Total pages in book: 19
Estimated words: 17383 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 87(@200wpm)___ 70(@250wpm)___ 58(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 17383 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 87(@200wpm)___ 70(@250wpm)___ 58(@300wpm)
The entryway is littered with people shouting over one another to get a word in. Empty suits and bland dresses. Devious cunts who laugh and smile to your face but prepare their knives for when you turn around.
They give me the fucking creeps.
I brush past the crowd, hovering around the front door and toward my destination. I follow an older couple, navigating the swarm until we break out of the hallway and into a massive ballroom.
Right. Where’s the bar? Gotta calm down somehow, and there’s no better way than drowning my woes.
On the far side of the room stands a makeshift wooden structure. Behind it, twelve diligent troopers dance around with excellent proficiency, slinging one drink after the next without faltering.
“Lager. Ice cold.” I fall into the bar and grab the attention of whoever’s closest to me.
They’re staring at me. I can feel the hive mind mass burning holes into the back of my suit. Part of me wants to believe it’s because I tower over these little people. That one look is enough to scare them straight into the marrow.
But let’s face it, it’s because they know I don’t belong. They smell it on me. I’m fresh meat for the hounds, and they want me to remember it.
I grab my wallet and draw a crisp fifty-dollar note when the bartender returns. I hold it out to him while he cracks the top off the first bottle.
“It’s an open bar, sir.” The sincerity in his tone soothes the swirling fire barreling through my chest.
“It is?” I down half the bottle in one big gulp.
Lucky for him, I planned on spending a lot more than a fifty tonight. I lean over the counter and shove the fifty into the front pocket of his blazer. He mumbles a thank you, but unlike the kid outside, I can see his smile. He shuffles off to the next person awaiting service.
Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Are we customers if we don’t pay? Or just entitled assholes swallowing shots of whiskey that cost more than these poor sods make in an entire night without so much as a thank you?
Feeling refreshed, I set my eyes back on the party. Enormous floor-to-ceiling windows have the intensifying storm outside on display, while a sea of bodies amble across the room like zombies.
Those brave few who dare to continue staring at me don’t get my attention. Why should they? Their judgment of me has been reserved from the moment they saw me.
An outsider trying to pierce the bubble of their perfect society.
A monster.
These thoughts swirl in my head until I feel the ground vanish from underneath me, my heart stopping, my breath hitching.
I nearly drop to my ass as a perfect crack forms in the crowd. Through it, I’m graced with my first sighting of something pure in this den of lies. An innocent face. A pure beam of absolute beauty.
She’s trapped like me. Staring dull-eyed out over the patrons, so lost in their own delusions that they haven’t noticed her. All apart from one—a tweed-wearing dickhead droning on with righteous passion against the side of her face.
Well, Mr. Tweed, you’ve had your chance and failed terribly.
It’s my turn to be her knight in shiny, silken armor.
2
JESS
Good God, listening to Martin Winthrop drone on about his vast portfolio and investments makes me want to puke. He hasn’t stopped since cornering me at this table, doing whatever he can in hopes it will sway my adoration in favor of him.
Must be one of Father’s ideas. They held a very long meeting before Martin made his way to the ballroom, and there is no doubt in my mind, Father gave him a list of talking points to impress me with.
“It’s the work we do in Africa that really speaks to me. Helping the underprivileged to find beauty in such a dark world is a treat.” Martin shifts gears, probably noticing my boredom.
“Is that right?” I ask with a smile. “Please, do go on.”
Letting him believe I’m interested is good enough. I learned early in our arrangement that he loves the sound of his own voice. Besides, I know it’s all bullshit. I’ve done enough digging on Martin to know he doesn’t care about anything but himself.
Well, that’s a lie. He cares about the money, too.
Men like him, like my father, hold no compassion for those who suffer. Their good deeds are done to preserve their image, fatten their wallets, and satiate their fragile egos.
“We’re busy digging wells across a multitude of small towns and villages,” Martin says.
At least some good comes from his greed, I suppose. Those wells are still going to nourish the less fortunate.
“Very admirable,” I answer.
He goes on to the next point, and my attention fades once more.
Then I see him.
A beast towering over the crowd as they waddle around him like ducklings. Like me, he’s still. Locked in place while my powder blues meet his ember eyes. His presence carries an unspoken power so formidable I can’t bear turning away from him.