senator Blackwood." My stepfather, Richard Greene, summoned me with that practiced voice of his—the one that sounded warm to outsiders but carried an undercurrent of command I had learned never to ignore.
I glided across our mansion's dining room, my burgundy dress rustling against the marble floor. The crystal chandeliers cast fractured light across the faces of a dozen political figures and their spouses, all gathered for what Richard called a "small family dinner" but was, in reality, another campaign event.
"Senator, how lovely to see you again," I said, extending my hand with practiced grace. Three years at Switzerland's most exclusive finishing school had at least given me the ability to lie convincingly.
"My goodness, you've grown into quite the young lady," the senator replied, his eyes lingering a moment too long on my figure. "Your father must be so proud."
"Stepfather," I corrected automatically, then felt Richard's grip tighten on my shoulder.
"Alicia is heading to Dartmouth in the fall," Richard interjected smoothly. "Following in her mother's footsteps."
My mother, Catherine, looked up from her conversation across the room, as if sensing she was being discussed. She smiled vaguely in our direction before returning to her animated chat with the mayor's wife. Three glasses of champagne in, and she was becoming the charming, slightly too loud woman she always transformed into at these events.
I was about to excuse myself when the dining room doors opened. The conversation dimmed momentarily as all eyes turned toward the newcomer.
"Ah, Veronica! I was beginning to think you wouldn't make it," Richard called out, releasing his grip on me to cross the room.
That was the first time I saw her. Veronica Reed. My stepfather had mentioned his new "political advisor" over breakfast a few weeks ago, but nothing had prepared me for the woman who now stood in our foyer.
She wasn't conventionally beautiful, not in the way my mother's socialite friends tried so desperately to be. Veronica was striking—tall and lean, with sharp cheekbones and dark hair cut in a severe bob that accentuated her jawline. She wore a tailored black pantsuit that should have looked severe but instead radiated authority.
"Traffic was abysmal," she said, her voice low and measured. "I apologize for the delay."
Richard guided her through the room, introducing her to anyone who mattered. I observed from a distance, sipping my water and pretending to be engrossed in the artwork on the wall. There was something about the way she moved—calculated, deliberate—that fascinated me. Each handshake, each polite smile, seemed perfectly calibrated.
When Richard finally brought her to me, I was unprepared for the intensity of her gaze.
"And this is my stepdaughter, Alicia," Richard said, the pride in his voice as fake as my mother's laughter across the room.
Veronica extended her hand. "Pleasure to meet you."
Her fingers were cool against my palm, her grip firm. But it was her eyes that caught me—dark brown, almost black in the dim light, and utterly unreadable. I felt exposed, as if she could see through the carefully constructed facade I presented to my stepfather's world.
"The pleasure is mine," I replied automatically, then added, unable to help myself, "I didn't realize political advisors worked weekends."
A flicker of something—amusement?—passed across her features. "Politics doesn't keep office hours, unfortunately."
Richard laughed too loudly. "Veronica has been invaluable to my campaign. She has a mind like a steel trap and the instincts of a shark."
"How fortunate for you both," I said, my smile fixed.
Veronica regarded me coolly. "Your father speaks highly of your academic achievements."
"Stepfather," I corrected again, meeting her gaze directly.
The corner of her mouth twitched slightly, but before she could respond, Richard was pulling her away to meet a campaign donor. As they walked away, I noticed how she leaned in slightly as he whispered something in her ear, how his hand rested casually at the small of her back.
So that was how it was. Not just a political advisor, then.
I excused myself and slipped out to the terrace, gulping in the night air. The spring evening was cool, the garden below fragrant with newly bloomed roses. From inside came the muffled sounds of laughter, of politics and power exchanging hands over expensive wine and canapés.
"Not enjoying the party?"
I startled at the voice behind me. Veronica stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the light from inside. She held two champagne flutes, and as she approached, she offered one to me.
"I'm only nineteen," I said.
"And I'm sure that's stopped you before." She set the glass on the stone balustrade beside me anyway. "Your stepfather is quite proud of his wine cellar. It would be a shame not to appreciate it."
I picked up the glass but didn't drink. "What do you want?"
She leaned against the railing, looking out over the garden rather than at me. "To get some air. The same as you, I imagine."
"No," I said. "What do you want from him?"
Her eyes flicked to mine, dark and unreadable in the moonlight. For a moment, I thought she might actually tell me the truth. Instead, she took a deliberate sip of her champagne.
"I want what everyone in that room wants. Success. Power. A seat at the table." She turned to face me fully. "What do you want, Alicia?"
The way she said my name—slightly emphasized, as if testing how it felt on her tongue—sent an unexpected shiver down my spine.
"Freedom," I answered honestly, surprising myself.
She studied me for a long moment, and I had the strangest feeling she was memorizing my face, cataloging my features for some future reference.
"Freedom is rarely given," she finally said. "Usually, it must be taken."
Before I could respond, the terrace door opened again, and my mother's voice called out, "Alicia? Richard is about to make his toast."
Veronica straightened, smoothing her already immaculate suit. "Duty calls," she said with a slight nod. As she passed me to return inside, her shoulder brushed against mine—a brief contact that felt deliberate, though I couldn't say why.
I watched her walk away, posture perfect, movements precise. She didn't look back once.
Inside, Richard was standing at the head of the dining table, glass raised. Veronica took her place at his right hand, while my mother stood at his left, the perfect political wife with her practiced smile. I slipped in beside my mother, automatically adopting the pose expected of me—back straight, hands clasped, attentive expression in place.
"To new beginnings and continued success," Richard toasted, his campaign smile firmly in place.
As glasses clinked and approving murmurs rippled around the table, I felt Veronica's eyes on me from across Richard's chest. When I finally met her gaze, her expression was utterly neutral, yet somehow challenging. I lifted my champagne glass—the one she had brought me—and took a deliberate sip, maintaining eye contact.
The champagne was dry and crisp on my tongue, but it was the subtle arch of Veronica's eyebrow that left me feeling intoxicated. In that moment, as conversations resumed and dinner was served, I realized I had just entered some sort of game I didn't understand—with rules I didn't know and stakes I couldn't fathom.
What I did know, with sudden and complete certainty, was that Veronica Reed was the most dangerous person I had ever met. And despite everything—or perhaps because of it—I was already calculating when I would see her again.
