Page 66 of The Faking Game

West is silent beside me in the car. There’s something inward about him tonight, like he’s drawn tight beneath the dark gray suit. No cufflinks, the top two buttons of the white shirt undone. Like he was in too much of a rush to coordinate the little details.

Like he’s deep in thought.

He told me a bit about the party. That invites to them are highly coveted, phones are forbidden, and locations always change.

“Who will be here tonight?” I ask him.

He looks out the window at the estate. Everything about him radiates a coiled sort of readiness that makes my own stomach tighten.

He doesn’t answer until Arthur pulls to a stop next to a circular fountain. It has a fallen angel at its center, half kneeling, wings raised and head bent. I’ve never seen anything like it.

“Everyone,” West says shortly. “Stay close to me?”

“I promise.”

“The guards can’t follow us in, but this place has heavy security. You’ll be safe.” He steps outside the car and holds out a hand to me. I take it, and his long fingers close around mine.

The air smells thick of burning candles. They line the steps up to the estate and into the space beyond. Milton’sParadise Lostis about redemption and temptation. Angels and devils, heaven and hell. I designed my own dress for the party. It was a distraction from the pieces I have to create for the showcase, but a welcome one, and a chance to test out a design in person.

I’m wearing a draped white fabric that flows over my body and cinches at the waist. It would be angelic if it wasn’t for the dark eyeliner I’m wearing and the slightly mussed waves of my hair.

“Who throws these parties, anyway?” I ask West. He’s tucked my hand into the crook of his arm.

“Someone with a twisted sense of humor,” he says.

“There’s more to this than you’re telling me.”

“Yes.” He sighs. “She throws a few parties like these a year. She has an… appetite for games, let’s say. And she’s very well connected.”

“This location is incredible.”

“It is,” he says tightly. “She chose tonight’s location for a reason.”

The massive oak doors creak open before us. They reveal a large hallway teeming with figures in various types of costumes. A few are dressed as actual angels. It takes me a second to see the trays they’re carrying around and realize that they’re servers carrying food. There are devils, too, I realize. I catch sight of one walking around the living room with a tray of shots.

A few people stop and say hi. I smile at them all and say thank you when a woman compliments my dress.

West hands me a glass of champagne. I take it gratefully and strike up a conversation with two of the people standing next to us. They’re a couple in their forties, perhaps, and I vaguely recognize one of them from the movies. He’s eating an oyster, and when he sees me looking, nods toward an adjoining room. “Freshly shucked in there.”

“That sounds delicious,” I say. West is still silent beside me. It’s unlike him; at the fundraiser at Fairhaven, he commanded the room. He spoke to everyone like he knew them, or at the very least, knew of them.

Now he’s stiff. His eyes wander up a spiral staircase in the hallway, past old family portraits hanging on the walls. They look like they’re oil portraits of a family. One of them has a long gash down the center. The entire place is decorated with flowers, with vines, with wine. It’s Paradise.

I wonder where hell is.

Before I can press further, an Asian woman in a shimmering gold dress approaches us. Her hair is midnight dark, piled high on her head and adorned with what looks like diamond studs. She looks ageless; she could be thirty-five or fifty-five.

“West,” she says with a wide smile. “You came. How lovely.” Her eyes flick to me, and her smile doesn’t move an inch. “And who is this?”

“You know exactly who it is,” West says. Despite the tension, his voice is smooth. “This is Eléanore Montclair. My girlfriend.”

I lean into his side and smile at her like I’m the happiest girl in the world. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She takes in my dress, my hair, my face. Her scrutiny takes so long that it must be on purpose.

“Vivienne Cho,” she says. “It’s a pleasure to finally have you at one of my little parties. Your brother has been here often enough.”

“I’m sorry about that,” I say jokingly.

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