Each couple falls in line and their forms, the sophisticated posture in the stance, become poised and full of finesse. Each step is refined, their pivots regal while onlookers give a small applause that lasts no longer than three heartbeats before silence ensues and all eyes remain on the crowd of dancers.
They do their best to ignore my presence atop a small, elevated platform where two intricate black chairs occupy most of its space. One throne is empty. One has me perched atop while dressed in an extravagant gown a deep shade of red reminiscent of the color of blood with a golden lace overlay. It’s strapless, the bodice tight from my chest to my knees where it then flares out a bit. The silk feels soft against my skin while the lace is light and eye catching, provocative, and nothing like the dresses the women in attendance are wearing.
I’m modern to their Victorian modesty.
As my eyes traverse the room, my head is held high and shoulders are pulled slightly back. I make out many faces, all strangers, and yet, I don’t feel out of place. If anything, this amuses me, and I find myself making a game out of catching the eye of someone daring enough to look my way.
“Not very nice of you, pretty girl,” a husky voice says from behind my chair, his finger caressing the skin from my right shoulder across to the left. Goose bumps rise and a small illicit shiver rushes through my every limb. “You want me to paint the walls red?”
“Well, you’re no fun tonight.” There’s a pout on my lips, which causes the man I’ve yet to see to chuckle. I’m being coquettish. I’m so comfortable with him, more than I’ve ever been with anyone in my life, and it’s so outside my normal behavior. “I thought indulging me was the highlight of your life?”
“It is.” Sharp fingernails leave a small trail of goose bumps, dipping ever so slightly beneath the thin material of my dress over the ridges of my spine. “But you must go back now.”
“Back where? You’re not—”
Screams rend the air and four male bodies fall on their knees, each one simultaneously cupping their necks. Blood pours from a thin line, their clothes quickly drenched in the crimson shade while those around them laugh.
So much laughter. So much morbid glee at the sight, and what’s worse, I’m not affected. Not like I should be.
“Are you ready?” he asks, his breath fanning my cheek.
“Ready for what?”
“To wake up, pretty girl.”
I’m pulled to consciousness with a harsh start. The noise inside the room is loud and matches my rapidly rising chest; a beep, beep, beep that fully awakens me, bringing into focus the white walls and lone window with partially opened curtains. The view showcases that I’m on a high floor and no longer in a ballroom where high society beauty—opulence—fill every corner. Instead, there are machines all around me, the blanket atop my bare legs is a bit scratchy, and I gasp when my eyes land on the lone figure sitting in an uncomfortable-looking chair to my left.
Theodore’s leaning awkwardly with his head lulling to the side. His breathing is deep and hair an absolute mess, but in a way that’s attractive while dressed in casual clothes like yesterday when—
Tim’s body. The bloody snake. Oh God.
“Shit,” I whisper rubbing my chest area, my voice almost indiscernible, and yet, Mr. Astor’s eyes snap open at once. They meet mine; amber on green, and in them I find concern and understanding, two things that bring tears to my eyes. Not that I let them fall. I’ve embarrassed myself enough by passing out and who knows what happened after that. “It’s nothing, really. This is all just one of those bizarre things that happen and become some anecdote I share as an old lady.”
“Shouldn’t I ask the question before you lie?”
Instead of denying his claim, I turn my face and pretend to take in the one-bed hospital room. “How did I get here?”
“You had a panic attack and passed out,” he says, voice low, yet there’s a hidden scolding there for looking away. “The officers at the scene called in the paramedics who brought you here. That was five hours ago.”
I cringe, my cheeks turning pink. “Five?”
“You’re safe, Gabriella.”
“Am I?” The question slips from me before I can stop it, showing a man I barely know—a stranger—how vulnerable I feel.
“No one will ever touch you. Please trust me.” I don’t miss the emphasis on the word you.
“No one is fully safe, Mr. Astor, and tomorrow is never guaranteed.”
“Look at me.”
The sun has begun to set, the blue sky turning a gorgeous shade of orange with hints of pinks and purples. It reminds me of the subject matter for my showing, how danger always lurks and comes out to play in the dark.
The dark. Why didn’t I think about the motion sensor cameras!
“Where’s my phone?” I’m still not meeting his gaze. Instead, I catalog the changes in hues. “How long will I need to be here, or can I—”
“Look at me.” It’s a command this time and I follow, my face snapping toward his without conscious thought. And damn him, I’m once again hit with tenderness and concern. With understanding, without him uttering a single encouraging word. For a few minutes we stay this way, slowly leaning toward each other, and I let out a low gasp when his large hand cups my cheek. “You’ve done nothing wrong. You are safe.”
“But—”
“I’ll take care of it. I promise.”
Those words put me at ease for no reason at all, but maybe it’s someone caring that helps my mind cease its dreary movie reel. I grew up with no one defending me, much less giving me comfort, because in a group home where nine other kids are in your same position, the youngest are always shown off to potential adopters while the rest are left to figure it out.
For years,
