Love the One You Hate

I feel a chill run down my spine, an awareness that seeps in slowly as I bring my glass to my lips and take a shallow sip.

I scan the perimeter of the dance floor with narrowed eyes, halting suddenly when I spot a man staring at me.

He stands across the ballroom, a devil in black. His tailored tuxedo glides over his tall figure. His half-mask conceals most of his face, but the parts I can see hint that the unveiled image would stop me in my tracks. He has a strong jaw, dark thick hair, and unsmiling lips.

Just a brief glance from him makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I don’t know him, but he’s staring like he knows me. Like he hates me, rather. He tilts his head as he continues to study me and my heart is a hummingbird, racing in my chest. I have the urge to get away even before he starts to cut through the crowd to get to me. A hunted animal knows when it’s time to run, so I do. I slip through the double doors that lead out to the empty garden.

But the devil follows.10NicholasI knew Maren would be here and yet I’m shocked to see her. To find her still in my grandmother’s employ, as a guest at her ball, draped in jewelry and clad in a very familiar white gown has fury unfurling in my stomach.

She’s here, a physical embodiment of Michael Lewis and all the other leeches who’ve come before him. They see my grandmother as an easy target. They mistake her generosity for a weakness, and they feed off of it.

Maren glides around the room on air, and for a moment, at first glance, I’m struck by her looks, but then I remind myself that her beauty shouldn’t be surprising at all. It all fits. It’s just another weapon I’m sure she’s quick to use to her advantage.

My jaw locks tight as she continues to turn heads. Everyone she passes takes notice. She sweeps past in white lace and leaves necks bending in her wake. She could have anyone here eating out of the palm of her hand with one wag of her finger, as I’m sure she’s well aware.

When she picks up a champagne glass and brings it to her lips, I assume it’s for show. She has to know how many of us are watching her right now, studying her every move. My eyes narrow and then, suddenly, she glances up and her gaze meets mine. It feels like a solid punch to the gut. Surprised green eyes take me in cautiously, and I’m glad she found me staring so angrily at her. It means the pretense is over.

She frowns, confused by my expression, but I don’t soften it. I stare, willing her to see that the jig is up. She’s been found out.

Leave, my expression demands, and she listens, just not in the way I would have wanted.

She slips out of the ballroom and walks out into the garden. I follow instinctively, reaching up and untying the ribbon holding my mask in place then stuffing it into the pocket of my tuxedo pants.

The tension inside me only builds with each step I take. Endorphins rush in, anticipating my encounter with her as I step outside.

The ball extends out into my grandmother’s rose garden, which has been lit up for guests with twinkle lights that droop heavily from the trees. It’s early though, and no one has made it out here yet, except for me and Maren. It’s easy to spot her as she walks farther away from the house toward the cliffs at the back edge of the property.

I wonder if she knows I’m following her. I wonder if she wants me to. After all, she’s walking slowly, and it doesn’t take me long to catch her. If her intent was to slink away unnoticed, she could have tried a little harder.

When my pace matches hers, she stops in the grass and wraps her arms around her waist. I can’t tell whether it’s from the slight chill in the air or fear of what’s about to happen.

I stop too, turning to face her so the lights in the trees shine behind her. She takes on such an ethereal form that I find myself unable to speak.

Who is this person and why is she here? With us?

“I was hoping you wouldn’t follow me,” she says, affecting a neutral, almost bored tone. “You seem upset with me, though I have no idea why.” She tips her head, studying me. “Do we know each other?”

“No. We’ve never met.”

She looks down, as if expecting me to extend my hand and issue a formal introduction, but I don’t.

Her eyes narrow.

“Are you a guest of Cornelia’s?” she asks, turning back toward the house briefly as if suddenly nervous to find herself alone out here with a complete stranger.