Into the Lion's Den

Liora received the invitation as if it were a challenge.

It wasn’t in a wax-sealed envelope delivered by courier; no that would’ve been too obvious. The invitation was sent via an e-mail forwarded from an old acquaintance working in event security. "Last minute volunteer opportunity available for tonight's Hawthorne’s Foundation Gala," he wrote. “Free entry, free food, black-tie dress code. Would you be interested in joining?" After staring at the message for 30 seconds, she typed "Yes" using numb fingers.

She has hardly been able to sleep well since taking the box from the storage unit two nights prior. Now the photograph sat locked away in her phone with a password; zoomed in so that Damien Hawthorne's entire face filled the screen. Same sharp jawline, same piercing eyes as those she read about in every financial headline. But in the old photo his eyes had softened into a laugh after Elias had said something funny. That stark difference gave her nightmares.

Tonight, she would finally see him in person. Not on a computer or TV screen. Alive and breathing.

She wore a midnight-blue, floor-length dress loaned from a friend who worked wardrobe for live theatrical performances. The dress fit her snugly in places she never thought she'd be squeezed into and felt cool to her skin, almost like another layer of consciousness. Her hair was tied back loosely in a braid with a few stray hairs framing her face simply yet enough to give the impression that she belonged or could at least get past the initial glance.

The Hawthorne’s Foundation Gala was being hosted inside the Apex Tower which is the tallest all-glass tower in the city. The security at this event was polite but very thorough: metal detectors, printed guest list, and red carpet photographers that are only concerned with capturing faces they've previously seen. Liora displayed her volunteer ID, smiled professionally as if she’d spent years pretending to be okay, and walked through the entrance.

The inside of the ballroom was filled with a world of crystal and candle light. The chandeliers hung heavy with gold light. Waiters walked around with trays of champagne flutes that were probably more expensive than what Liora paid for rent each month. The laughter came up in beautiful waves as people talked about buying companies, investments, and summer vacations in Monaco. Liora took a glass of champagne off one of the waiters tray and started walking towards the edge of the room where the light wasn’t so bright.

She spotted him almost immediately.

Damien Hawthorne was at the middle of the ballroom standing next to the DJ booth surrounded by an informal circle of fans/employees/politicians/women dressed in designer gowns that sparkled like water on top of oil. Damien was wearing a black tuxedo which fit perfectly. It was how he moved through the room that seemed to make everything else fade into the background. He looked like a controlled predator, like he had already hunted down whatever prey was important to him.

He turned his face just a little bit, and Liora felt as though he knew she was staring at him.

They locked eyes from over fifty feet of polished marble and whispered ambitions.

Time did not slow it became sharper.

Liora felt the air leaving her lungs quietly. He looked even more dangerous up close, closer than the pictures had shown him. The years had turned him into something even harder, even more precise. Yet he still looked similar to the boy in the picture. They both tilted their heads alike when they listened. Both had a faint scar above the left eye.

He said good bye to the small circle of people he was talking to and nodded once. The crowd parted to let him pass.

He walked across the room until he was right behind her.

Liora did not move. To run would have been smarter. But it would be impossible. He stopped three steps in front of her. Close enough for her to smell the scent.

"Miss...?" His voice rolled out low and smooth the kind of voice that could close billion-dollar deals or destroy lives without breaking a sweat.

"Rhodes," she blurted, not giving herself a chance to pull back. It landed heavy, like a challenge.

"Liora Rhodes."

Something flickered across his face, gone before she could pin it down. Maybe it was recognition, calculation or just interest. Hard to tell.

"Rhodes," he repeated a few times, almost tasting it. “Unusual name, that's not a name you hear every day." He said.

"Not in my family."

A hint of a smile was at his mouth, but his eyes stayed cool. "So, what brings a Rhodes to my gala tonight?"

"Curiosity," she said. "I heard the view from your balcony is worth the climb."

He looked her for a while, taking his time. The said, "Let me show you."

He offered his arm. She hesitated a split second, then rested her hand on his sleeve. The contact sent a signal up her arm, sharp and unwelcome. She felt his muscles tense under her fingers, then loosen, like he’d just made up his mind about something.

They walked through the French doors and out onto the terrace. Below, the city stretched out a restless grid of lights illuminating everywhere gloriously, with winds all around.

He let go of her arm, but he stayed close.

"You look familiar," he said, with dropping voice. "Have we met before?"

"No." She held his gaze. "But I’ve seen you. Everyone has."

"Not like this." His eyes moved over her face, slow and searching. "Not with that look in your eyes."

"What look?"

"Like you’re trying to decide if you should run... or fight."

Her pulse kicked up. "Maybe both."

He laughed, quiet and almost surprised. "Honest. I like that."

She turned to the railing, gripping the cold metal for balance. "Tell me something honest, then."

He moved in beside her, close enough their shoulders nearly brushed. "Ask." He said

Elias Rhodes." She dropped that name into the air as if it were a stone being thrown into calm water. "You knew him."

There was no response to that. Only wind whistling through the space between them.

It was quiet for so long before he finally spoke, softly, quietly, almost with care. "Yes. I used to know him. Long time ago."

“He died”

"Yes. That is how they believe it."

She turned and faced him completely. "And do you believe it?"

His eyes got darker. "Some things are best left buried Liora."

Using her first name made the moment feel closer. More dangerous.

"And some things will not remain buried," she said.

He slowly extended his hand and gently swept a strand of hair off her cheek. His touch was very light.

"You should not have come here."

"Why then am I not being escorted out by security?"

"Because...," he leaned in and whispered nearly silent. "I want to know why you came here. What you are willing to put your life at risk to find out."

Her breath stopped. Up close she saw the subtle tension in the dilation of his pupils.

Before she could say anything, his phone buzzed in his pocket. His expression hardened when he glanced at the phone.

"Pardon me." He took a step back. However, he did not immediately walk away. Instead, he caught her wrist - lightly but firmly enough that she would need to make a scene to get loose.

"Wait here," he said. Not a question. "We'll finish our discussion. Very soon."

He released her and went back inside, then lost in the crowd.

Liora stood alone waiting, her heart pounding in her chest.

She looked at her wrist where his hand had been. No marks, but she still felt the pressure.

And in her mind, his last words echoed like a warning wrapped in velvet:

Stay.

She smiled, small, sharp, and dangerous.

"Oh, I intend to."