My mouth falls back open. “But don’t worry,” he says, cutting in before I can demand that he take me home. “I’ll flay his skin from his body before he can even think to do anything to hurt you.”
With that, he opens the door, gets out and throws his keys at the waiting valet, shutting the door firmly and cutting off any questions I had on the tip of my tongue.
For starters, can I go home now?
I’m asking myself if solving Gigi’s murder is worth involving myself with dangerous people. But it’s too late. I’m here, and I’m bound and determined to get at least a few more of my questions answered before Zade takes me home.
I have the feeling that not only am I putting my safety in Zade’s hands tonight, but my life.
Because I’m walking into a house owned by an evil man, I don’t need Zade to spell that out for me.
Zade opens my door and holds out a hand for me to grab onto as I slide out of the car. Electricity explodes from where his hand grips mine, and all I really want to do is guide his hands to other parts of my body.
I suck in icy air, the cold offering a balm to my insides, and allowing me enough clarity to concentrate on everything else besides the domineering man beside me.
Mark’s house is ostentatious. A massive white monstrosity with five huge pillars and a million windows. In my opinion, the house is ugly, typical and downright boring.
The inside is even worse. I walk into a large, wide hallway with picture frames lining either side of the wall of who I assume is Mark’s family. My heels click against the ivory tile, and I can’t help but think it’s going to turn brown after all the shoes that’ll be treading across it.
We’re ushered by a butler down the hallway, past an all-white kitchen and into a ballroom.
An actual fucking ballroom.
The kind you see in movies set back in the 1800s, when finding your future husband or wife depended on going to a ball.
Three massive chandeliers dangle from the gold ceiling, arches of intricately carved wood between each fixture. The floor is a sparkling ivory, the little flecks glinting off of the chandeliers nearly blinding me. It’s like looking into the damn sun.
“Fix your face,” Zade murmurs from beside me. It’s not until he speaks that I realize my face was screwed up into a look of disgust.
Not because the place is ugly, but because it’s so damn… pretentious and flashy. I don’t need to see the rest of the house to know that the place screams look at me, I have a gazillion dollars and have no intention of sharing the wealth with the millions of starving families around the world.
But what do I know? I’ve always wondered if the people who have the money to feed the entire world population are allowed to. All governments are corrupted. Maybe if you try to save the world and actively steal money from the rich’s pockets, you’ll wake up dead one day.
I smooth out my face, donning a blank mask as I look around at the hundreds of people occupying the ballroom. Everyone is dressed to the nines, the guests ranging from young adults to people who look like they’re on their deathbed.
Zade holds out his elbow to me, and every signal in my brain tells me to snub the request. But that’s pride speaking, and I’m not in a good position to let pride get the best of me. I loathe to admit it, but I’m safer attached to Zade.
Stiffly, I grab onto his elbow and lean into his side. It feels like hands smoothing into wet clay. No matter the divots in our bodies, we mold together perfectly.
Ugh.
For the next hour, we mingle around the ballroom, talking to random people, many of them familiar faces I’ve seen on the news, arguing over bills and laws that usually do nothing but flatten Americans further under their thumbs.
Zade is charming, his demeanor calm and slightly reserved, but still manages to draw people in until they’re hanging on every word he says.
Most of their eyes linger on his scars. Questions on the tip of their tongues that never see the light. You’d think it’s because it’s a rude question to ask, but really, it’s because Zade carries intimidation around with him like a woman with a designer purse.
Despite that, he’s a sight to behold as he works the room, gaining these people’s trust and interest in a matter of minutes.
I’ve no idea who’s involved in Zade’s mission and who’s not, but he looks at each and every one of these people as if he knows exactly who they are and their entire life story. Maybe that’s how he sucks them in so profoundly—he makes them feel like they’ve known each other for years.
I, on the other hand, am not a natural. The social anxiety licks at my nerves, keeping my heart rate well above a normal pace. I smile at the strangers and laugh at everything they say, doing what I do best and manipulate people’s emotions with my words. I pretend they’re all avid readers, and the words I’m speaking are printing on blank sheets of paper for their greedy eyes to consume.
Somehow, it works to the point of discomfort as all of their eyes are ensnared on me as I answer their questions about my career. I heed Zade’s advice and keep it all vague and surface-level but find pretty words to make my life seem more interesting than it is. Even Zade appears to struggle with looking away, and the notion gives me a small bit of confidence.
But on the inside, it feels like my stomach is a black hole, crumpling my insides like a wadded-up piece of paper.
On several occasions throughout the hour, Zade wraps his arm around my waist and squeezes, his grip firm and reassuring. Those small touches are anchors, leveling my head and reminding me that I’m not alone.