Beautiful Lies (Dark Secret Society 2)

“Never,” Montgomery stated firmly. “I will not become my father. I won’t repeat history. This Order needs an overhaul, and hopefully once we all become members, we can help make that happen.”

Our conversation was interrupted when the clock struck midnight. The familiar hammer strike of twelve chimes echoing through the room was accompanied by the Elders and their canes. With each chime of the hour, the canes beat in cadence against the white floor.

“Bring in the belles,” one of the Elders demanded after the twelfth strike of his cane.

The recruits lined up with me in the center of the room as we had done with Montgomery during his Initiation. Montgomery walked over to join the members all draped in eerie silver cloaks. I stood at attention and waited. At least I knew what to expect and wasn’t operating in the blind so far.

The silence in the room changed when the belles and the clicking of their heels entered the ballroom.

Twenty young women.

Twenty beautiful lies stood before me.

As they entered the room, they positioned themselves in a single file. It reminded me of some fucked-up version of a Miss America pageant. Contestants on display. All hoping to be chosen as the winner.

Long-flowing ball gowns of a multitude of colors seemed to dwarf the women. They didn’t belong in the expensive garments any more than I belonged in the white tuxedo, and it was obvious in their uneasiness. We were in costumes surrounded by men in silver cloaks, and anyone could read it in their eyes, their posture, and could smell it in the air.

They didn’t belong, and they each knew it. They were just praying we wouldn’t be able to tell if they dressed and acted the part. But the aroma permeating the air gave it away…

Fear had an odor, and it reeked.

“Display the belles,” the Elder commanded with a beat of the cane.

Another Elder began the procession of the belles by leading them one behind the other through the ballroom. He walked them in front of the cloaked Elders first, then the members, and then to us.

They repeated the act three times, circling the room as if they were marching soldiers flanking the ballroom under strict order, although their military uniforms were replaced by gowns worn by true Southern belles.

Except these Southern belles were frauds. Liars. Some of the women even struggled walking in the heels that were provided. Fish out of water.

“Sullivan VanDoren,” the Elder called out as the women lined up once again before us. We hadn’t moved, but simply watched the parade of deceit. “It is time for you to choose the belle.”

The Elder who had been leading the procession of belles walked over to where I stood and opened his fist. Resting on his palm was a black satin ribbon.

I needed zero instruction to know what to do next as this process was clearly laid out in our handbook that ruled over every breath we took. Plus, it wasn’t long ago I watched Montgomery as he was offered the same color ribbon.

Taking the ribbon, I struggled not to roll my eyes or go tell them to go fuck themselves. I then walked up to the line of women and began what was called “the touching of the pearls”.

I knew I was expected to approach each female and briefly touch the pearl necklace they all wore. I was to make a show of it. Add some flavor and spice to the ritual.

I was supposed to take this act seriously. I was choosing the belle who would change my future forever. I was supposed to honor and value this time of “pearl touching” as if it were one of the most important decisions of my life.

But let’s be real. A whore is a whore regardless of what color dress she wore to conceal that fact.

I quickly walked the line and touched the pearls so the Elders couldn’t say I didn’t and, therefore, fail my Initiation before it even truly started.

Once I had, I stood back and observed the line of women. They all watched my every move, and frankly, they all looked the same in my eyes. Pretty faces, hopeful eyes, and everyone dolled up with makeup, oversized eyelashes, hairspray, painted nails, and everything I hated.

Fake beauty.

If I had walked into a bar and been presented with the same women, I would leave alone, or maybe pick up the bartender because at least she would be real. But I didn’t have that option here, so I would have to choose someone.

“Sully VanDoren, you are to choose a belle,” an Elder prodded with a bang of his cane. At least he wasn’t calling me “Sullivan” which I fucking hated.

All right then, fine. Which of these ladies was the most deserving? Who was the epitome of what this Order and our entire wealthy society of pricks and princesses stood for? I needed to pick the poster child so I could be the Golden Boy.