The Revelation of Light and Dark (Chronicles of the Stone Veil 1)

It waits for me, as it was programmed to do, and I step onto its marbled floor. Holding onto a chrome rail, I push the button to the thirty-seventh floor. While The Sapphire is forty floors in height, the top five condos are all equally identical in size and amenities. There isn’t a cream-of-the-crop penthouse in this building with extra features, size, and appointments. The only thing that distinguishes them is their height relative to where the ground is. However, Fallon’s fiancé complained to me once that he lost his bid for the top floor, and, as such, they’d probably be moving at some point to somewhere more prestigious. I could only stare at him blank-faced because I didn’t get why it was so awful being on the thirty-seventh floor versus the fortieth when they were identical in features.

But that’s Blain. Everything is about status with him.

The elevator takes off and I hold tight because it’s built onto the exterior of the building with transparent glass walls so that once it surpasses the second floor, it shoots out over Seattle and flies upward. I’m sure many people love the thrill and the chance to gaze at the beauty of a portion of downtown and the Sound beyond, but I’m afraid of heights, so my stomach rolls over and over again.

I close my eyes.

It doesn’t help.

I take deep breaths, but it makes me want to puke.

So I concentrate by staring at my feet and trying to ignore the outside whizzing by through my peripheral vision.

You know, if Fallon truly wants to know why I don’t visit more often, this puke-inducing ride up is one reason.

The elevator slows, coming to a smooth stop on the thirty-seventh floor. A cultured but digitally engineered female voice serenely states, Floor thirty-seven. I exit after the doors silently slide open, then turn left to Fallon’s condo. It sits on the west-facing side of the building and as long as it’s a sunny day, it has a prime view of the Puget Sound, Bainbridge Island across the water, and the Olympic mountains beyond that.

The double entrance doors to Fallon’s condo come into view, and I press the doorbell to the right. An officious donging sound resonates from within and after just a few moments, the door is opened by Fallon’s fiancé.

Blain Stratherton, III.

As in when he introduces himself to people, he actually says, “Blain Stratherton the Third.”

I wonder if it bothers him that he’s not “the First,” sort of like it bothers him to be on the thirty-seventh floor rather than the fortieth.

At any rate, he bears the most obnoxious name ever and, boy, does it fit his personality. He comes from a family of rich attorneys who made their wealth in something other than the law, but I don’t care enough to ask Fallon about it. He’s a partner in a law firm along with his father and grandfather, and it’s called Stratherton, Stratherton & Stratherton, PA.

The first time I met him, he droned on and on about his law firm—how it was the top-rated firm in the Seattle area. When he told me the name, I just couldn’t help myself.

“I have a marketing idea,” I had said to him from across the dinner table. It was the first of maybe three times I’d accepted a dinner invitation from Fallon.

“What’s that?” He’d smiled condescendingly as he lifted his wineglass to his mouth.

“Why not just call it the Stratherton firm?” I asked, being deadly serious and not smart-assed at all. “It’s just easier to say, and I think it has a great deal of panache.”

Blain blinked at me over the edge of his wineglass as if I’d just sprouted horns from the top of my head. Finally, he said, “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s important that each of our names are represented.”

Now I was the one blinking because that was perhaps the dumbest reasoning ever. Fallon had told me before that Blain had an incredibly high IQ, but, at that moment, I didn’t believe it at all.

I held back on what I wanted to say, which was to point out the obvious—that each of their names were still represented, even if it was only on the sign once—but I knew it would be a waste of air. Instead, I’d said, “Well… I think your way sounds nicer.”

He’d nodded pompously, and that was that.

We haven’t had any deep discussions since then.

I study Blain now as he stands with one hand on the doorknob, not even bothering to look at me or invite me in. He’s reading a thick document—presumably legal in nature—clutched in his hand.

I’ll give it to him, though. He’s pretty enough—if perfectly coiffed blond hair, manicured nails, and a little bit of snoot in your man’s attitude is what you want, then he’s great.

Perfect for Fallon, actually, because ever since she opened the art gallery, she’s grown a bit snobby herself. I don’t hold that against her, though. She deals in fine art for extremely wealthy people, so she has to fit in with them. Honestly, they appear as if they were made for each other and if she’s happy, then I’ll bite my tongue and be happy for her.