The Gala was a sensory nightmare. The ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was packed with Manhattan's elite, a sea of black tuxedos and glittering gowns. The air smelled of expensive champagne and desperation.
Elara walked three steps behind her parents. She had altered the grey dress. She had pinned the waist from the inside, giving it a semblance of shape, but kept the neckline high. She looked severe, silent, and entirely out of place.
Whispers followed her. "That's the one?" "The foster kid?" "I heard she's retarded."
The crowd parted near the entrance. A hush fell over the room.
The Thornes had arrived.
Grandame Thorne, a woman who looked like she was carved from granite, led the way. Behind her, a manservant pushed a sleek, black wheelchair.
Julian Thorne.
He was striking, in a terrifying way. His tuxedo was tailored to perfection. His face was pale, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. His dark hair fell over his forehead, messy in a way that suggested he didn't care. A tartan blanket covered his legs.
Richard and Victoria practically ran to greet them.
"Mrs. Thorne," Richard gushed. "And Julian. So good to see you."
Julian didn't look at Richard. He didn't look at anyone. He stared straight ahead at the buffet table, his expression one of utter boredom.
"Let's get this over with," Julian said. His voice was a low rasp, rough, like gravel grinding together.
Victoria grabbed Elara's arm and yanked her forward. "This is Elara."
Grandame Thorne looked Elara up and down. "She's scrawny. Can she bear children?"
Elara felt the blood drain from her face, but she kept her head down.
Julian slowly turned his head. His eyes locked onto Elara. They were dark, almost black, and cold as the bottom of the ocean. He scanned her face, looking for weakness.
"So this is the sacrificial lamb," Julian drawled. He laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. "Vance, you're really desperate if you're offering me your defective stock."
The insult hung in the air. Tiffany giggled.
Elara lifted her head. For the first time, she looked directly at him. She didn't look away. She tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing. She was studying him.
A waiter bumped into the back of Julian's wheelchair. It was a hard knock.
Julian's body reacted instantly. It wasn't a large movement-no flailing legs. It was subtle. His core muscles contracted violently to stabilize his torso without using the armrests. The tendon in his neck flared. Under the blanket, the fabric over his right thigh pulled tight, just for a millisecond, as the quadriceps engaged to plant a phantom foot.
He caught himself. He slumped back into the "cripple" posture, but he was a fraction of a second too late.
Elara saw it.
And Julian saw that she saw it.
His eyes widened imperceptibly. The boredom vanished, replaced by a flash of genuine danger.
"Mother," Julian said, his eyes never leaving Elara's face. "I need air. This perfume is making me nauseous."
"Go to the terrace," Grandame Thorne waved a hand. "Elara, push him."
Richard shoved Elara toward the handles of the wheelchair. "Go on."
Elara gripped the leather handles. They were warm. She began to push. He was heavy-muscle is heavier than fat. She navigated through the crowd.
"Look at them," Tiffany whispered loudly to her friends. "The freak and the cripple. A match made in hell."
Elara pushed open the glass doors to the terrace. The noise of the party faded instantly, replaced by the hum of the city traffic below.
She pushed him to the edge of the balcony, away from the windows.
She let go of the chair and stepped around to face him. She leaned back against the stone railing, crossing her arms.
She waited.
