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"Boss, you gotta keep your shit together,” Angel's voice cuts through the haze of my murderous thoughts. “I’ve never seen you like this; you’re all pale, looking like you're about to hurl into the nearest pot plant."
He's fucking right. I'm up, lurching towards the greenery, and then it's all spilling out—my guts betraying me, spewing into the leaves and dirt. The world spins, but not just from the sickness. It's rage, it's fear, it's the desperate need for control slipping through my fingers like sand. Damn it all.
Chapter Five
Eleanor Wang
We arrive at the fundraiser bang on 7 pm, me in a dress that clings to every curve and Patrick in his tailored suit that costs more than a small car. The air's thick with expensive cologne and the kind of perfume that leaves a taste on your tongue. I can't stand it—the wastefulness, the fucking pageantry of it all. People here they're like vultures dressed in silk, circling a carcass of cash.
"Let's get this over with," I mutter under my breath, clutching the invitation like it's a lifeline—or maybe a death sentence.
The second we step into the room, it's like walking into a pit of snakes. Eyes latch onto us, sizing Patrick like prime meat at an auction. They'd claw at him if not for the veneer of civility that these shindigs plaster over their greed. It's enough to make you sick.
"Christ, look at them," I whisper to Patrick, who merely offers a wry smile. He's used to it, the attention, the faux admiration.
"Part of the charm," he replies, voice dripping with sarcasm. I snort. Charm, my ass.
Patrick would be top of Britain's most-wanted bachelor list if his heart weren't already locked down tight. Aela did a number on him—the good kind. Ever since she came into the picture, he's been wearing blinders. Can't say I blame him; she's a force of nature. But it doesn't stop the hordes from trying. Moneyed folk and their goddamn side pieces—it's almost tradition. But not for Patrick, and certainly not for Aela.
I feel a pang somewhere deep inside when I think about it. That devotion, that absolute certainty—I've seen it once before, etched on a face I try to push out of my mind. Matteo's face. His eyes that held promises and secrets and things better left unspoken.
"Focus, El," I chide myself silently.
"Always the cynic," Patrick teases, gently elbowing me as we navigate the crowd. "You know you love these events."
"Love" is a stretch. I'm here because it's part of the game, part of the dance we do to keep up appearances, to maintain control. In this world, power is everything, and you hang onto it with both hands, or you get crushed.
"Like a root canal," I shoot back, my lips twisting into a smirk.
"Ah, but necessary," Patrick quips, raising a glass of champagne to his lips.
"Like a bullet to the brain," I retort, my gaze lingering on the throngs of people pretending to give a damn about anything other than their bank accounts.
"Exactly," he says, and we laugh, dark and knowing. It's afucked-up world we live in, but at least we're clear-eyed about it.
I'm elbowing through the sea of silk and diamonds, Patrick's arm a steel band around mine, when Mrs. Brunswick, the night's empress of charity and hypocrisy, zeroes in on us like a vulture to a carcass. Her voice is all honeyed poison as she corners us under the ostentatious crystal chandelier.
"El and Patrick, so nice you could make it, where is Aela?" She bats her lashes at Patrick, who's already slapping on his best bullshit grin.
"At home, unfortunately, we had some paperwork that needed to be finished today so she offered to stay back and get it done," he says, voice dripping with more sweetness than the champagne flutes they're offering on silver platters.
Mrs. Brunswick claps her hands together, looking like she's about to swoon from the sheer nobility of it all. "Oh, isn't she just a gem! Well, she will be missed. Thankfully El is here to take her place for this evening," she turns her grin on me, teeth like knives hidden behind red lips.
My face pulls into what I hope passes for gracious as I lie through my fucking teeth, "Oh, it’s such a pleasure to be here, Mrs Brunswick." The words taste like ash.
Patrick, ever the escape artist, waves vaguely across the room. "If you would excuse us," he says, and it's the only lifeline I need.
We break away from her talon grip, slipping through clusters of suits and gowns. My heart's racing, not from nerves, but from the thrill of the game. It's all about power and control; we're pulling the strings right now.
"Let's find a corner with fewer bloodsuckers," I mutter to Patrick, scanning the room for an exit or at least a less crowded spot where I can breathe without smelling someone else's greed.
When Patrick nudges me forward, my blood's already boiling hotter than the Aussie sun. "Fuck that woman needs a throat punch!" The words slip out, venomous and vicious, before I can rein them in.
"Shhhh El, your green-eyed monster is showing," Patrick chortles, a touch too loud in the hush of faux civility around us. But there's truth in jest; I'm seething, all right.
I shoot him a glare sharp enough to slice through his amusement. "I can't be the only one who wants to give it to her."
Patrick grins, his irritation masked by a layer of charm as polished as his cufflinks. "Oh, I’m sure there are plenty, like me for example, but a gentleman never hits a lady." His accent thickens, wrapping around the words like smoke, a clear signal he's ready for a stiff drink.