Page 14 of Psyop Kings

The teal, floor-length dress is flattering on my figure. I’m tall and a little on the thin side, but the dress accentuates my breasts and makes them perky.

Nice.

I’ll definitely fit in nicely at this party.

My stomach does a small flip when I imagine Megan seeing me dressed up like this. I wasn’t exactly a chatterbox when discussing my past. She was polite enough not to push. If she knew I could go from a messy, stressed college girl to a San Francisco elite party girl with the virtual snap of my fingers, she might lose her politeness and start asking questions.

I have to find her.

The way she randomly disappeared is suspicious, to say the least. And had we not become partners on our project, perhaps no one would be looking for her right now. I’d like to think that if the same happened to me, she’d be out there doing what she could to find me.

My phone pings again and I know I’ve run out of time. I hurry back into my ostentatious suite where I dumped my purse and bag. Quickly, I transfer all my needed items from my purse to my matching handbag. I make sure to include the crumpled pamphlet and a picture of Megan I printed from her Instagram just in case.

A sudden chill creeps its way down my spine as apprehension settles in the marrow of my bones. I’ve been nothing but a shiny trophy my entire life. A little golden-haired girl with a brilliant white grin to be paraded around by her influential father.

Now I’m about to walk into a lion’s den unaccompanied.

I’ll be choosing my own path tonight.

I’m no longer a child but instead a very capable adult who’ll stop at nothing to uncover the truth about a person the world is trying to forget.

Don’t worry, Megan.

Ihaven’t forgotten.

Romy

The ballroom of the boutique hotel that sits within a stone’s throw away from the San Francisco Bay is beyond stunning. No expenses were spared on the lavish decorations. Tall, intricate, otherworldly floral arrangements adorn each linen-clothed table. Each one is uniquely different from the rest but somehow, they all tie in to the navy and gold theme that CUP displays.

Floor-to-ceiling windows just beyond the dance floor reveal the moonlit, glittery bay and give a faux effect of “dancing in the moonlight.” If I were in my home city, I’d be enthralled by the enchanting feel of it, no doubt looking for a cute guy to take me for a spin.

I’m not at home, though.

I’m far, far away and way out of my depth.

I may as well be swimming in that bay, the heavy sequins of my two-thousand-dollar dress sinking me to the rocky bottom like a shiny anchor.

Breathe.

You belong here.

Who else could get into an event like this on a whim?

I exhale, remembering I’m a Langston.

Langstons command every room they’re in.

Clutching my handbag to my chest, I carefully sidestep groups of chattering guests. I notice a few men raking their gaze over me, but thankfully none that linger too long. I’d rather get the intel I need without running into any of Dad’s associates.

When I see a waiter walking by with a tray of champagne flutes, I make my way over to him. He doesn’t balk at my young features and offers me a drink. No one cares if you’re under the legal drinking age at parties like this.

It takes everything in me not to chug the chilled, sparkly beverage. Daintily, I sip the drink and casually scan the space.

I need answers.

Why would a girl like Megan have a brochure for the Crowne Unity Project? She follows them on social media and clearly is connected in some way. I just need to find out how.

I look around for easy pickings—one of those partygoers who likes to hear the sound of their own voice. They’re usually surrounded by unsuspecting guests who are caught in their snare. A brown-haired man with a sharklike grin has several too-polite young men in his orbit, holding court over them as he tells an elaborate story with excessive hand gesturing. He abandons his story long enough to look at my cleavage and lick his lips.

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