It knocked me back when Zelda’s hand dropped at the other table. She clapped her hands and let out a cheer for me across the room, and it was on me. Every iota of attention in that whole ballroom was all on me.
I’d done it. I’d won some shitty penguin when I didn’t have enough cash to buy my soul an escape from hell.
My eyes felt glassy and dead in my skull, and the applause meant nothing when it came. Mom’s disgust still rang loud through my veins, even though she was grinning along with the rest of the crowd.
But then a voice sounded out. A voice that made no sense to me. A British accent so clear and true, it took my breath.
“Fifty-thousand dollars,” the man said.
No.
It couldn’t be.
I saw his darkness. I saw the solidity of his stance. I saw the frame of his glasses as he held his hand up to the auctioneer like he was the calmest guy on the planet.
I saw the clothes he was wearing that looked nothing like Morelli attire, and the voice recorder and camera he had positioned so visibly on the table next to him.
Surely not. Surely people knew this was him. Surely, they could see it.
But no.
It seems they didn’t.
I expected Mom and Lionel to be beside themselves, and the rest of our table along with them, but they didn’t move, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the evil god Morelli heir was standing up in our event, plain as day.
I couldn’t stop staring.
My hand was trembling as I dropped it back to the table top, because I had to be wrong. I had to be losing my mind.
“And the penguin goes to the amazing gentleman on table five!” the guy on stage called out, and the applause struck up even louder, all for the monster in our midst.
“What is your name, sir?” the guy asked as soon as the noise calmed enough to get his words across.
I guess it’s the thing with such boldness. People wouldn’t ever suspect anyone could be so brave, or so crazy. Nobody would believe Lucian Morelli would walk into one of the Constantine social events, like he was any other guy on the street seeking a show. I mean we did it sometimes, crossed Morelli paths when we really had to, at the social functions our prides couldn’t escape from. But not often. Not at events like this one.
Nobody knew it was him. Truly, nobody knew it was him.
Nobody but me.
“Your name?” the guy on stage prompted again, and the monster shot me a shiver of a glance before he answered, his British accent still faultless as he uttered his words.
“Terence Kingsley,” he said. “Journalist for the National Telegraph, London. I’m bidding on behalf of one of our senior shareholders. He wishes it to be an anonymous donation.”
It was Harriet who leaned in to my side when the applause started up again, her giggle a surprise enough to jar my senses.
“There you go,” she whispered, right into my ear. “You can stop thinking about Lucian Morelli now. You can lust after that guy instead, he looks just like him. Shame about the glasses.”
I should have told her that Terence Kingsley was a mask on a magician. A magician out to cast my heart under his spell and then destroy me.
But I didn’t.
I didn’t tell a soul.
Once again, I didn’t dare.
15 Lucian
So many fools in this place, cheering and clapping. So many fools believing I was some paltry journalist from across the Atlantic. I raised my glass to the stage and took a pitiful little bow.
Fuck knows how my insanity had sunk low enough that I’d paid fifty thousand dollars just to enjoy the look on that little fool’s face when she saw me stealing her applause. That’s what it was, of course. It was stealing her applause and seeing the shock and fear on her face when she realized it was me. It definitely wasn’t me saving her from her own goddamn craziness of bidding thousands for a penguin when she had the fucking Power brothers on her back for her debts.
The Constantine table was clearly oblivious to the fact that the real Terence Kingsley was buried deep in the depths of the London slums. To them, he was right there amongst them, with his pathetic camera on the table as a disguise.
The head of the family was modest in her applause, pasting on her regal smirk as she clapped for me. Her brother-in-law was already half drunk at her side, raising his hands in the air.
Elaine didn’t try to alert them. Her eyes were on me, and her breaths were ragged, but she didn’t say a fucking word.
More fool you, temptress. More fool you.
I sat myself back down and kicked back, sipping on yet another mineral water while the table of crappy reality TV stars around me did their best to be caught by the cameras. I hated charity events; they were the very epitome of tackiness and arrogance, everyone patting themselves on the back for being such selfless saints in their overblown lifestyles. That and saying their Hail Marys on the path to the eternal divine.
At least I knew I was an evil piece of shit. My path to hell was already paved in sin. Soon it would be paved in Elaine Constantine’s blood and pain, too.
There were another twenty lots auctioned off by the time the ass of a presenter on stage fucked off and left people in peace. The majority of people were straight up from their tables, doing their usual cheap socialising, and so was Terence Kingsley.
It was hilarious when I stepped up close enough to Caroline Constantine that she reached for my arm.
“Such a noble bid from your shareholder,” she said to me with a smile. “Would that be Winston Warwick by any chance?”
I tapped my nose. “I’m not allowed to say, of course, but you may well be right on that.”
She slapped
