Page 18 of Twisted Thorns

They hold the Preston Gala here every year, but I don't have any memories of it.

The inside of the ballroom seems to glitter, with faux candles and gold accents. White flowers, including lilies and baby's breath, adorn the tables, and the twinkling lights almost make the atmosphere seem ethereal, like we're up in the clouds.

My mind flashes back to a book about angels, and I can't help but feel a little uncomfortable at how these people would adorn this space to reflect a heavenly, golden vibe, when the true good thing to do would have been to take this gala money and give it directly to a charity.

Doing my best to shove that line of thinking aside, knowing it would do nothing but further the divide I'm currently feeling, a turn to a server making the rounds and grab a glass of champagne off their tray. I barely restrain myself from swallowing the whole thing in one go and instead sip at the bubbly liquid, following Claire to a table.

As we all sit down, I catch glimpses of dazzling gowns and sparkling jewels. The space is alive with laughter and music, a symphony of voices and melodies filling the air.

My hand fiddles with the necklace curled around my wrist with little thought. Glancing down at it, I feel bolstered by a sense of strength that doesn't quite feel like my own. I take a deep breath and try to join in the conversation of my friends around me, despite the turmoil doing its best to drown everything out.

"What are we talking about?" I ask, peering at Claire, who is sitting next to me.

Claire smiles and answers, "The new Lorelei Crane exhibit coming to the art gallery."

"Oh," I say before Amanda interrupts me.

"You know, where you used to work. Don't you remember? You were the one that spearheaded the campaign to get Crane's work at the gallery."

My face falls at that. I don't remember. I can't remember. The hush that has fallen over the table tells me that the other girls know I don't remember as well. The color drains from Amanda’s face, her mouth moving, but no sounds coming out.

I know she feels bad, but I just want to disappear, just melt into the floor. Thoughts race through my head about how I shouldn't have come here. I rather be in the forest, or the library, or at home with Conan. Anywhere but here where it feels like my skin is crawling with the need to escape and run away.

The moment feels like it stretches out forever, but I know it's only a couple of seconds of stilted silence before Claire and Iris are both talking at once, trying to steer the conversation to a safer topic.

I nod and smile, waving away Amanda's blunder, eager to forget that I can't remember, to pretend that this is where I belong and that I still fit in with my friends. It's a mask I'm becoming more and more at ease with wearing. The thought tickles the back of my mind like a scratch I can't itch, but I push it aside, shoving it into a mental box to deal with later.

As more and more people arrive, the soft music becomes louder, and more folks make their way to the dance floor.

As I watch, I realize I don't really know anyone here other than the girls sitting at the table with me. More thoughts about how I shouldn't be here attempt to escape the box in the back of my mind, so I add mental chains around the box to keep it closed.

"Would you care to dance?" The drawl interrupts my thoughts and I look up to see Mickey staring back at me, hand held out expectantly. I do my best to place a charming smile on my face.

Mickey's olive skin gleams under the candlelight, his hazel eyes framed by curly black hair. His tuxedo fits him like he was born to wear it, a stark contrast to the unease coiling within me. His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes as they settle on me, the appraisal in them unmistakable. Belatedly, I realize that Mickey’s hand is still outstretched towards me. I scramble, widening my smile and placing my hand in his.

I feel like a robot, letting Mickey lead me to the dance floor. What am I even doing here? Before I can register what's happening, Mickey sweeps me in his arms and we're moving to the music, Mickey’s hands settling possessively on my waist.

The effort to wipe the bored-I-rather-be-anywhere-but-here look from my face must not be working because Mickey looks confused, almost as if he is trying to fight a scowl. This evening isn't going at all how it was supposed to go and I can feel bright panic nipping at my heels, ready to devour me whole.

"You look uncomfortable, Avalina," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble above the music's embrace. "Is this too much for little ol' you?"

I falter, his condescension pricking at my already fragile composure. The warmth of his body against mine feels intrusive rather than comforting, and I can't shake the feeling of being a lamb trotted out for show among wolves.

"Maybe I'm just not used to all this," I admit, hoping for a sliver of understanding.

"Or maybe you just don't belong here," Mickey retorts, his smile now carrying a sharp edge.

His words sting, confirming my fears. Yet, despite the chill of his mockery, there's a fire within me that refuses to be extinguished—a fiery remnant of the woman I used to be, perhaps, or the one I am becoming. I lift my chin, determined not to let Mickey James, or anyone else, dictate where I belong.

Before I can say anything, a shadow looms over us and a voice I'd recognize anywhere interrupts.

"May I cut in?" Kieran's voice is steel wrapped in velvet, a dangerous combination that has my heart stumbling over its own rhythm.

Mickey's grip tightens, his smile now a sneer. "I don't recall her being yours to dance with, Calder."

"Maybe you've danced enough" Kieran replies, eyes locked onto mine. There's a silent plea there, a question he can't voice amidst the throng of high society.

"Keep dreaming," Mickey spits back, pulling me closer. His touch burns with possession, branding me as an object rather than a partner.

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