Page 49 of Stealing Infinity (Stolen Beauty)

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Snow drifts from the sky and blankets the floor.

Crystal chandeliers dip from the ceiling, flickering softly with candlelight.

A fire roars from a large hearth as a baby fawn skitters across a frozen pond, wobbling past rows of diners as his mother patiently waits on the other side.

And there, among all the tables heaping with fancy stemware, gleaming golden cutlery, and plates of fine china, sits Braxton.

Braxton—with his fancy dinner jacket, ridiculous face, and those astonishing blue eyes that latch onto mine, holding me hostage no matter how hard I try to break free.

And I really do try, but apparently my body has stopped taking orders from my brain. My feet keep crossing the room, carrying me closer to him, as my gaze remains fixed on his as though there’s no other place I could possibly look.

When I reach the edge of the table, he rises from his seat. “Wow,” he says. “You look ama—” He stops as though catching himself. His face reddening, he makes a stiff gesture toward my clothes. “What I mean is, that’s a really nice choice, and…”

He’s flustered, which comes as a relief. At least I’m not the only one left unsettled by this weird magnetic vibe that insists on thrumming between us.

I can feel a rush of heat rising to my face, so I’m quick to turn away and reach for my chair, only to find he’s already there.

“Allow me,” he says, sliding my chair back and ensuring I’m settled before returning to his.

I busy myself with unfastening my stole and draping it over the back of my seat. Only then do I determine myself ready to face him again. “I don’t remember you being so chivalrous at the diner.” I laugh, hoping it comes off as the joke I intended it to be, while also hoping he doesn’t notice how my skittering pulse has left my voice sort of shaken and wobbly.

“That had more to do with the booth situation than a lack of manners.” His gaze sweeps over my shoulders, dipping as low as my neckline, before veering away.

“Is it just us?” I ask. For some reason, when Song told me I’d be sitting at Braxton’s table, I pictured something bigger, with at least a few other people. From what I can see, ours is the only two-top. “Did you volunteer for this, too?”

Braxton leans toward me, the sleeves of his midnight-blue dinner jacket framing either side of the elaborate gold place setting. “I thought you might like some company,” he says. “But if it makes you uncomfortable, I can go…”

He waits for me to reply, but I take my time to decide. Partly because the thought of eating alone fills me with dread. But mostly because the more time I spend with Braxton, the harder it is for me to hate him, or at the very least, stay mad at him, and I’m not sure that’s a good thing.

I mean, just because he has a perfectly chiseled face and a body that can really fill out a suit—just because he’s admitted to feeling a certain measure of guilt over the part he played in luring me here—doesn’t mean I should let my guard down.

An uneasy silence stretches between us. I tease it out a bit longer by lifting the cloth napkin from my plate, removing the golden ring shaped like a crown, and carefully spreading the square of starched linen over my lap. “I think I get what’s going on here,” I finally say, lifting my water goblet and surveying the crowd. “Arthur is purposely isolating me in hopes that it’ll spark some of my long dormant ambition, so I’ll do whatever it takes to make Blue.”

In a subtle show of relief, Braxton relaxes into his seat. And I’m glad for the extra space; it makes it easier to breathe.

“You’re not wrong,” Braxton says. “But the question remains—will it work?”

I nod toward the hologram of the pond where that poor fawn is still struggling to cross. His hooves scrabbling clumsily across the ice, front legs comically crisscrossing, hind legs spreading too wide. “Probably.” I shrug. “But, at the moment, I’m feeling a bit like Bambi over there.”

Braxton glances past his shoulder, then back at me. “Not to worry. By the time the dessert course is finished, he’ll have made it to the other side. He always does.”

“So it’s the same show every night?” That strikes me as odd, if not a little disappointing. I was sure Arthur was far too imaginative to settle for reruns.

Braxton shakes his head, causing a random dark curl to fall into his eyes. And as I watch him distractedly push it back to where it started, I’m struck by his utter lack of vanity or pretense.

I mean, obviously, he knows he’s good-looking. But he doesn’t dwell on his beauty or try to use it to gain an advantage. After the constant show of posturing and preening by the selfie-obsessed kids at my school, I’d forgotten how people normally act in the absence of ring lights and portrait mode.

“The tech team likes to switch it up,” he says. “Though I have seen an earlier rendition of this one.”

“Then you can’t be sure this new version will also end happily.”

Braxton reaches for his wine goblet. His fingers trace the beveled base. “Arthur doesn’t invest in failures,” he says, and though he doesn’t outwardly shift in any discernable way, something in his demeanor is markedly changed. “He has no tolerance for either the ordinary or the mundane.”

I take another look around. The space is designed to provide an atmosphere of elegance and opulence, and the students who occupy it are the cream of the crop. But if those students were once anything like me, and Braxton assured me they were, then they didn’t start off that way. It was failure that landed them here.

“I guess Arthur really is an alchemist,” I say. “He collects high school losers and spins us all into gold.”