Silk and Sabotage

Jannah

This dress is fucking perfect.

I turn around and crane my neck as I stare at my back reflection in the mirror. Maybe spending over six hundred dollars on a dress wasn't such a bad idea after all.

I've never fancied silk, but this one? I could die for it. Literally. Its emerald color goes perfectly with my now-straightened black hair and my tanned skin, and yes, I can't stop staring at myself.

The neckline is a sweetheart one, and the sleeves are close to nothing—so thin that it feels like they're just teasing my bare shoulders.

I stretch my legs forward, and the bright light of my room does perfect justice when the glow on my newly waxed legs reflects on my face.

On a normal day, I avoid social events like this like the plague, but here I am, excited and giddy to finally meet Clinton.

Well, I'm not actually meeting him—it’s more of an ambush. Cyber Blue organized a dinner party for Aaron, and I know this might be one of the rare opportunities I'll stumble upon to meet his bitch of a brother.

My hands hover expertly over my lips as I reapply my last coat of lip gloss and then smack them together.

"You're so dead, Clinton Steele."

***

The low sound of violins and other string instruments blending into a classical melody invites me as I flash my invitation and waltz in. Kaitlyn is supposed to be here, but she went on a date, so it looks like I'll have to improvise in the companionship department.

The hotel, I learned, is the Steeles'. Its architecture is similar to something medieval yet modern, with very high ceilings—probably over thirty feet—impressive chandeliers glowing in a warm golden hue placed strategically. Food is lined up in buffet plates, and there's a lot of it. As much as my mission here is to hunt down Clinton, I know I'd love to savor everything on that table.

My seat is somewhere in the middle of the hall, so I have a perfect view of everything going on. The lights dim when Aaron comes up on stage to make his speech, followed by a round of applause. His parents speak afterward, and then Clinton.

His speech is a short one, but that’s not why my ears perk as I slide to the edge of my seat. His voice is the same as Aaron’s, with them being twins and all. The only difference between them is the black tux Aaron is wearing and the light blue one Clinton has on.

I can’t help but notice the way Clinton’s eyes dart around the room, as though he’s in a hurry to get out of here. And when he smiles at the beginning of his congratulatory message, it doesn’t reach his eyes. Instead, his fingers grip the mic tighter.

"Good evening, everyone. It's an honor to be part of this beautiful evening." His voice has the same deep, melodious timbre as his brother’s, but unlike Aaron’s obvious confidence that makes his voice louder, Clinton’s is lower.

"Aaron, we’ve had my back in ways no one else ever could. Through the highs, the lows, and the messes I somehow always seem to get into, you’ve never hesitated to stand by me. You push me to be better, even when I don’t want to hear it."

As emotional as his speech can get, I think I might be the only person in the room fuming silently, probably wanting to rip that stupid brotherly smirk off his face.

Aaron, on the other hand, has a wide grin on his face and nods slowly to his brother’s words. It’s official—I’m the only person with such hateful thoughts in the building. If my eyes could activate laser beams, Clinton would be reduced to dust since I’m staring so hard without blinking that my eyes begin to water.

"So, here’s to you, Aaron. For being my brother, my confidant, and my best friend. I might not say it often, but I mean it—you’re the real MVP. Cheers to more success and happy evenings like this. Thank you."

Aaron raises his glass to his brother, and the guests begin to applaud. Once again, I’m probably the only person who doesn’t give a damn about faking it.

My eyes never leave Clinton. The first thing he does is glance at his wrist before his gaze flickers to the door. Whatever hurry he’s in only cements my suspicion—he’s trying to get away from me.

Really?

The night drags with more speeches followed by an interactive session, and so does my patience, which is now thinner than thread. It’s at that point where I’m sure it’s about to dissolve into air.

Clinton’s table gives him the perfect advantage to make a quick exit if he decides to slip out, while I, on the other hand, would have to block a few people’s views and probably duck my head so I don’t turn myself into a nuisance.

This isn’t fair. Even my attempt to make eye contact with him is as useless as my glare. No effect whatsoever.

My eyes barely move away from him when, with the grace of a feline, he stands up. His steps are as hurried as his previous movements when he whispers something into his mother’s ear before kissing her cheek.

In a split moment, he heads toward the exit, his strides long and definite.

Fuck. That’s it. I don’t care if a few stuck-up rich people think I’m blocking their view. I push out of my seat and follow him.

If I lose him tonight, I may never get another chance.

The minute my heels hit the hard pavement outside, the cool autumn wind whips my hair, and I pull my shawl over my shoulder.

Somehow, Clinton is nowhere in sight, and I’m left looking around aimlessly. He could be in one of those tinted cars, and I have a feeling that if I step too close to them, I could get into unsolicited trouble.

"Damn it!" I hiss under my breath.