Another titter. “What man could say no to her when she asks for money?”
I tense as I realize they’re talking about Elizabeth.
“Does it matter? She’s changing the world for the better. You have to admire that.”
“No kidding. I don’t think I could do it. Not the way she does anyway.”
They don’t sound particularly petty. No. They sound admiring…and slightly self-deprecating.
Up on the second floor, a couple of men in their thirties in tuxes are staring, their eyes gooey with infatuation. I follow their gazes and see…
…Elizabeth.
My heartbeat picks up speed, each thump deafening. Everything around me fades to black and white…except her.
She glows like a beacon, the only light in a sea of darkness.
She fills my vision until I feel like she’s standing right in front of me. And I feel like I’m smelling that familiar vanilla and lavender scent of hers again, the blood in my veins getting hotter, electricity prickling my skin…
She stands alone on the stairs, her back straight, her shoulders square.
A cape dress clings to her. Maybe it’s the pure white of the dress, but with the cape behind her, she looks like a newly crowned queen, the diamond pins in her hair sparkling like a tiara.
She’s still the same—heart-stoppingly gorgeous—but also different…lusher, more feminine, the girly youthfulness having matured into womanly beauty. Her eyebrows are carefully shaped, her nose small and straight and her mouth full and pink.
Only the eyes are different. They are no longer winter-storm gray. They are as sweet and brown as dark chocolate. It’s a remarkable change. She no longer looks like an angel that would make Lucifer piss himself. Oh no. She looks like the kind of angel who hands out nice, fuzzy shit.
But a split second after she blinks, I glimpse the barest hint of weary wistfulness that leaves a little hitch in my chest. But the sadness vanishes so fast, I can’t help but wonder if I imagined it all, even if the little catch in my chest is real.
She looks my way and suddenly our gazes collide. Her lips part, while every drop of saliva dries in my mouth. She stares at me as though she doesn’t recognize me.
Did you expect me to be that poor, pathetic kid forever?
Abrupt fury roils through me. Fury because she’s walking up the stairs with her head held high, as though she’s never done anything wrong in her life. Fury because people don’t know what kind of a hypocritical cunt she is and fawn over her charity work. Fury because, even knowing her true self, I can’t stop my body from reacting to her. My dick’s too happy to see her, my mind too eager to bring up memories that still drive me crazy with their poisonous sweetness…
…how she used to caress my cheeks…
…how she used to clutch my shoulders…
…how she used to chant my name as she came…
My date, Annabelle Underhill, pulls me around, saying something I can’t quite hear over the dull roar in my head.
I look at her for a moment, then turn back to try to locate Elizabeth again…but she’s gone from the stairs.
Damn it.
My gaze runs over the crowd, but I can’t find her. Annabelle’s still talking, and I pretend to listen, nodding a few times. As annoying as I find her, she’s a business associate’s wife. She was also my entrée to this party, so I’m doing my best to humor her.
After what feels like an eternity, she catches sight of some “friends”—vapid trophy wives—and I seize the opportunity to get away. She won’t miss me. They’re busy bragging about gifts from their wealthy husbands, so sure the old men are besotted.
Idiots. Besotted men don’t usually become rich…or stay that way for long.
I walk up the steps. The crowd is fairly thick here too, although not as bad as below. A few people I know stop to say hello, and I make pleasant small talk because I have no choice.
I finally find Elizabeth on one of the balconies. She’s alone, holding a crystal tumbler half-full of clear liquid, facing the dark garden.
Goosebumps break out on her skin, and she shivers. The wind is chilly here in the Bay Area, and her dress wasn’t designed to keep her warm.