"Welcome to...the ballroom," a robotic, yet aesthetically pleasing, feminine voice chimed from overhead speakers, as the elevator doors effortlessly opened before us.
A massive ballroom, with hundreds of patrons mingling, opened up to us, immaculate crystalline
chandeliers above, tuxedo clad waitstaff delivering drinks and food, and an electro-string quintet playing nearby under lavish red drapes hanging cleanly from the golden arched walls.
The man beside me stepped out and offered a hand back to me, which I begrudgingly accepted, letting him lead me out of the elevator, the doors closing behind and leaving us to the all encompassing party.
“Rule number one,” the man leaned in, whispering to my ear, which tickled it ever so slightly. “Always take the apps,” he smirked, reaching over to a nearby plate and removing some type of spindly fish tailed delicacy that I’d never seen before. I looked at him with skepticism, before taking one off the dish that a lingering waitstaff held out to me.
The man marched forward past a swathe of busily occupied geometric tables, and tore into the fish ravenously with his immaculately white teeth, and crumpling the napkin that he’d taken with it around the rest of its multi-plated razor crest like shell, before handing it to another waitstaff, holding their white glove out in anticipation.
I slipped my uneaten one into the hand of that same waitstaff as well and nodded graciously.
“Rule number two,” the man continued, halting another member of the waitstaff who carried tall flutes of champagne. “Always have a drink,” he nodded at the waitstaff and clasped two flutes, delivering one to me with a smile.
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“These seem like very basic rules,” I said, swirling the bubbly liquid in its glass. “I think I can manage on my own.”
“Yet number three is the most difficult of all,” he smirked. “You must always greet the host.”
The man approached an elegantly dressed woman in a long jade dress that sparkled with emeralds all throughout. It shimmered radiantly, along with the the diamonds adorned in her blonde up-do. She seemed in her fifties, but with extensive work to keep her looking twenty years younger. The target. Margery Thorne.
Things just kept getting easier.
“Mother!” The man yelled playfully.
I groaned inwardly at the term delivered with jubilation. More complications.
“We’d like to formally thank you for the invitation,” he continued.
“We?” The woman said, laughing, as she turned away from a group of fanciful acquaintances who stepped back. She was one of the few, so far, not wearing any kind of mask. Couldn’t let that facial work go to waste.
“Yes,” the man said, looking at me, expecting to earn my name in times of forced strife.
“Yes, indeed.” I said nodding, and extending a handshake with a beaming smile. “Thank you for your invitation, and for all that you do in the community,” I gushed. “You’re so beautiful, inside and out.”
The man looked at me under a narrowing brow, brandishing a bemused grin, as his Mother flowed with gratitude at some key words. “As are you my darling.” She turned to face her son. “Tiller Westin Hardy Thorne,” she shot at him playfully, you best be taking care of this one, she’s a gem! Not like the others,” she bemoaned.
“That I will,” Tiller said, looking at me with altered convictions.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I have to leave for a moment, they want me to make a speech,” she shook her head as if she did not want to, but it was evident that she was elated for an opportunity that occupied more stage time, as she sashayed away.
“So Tiller,” I said, extending my hand, “thank you for your rules, and introduction. I hope to see you again—“
“You still haven’t told me your name,” he said, his expression growing cold.
“Let’s leave it a mystery for now,” I put a finger to his lips.
“No,” he said, snatching my wrist. “You will tell me who you are...really. You will tell me what you’re doing at my Mother’s party, uninvited. And you will tell me, now.”
