Chapter 3 - Some King

“Poppy, look!” Trish yells as she holds out the perfect black dress. Troy almost chokes on her soda when she sees it.

Standing up, she clasps her hands together. “Oh, Trish, this is super cute… is this yours?”

“Well, yeah, but I’ve worn it plenty of times already; try it.”

Troy takes the dress carefully. It may be second-hand, but it looks so well taken care of. And she is definitely not used to dresses like this.

Standing in front of the mirror with the dress held against her body, she tilts her head.

Will this get me him?

“Will this get me… some free drinks?” she asks with a slanted smile, thinking of how to get Dorian to properly notice her the way she wants him to. Even though, since this morning's encounter, she has the small, unsettling feeling that she has no idea what she’s getting into.

“A lot of free drinks!” Trish giggles behind her. “Put it on, let’s see.”

Troy strips out of her clothing right there. Where she comes from, all girls shared a room, and privacy wasn't really a thing.

Giggling at her, Trish gestures toward her lower body. “You’re so pretty. Look at that ass, girl!”

“Oh my God, you really think so?” Troy tries to sound surprised.

“Oh, for sure. I might need to get a gun to protect you tonight.”

Troy laughs genuinely at that. “No need, I can protect myself from the baddies.”

“Really? Where did you learn?”

Troy thinks about her next answer. “Oh, just here and there.”

Trish seems like a genuinely good person, and it doesn't feel right to lie directly to her face about unimportant stuff, so instead, she decides to hide the truth with vague answers.

Troy pulls the dress over her body and looks at her reflection in the mirror. Turning sideways, she smiles. This is so good. She almost looks like a rich girl.

“Okay… I’m definitely wearing this tonight.”

Also, just for tonight.

“Trish, can you help me braid my hair?”

#

Okay. So, this is nothing like the stupid high school parties she went to before. Nothing.

This place is massive, and the lights are spectacular. Laser beams spill over moving bodies while the pounding bass vibrates so loudly that Troy can barely hear herself think.

It’s overwhelming, almost.

But in a good way.

Next to her, Trish throws a hand into the air. “Oh my God, Poppy! Let’s go!” she yells over the music, grabbing Troy’s hand and dragging her toward the dance floor.

They are immediately swallowed by the crowd.

The rhythm settles into Troy's bones, pulsing through her chest. For a second, she looks around at the swirling bodies. Then, as the neon lights flash over her, she starts to move.

Dancing beside Trish, she completely forgets why she came here in the first place.

Around them, people notice. Troy and Trish move as if they were born for the dance floor. Hair swinging, hands in the air, disappearing into the music.

After a while, Troy leans close to Trish's ear. “I’m thirsty!”

“Same!” Trish screams back.

Together, they push their way off the floor and toward the bar.

Standing in line, Troy scans the crowd automatically. She searches for silver hair, braids… anything that resembles Dorian. But he’s nowhere to be seen.

Instead, someone else catches her attention.

A dangerously good-looking guy sitting in a corner booth is watching her. He has warm, tanned skin, mid-length wavy brown hair, and striking green eyes that stand out even from a distance.

There’s a strange intensity to his gaze. It's as if he recognizes something in her that she doesn't even know herself.

Feeling unnerved, Troy quickly looks away, pretending not to notice.

When they finally reach the front of the queue, the bartender barely glances at them before speaking. “Order whatever you’d like, girls. The guy over there is paying.”

He gestures toward the green-eyed stranger.

The man lifts his glass slightly in acknowledgment. He isn't smiling, but he isn't unfriendly either.

For a bizarre second, Troy feels a phantom flash of recognition.

She pushes the thought aside, flashes him a polite smile, and orders. 

Strangely, the man never approaches her. He simply ensures their drinks are covered while remaining across the room.

Troy and Trish carry their drinks upstairs toward an open lounge area overlooking the dance floor. The music shakes the glass railings, and lights flash upward from beneath their feet.

Most of the seating is taken, so they stand by the edge.

“Shit, I have to pee,” Trish suddenly blurts out, shoving her drink into Troy’s hand. “Don’t spill it!”

She disappears into the crowd.

Left alone, Troy turns back to the railing, instinctively scanning the moving bodies below. Searching. Always searching.

Then she sees him. 

Dorian steps through the entrance downstairs. A couple of guys move in behind him, but it is impossible to focus on anyone else.

Devastating elegance. The only way to describe him.

His black shirt is collared and buttoned, fitting perfectly over his tall, muscular frame. The sleeves are rolled halfway up, revealing the striking tattoos spilling down his arms and up onto his shaved scalp. 

Several black bracelets encircle his wrists, finishing the polished look.

His silver-white hair reflects the blue laser lights. Tied low at the nape of his neck into a half-bun, some loose braids still hang freely over his shoulders.

And, if Troy didn’t hate him so much, she would admit he is the most beautiful man she has ever seen. 

With the sharp, predatory lines of his face accentuating his piercing light eyes, the dangerous, masculine sway of his shoulders.

But the hate runs too deep for that. So, no.

Dorian prowls through the venue like he owns it. Climbing the stairs without hesitation, he doesn't even glance at the people eagerly moving aside to clear his path. By the time he reaches the lounge level, someone has already vacated a couch for him, and he takes a martini glass held out to him.

He sits down smoothly, spreading his legs slightly as he relaxes against the backrest, sipping on the cocktail. Like a king settling onto a throne.

Troy scoffs internally. Some king.

But the unease settles in her stomach again. Looking at him now, he is much more than she expected.

The way people move around him, trying to please him. It’s all so bizarre for a mere college student.

A slight wave of impostor syndrome wants to peek out, just a little. What is she doing?

But she forces it back down.

He is just a man. A man who can bleed. That can break.

She watches him a moment longer before straightening up and turning back toward the railing. 

Hopefully, he will notice her. He must.

She already matches his look tonight, wearing a short black dress with loose braids woven into her straightened hair. Her red lips add a sharp touch of seduction.

It’s perfect. If he just looks her way.

But after several minutes, he doesn't. Or if he did, he doesn't show it.

Not knowing exactly how to feel about that, Troy heads back downstairs to the dance floor. Trish has come and gone again with some guy who bought her a drink, so Troy ends up dancing alone.

The music wraps around her completely.

She forces her body into the provocative, fluid movements she spent hundreds of hours practicing alone in front of her cheap bedroom mirror.

She loses herself in the rhythm, letting years of anger and pain melt away beneath the pounding bass. For a few beautiful moments, she stops thinking about orphanages, revenge, and Dorian Vanderbilt. She just moves.

And then, she feels it. Eyes on her.

She glances up at the lounge railing where she stood earlier. Now, Dorian stands there. Prowling. At her.

Looking away immediately, she refuses to make eye contact. Two more songs pass.

He watches.

Her heart beats faster, and adrenaline rushes through her veins.

Pretending not to notice, she makes sure every movement of her body is as seductive as possible.

But then, she feels a sudden shift in the air. A heavy presence.

Troy slowly turns around. Then looks up.

Dorian stands dangerously close to her, towering… Statue still.

The blue laser lights strobe over his face, revealing sharp angles and pale eyes before plunging him back into shadow.

Dark. Light. Dark.

Dropping his head to one side, then the other, he studies her with a hypnotic, unblinking focus.

Light. Dark. Light.

Troy stills instantly, her hands lowering to her sides.

Swallowing hard, she locks down her pretence. Tilting her head, she matches his body language, staring right back into his face.

But he doesn't say anything at first. He only looks. 

She almost falters. She almost looks away, or better yet, runs.

“Who are you?” he asks bluntly, his voice dull and placid, barely audible over the deafening bass.

“Who are you?” Troy asks back.

He continues his silent invasion, slowly crossing his arms over his chest.

“I know what you’re doing.”

Troy swallows hard. What does he think he knows?

She mimics his posture, crossing her arms lightly.

“What am I doing?” she asks innocently. “You’re the one watching me dance. That’s creepy.”

“You think you’re going to seduce me.”

Troy's mind stumbles in shock. Oh, damn.

She forces a scoffing laugh. “Se...duce you?”

“Why?” he replies.

Her mind scrambles. Waiting for a brilliant escape plan.

“How, pray tell, did you arrive at this ridiculous conclusion?”

“The muffins,” Dorian says, more loudly now. “It starts with muffins. Then it becomes something else.”

His eyes narrow slightly. Troy blinks at him for a few seconds before offering a slow smile.

“So why did you buy them then?”

Dorian doesn’t answer. His jaw twitches slightly, his eyes drifting over the loose braids in her hair.

“Well,” she says, leaning in so he may hear clearly, “maybe you shouldn’t have. Should’ve just let me starve.”

“I’m pretty sure you weren’t starving at all,” he replies calmly. “You are after something. Money… power.”

Oh…he doesn't have a clue, it seems.

Troy tilts her head, a mocking pout on her lips. “Poor Dorian. You got your heart broken too many times.”

His eyes sharpen the instant she spills his name. 

Oh shit.

Dorian suddenly grabs her arm and pulls her into him. She crashes against his rock-hard chest.

“Ouch!” Troy yelps, trying to push him away, but his grip is too tight. Completely uncaring about the people around them, he bends closer. 

His face is so close she feels his breath against her skin, his nose almost brushing hers, his silver eyes searching straight through her.

“I knew it,” he grits through his teeth. 

His eyes flare with a cold white glow, like moonlight striking the eyes of a predator in the dark. 

Wait. What's that? She never saw that as a child.

“Knew what… ow.” But she frowns and looks closer to the light inside his pupils.

“You know me.”