Disruption (16 page)

I
’d never been to a ball. Hell, I’d never been to a school dance. Once I was old enough to take part, my life had already taken a very sharp turn in a non-dance-conducive direction.

Bottom line, I felt like a fool getting all dressed up. I had no idea where to start and, as I grappled with my hair, I was fast regretting telling Mom that Quentin would be picking me up from work. If I’d let her, she would’ve stayed home to help me get ready. She probably knew some uses for a bobby pin that didn’t include break and enter.

After another failed attempt at doing some sort of up-do, I threw the brush at the wall and growled. One, I sucked at styling hair. Two, it hurt like a bitch to keep my arms raised for so long. Three, it was stupid that I even cared.

Giving up on the brush, I settled for a good finger combing and left my hair out. I already had my shoes on, so when I stepped into the dress I was careful not to catch the fabric with my heel. One little catch and I imagined the entire dress could fall to pieces. The bottom half anyway.

Sliding it up and over my bandages proved painful, but once I’d tucked my head through the halter and very slowly eased up the side zipper, I was glad for the boning in the corset. It would help hold me together.

I studied the dress in the mirror. The dark grey corset was the thinnest and softest leather I’d ever laid eyes on and it fit snugly around my torso, softened only by an edging of intricate black lace that followed my chest line up and around the halter. It was the shape at the top that made me fall in love with it so much in the store – the way the halter material spread out to cup the tops of my shoulders, allowing for just the smallest trim of lace to skim my upper arm. It felt feminine but also strong.

It was the bottom half that had me second guessing my choice.

I started swishing around the metres of soft black tulle – interlaced with layers of dusty grey. It hung with body but not flare. I twisted as much as I could bear in order to catch the light.

‘Is
that
see-through?’ I said to myself, squinting as I tried to figure it out in my poorly lit room.

‘Entirely,’ came a voice from the doorway.

My head snapped towards the voice. I cringed at Quentin. ‘Really?’

He was leaning against the door jamb, wearing a tux. All black – suit, shirt and bowtie. He looked … I swallowed and held back the whimper that seemed to want to escape.

‘Can you see everything?’ I said, glancing down again when he didn’t answer. I couldn’t bend properly due to both my injury and the corset.

He looked down the length of me slowly, and back up. Then he opened his mouth, pausing before any words came out. He ran a hand over his scalp, back and forth as if trying to rub a thought away.

I contemplated bailing on the whole thing.

Quentin cleared his throat. ‘There’s an inbuilt slip. Um, just at the top. It covers … the important parts.’

Okay. I do not have these kinds of conversations. Ever. But since I still had the whole night ahead of me, I had to make a decision there and then.

Either be a girl, or man up.

I could cope with a little leg showing as long as my main attraction wasn’t flashing for everyone to see.

Once I pulled the fabric back and confirmed the additional opaque material travelled a few inches below where was absolutely necessary, I grabbed my clutch bag and headed for the door.

Quentin held the door open for me. I glanced up at him from beneath lowered – and determined – lids. ‘Don’t even think of starting with bullshit compliments,’ I warned.

He chuckled, seeming to relax. ‘What would they matter anyway?’ He patted his chest. ‘Neg, remember?’

I shook my head, angry at his conclusion since it judged me just as much as it did himself.

‘It doesn’t, but not because you’re a neg. That doesn’t even come in to play. I’ve told you, I don’t believe in a system that listens to our glands and not our brains.’

‘What about our hearts?’

‘Hearts are overrated.’

I could feel him staring at me all the way to the car. When he opened the door, I finally looked back in exasperation. ‘What?’

‘You really want to mean it, don’t you?’ he asked.

I looked at my feet. I
really
did. The tech was controlling too many lives. And I wasn’t about to let it control me.

When I didn’t answer, Quentin filled the silence. ‘Well, in the spirit of your sentiment, while you do look … stunning, in a way that is probably burned in my memory forever, I much prefer you in jeans and a dash of blood.’ He shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Just seems more you.’

It hurt my side, but I laughed out loud, more flattered by his comment than if he’d said anything else. As soon as I stopped laughing, my mouth ran away with me.

‘You, on the other hand, wear that suit like you were born for it.’

He lifted a shoulder. ‘I always thought I was. Funny thing is, on some level, I also thought I was meant for something more. Egotistical, right? Especially since it turns out I was only ever meant for something considerably less.’

‘A rating doesn’t define a person, Quentin,’ I said, looking at my fingers as they twisted the strap on my bag.

Again, I felt him staring at me like some kind of puzzle. It frustrated me so I moved to open the car door, but he stepped closer to me instead, one hand entwining with mine, the other wrapping around my unwounded side. It was close. Intimately so. And when he spoke, it was in a low quiet voice.

‘Do you really mean that?
Really
believe it?’

I nodded, but a part of me realised that for the first time I was actually questioning the statement. Questioning my sureness. My heart pounded, dangerously close to overload. Because looking into Quentin Mercer’s eyes, I couldn’t help but wonder if the rating system wasn’t spot on.

My band vibrated against my wrist. If he hadn’t been holding my hand he’d never have known.

Before I could say anything, his hands dropped from me, staring in disbelief. His own band beeped but he didn’t even seem to notice, he just stared back at me, mouth ajar.

I stumbled back a step, realising my mistake. I’d let my thoughts run away from me and given up too much of myself. Too much that could be used against me later. He was Quentin Mercer.
Mercer
being the operative word. And
I
was Maggie Stevens. I had a plan and I couldn’t forget what I was doing and
who
I was doing it for.

I dropped my expression to neutral. Concentrated on my breathing, then looked up. ‘We should go,’ I said.

He nodded but didn’t move. It was obvious he was attempting to dismiss the thought. He believed he was a neg. And negs were incompatible. Undeserving. Unlovable. Yet his confused expression remained and I could tell he was sifting through all the possibilities as to why my band had beeped. He knew I wasn’t afraid of him. I had no obvious reason to have such a strong reaction to the conversation. Not unless I was thinking the kinds of things that could rattle a person standing within shared breathing space of someone they found …

I pushed past him and slid into the passenger seat, dreading to think what kind of outrageous conclusions he was drawing.

Mine were crazy enough.

When people use the words ‘estate’ and ‘mansion’, you expect big, but the Mercer estate was the biggest damn home I’d ever seen. The building was bigger than our entire block, and that wasn’t including the estate’s surrounding gardens and river – not river as in one everyone shares and visits, river as in their
own
river – running right through the middle of their land with bridges and a small boat.

‘Big, huh?’ Quentin said, gauging my reaction.

I snorted. ‘Seems like it might be over-compensating for some other … insecurities.’

He chuckled and some of the tension from our awkwardly silent drive seemed to dissipate.

Burning torches lined the long driveway and suited waiters holding trays of champagne flagged the grand sandstone stairs leading to the massive double doors where the entry line of guests slowly moved in.

The who’s who of not only Arlington, but also Washington DC and further afield were no doubt in attendance. Mia had been right. It seemed the bigger the dress and brighter in colour, the better. A fact that made my dress stand out rather than blend in.

Quentin grabbed my hand and whisked us up the stairs and straight past where all the guests were greeting a number of waiting hosts. From the corner of my eye, I spotted Garrett and Eliza Mercer. I’d never met them, but their faces were easy to recognise given the amount of press time they received.

I was grateful I didn’t have to suffer formalities I’d probably get all wrong anyway. I let Quentin lead me through the groups of guests and tried not to gasp at the grandeur of the entry hall. As we made our way towards the sound of music I noticed a man and woman being stopped at the base of the broad marble staircase by a security officer in M-Corp uniform.

‘Apologies but upstairs is restricted to family members,’ the guard instructed, turning the guests around and pointing them down the hall.

Quentin squeezed my hand, which surprisingly I hadn’t realised he was holding, and we entered the ballroom. The sheer expanse of the stately hall was breathtaking. Teardrop chandeliers rained down, making the ceiling appear more opulent than any manmade structure should.

‘This place is …’ But I just didn’t have the words.

‘Yeah. Mom is fanatical about the house. She redecorates every couple of years from top to bottom. It’s very annoying. I think she does it as some kind of substitute for not having a daughter.’

I accepted the mineral water he deftly lifted from a passing tray. ‘Raising three boys would’ve been challenging.’

‘I suppose,’ he replied.

We settled into a corner. Quentin stood close, pointing out all the important people. It was hard for me to not glare at some of them or call out murderous intentions. Not that I hadn’t expected so many of the heavy hitters of M-Corp to be present. But having them so close, unprotected, and watching how they laughed and drank champagne while they so easily ruined other people’s lives was hard to take.

‘It was always fake, but now it all seems sinister too,’ Quentin said, his jaw clenching as he looked out over the mingling high rollers.

I took a sip of my drink, deciding it would be wiser not to risk opening my mouth.

‘How are you holding up?’ he asked, turning towards me.

‘Fine,’ I lied. The ache in my side was fast becoming a burning pain. ‘Where’s the office?’

‘Upstairs.’

A man approached, heading in our direction. He was wearing a service uniform and an earpiece.

‘Excuse me, Mr Mercer, your father requested you join him in the front sitting room for a moment.’

Quentin disregarded the man quickly. ‘Tell him I have a guest.’

The man nodded, but remained where he was. ‘I apologise, sir,’ he glanced at me, ‘and to Miss Stevens, however your father said to tell you it will only take a moment.’ I wondered if the man knew everyone’s name in the ballroom, or if I was just special.

Quentin glared at the man. He didn’t like being ordered around and I wondered if this was a new development in light of his recent education about his father.

‘It’s fine. I’ll wait here,’ I offered.

‘You’ll wait right here?’ Quentin asked.

I smiled. He was worried I would head off in search of his father’s office without him. He knew me well. I probably would’ve.

‘Right here,’ I promised.

He nodded. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ He pointed to the other side of the room. ‘The food is over there. I’m sure you’ll be able to find something terribly unhealthy. My mother always likes to put out a tray of temptation for fun,’ he said.

‘Sounds promising.’

He hesitated, but then followed the man towards the front of the house.

My first thought was to do exactly what Quentin had
not
wanted me to and go in search of his father’s office. But I’d seen the guards at the stairs and … well, I’d promised. For some reason I liked the thought of keeping this promise. So I made my way over to the food area, enjoying the idea of the perfect guests seeing me dive into Eliza Mercer’s honey trap.

I was just reaching for the miniature pots of what looked suspiciously like chocolate mousse, when a voice murmured in my ear.

‘Beware, an alarm may go off if you touch those.’

I straightened, still managing to snag one of the pots on the way and turned to see a slightly familiar face. Familiar in that I’d mostly seen it in the social pages. But also in that he shared the same eyes as his brother.

He put out his hand. ‘Sebastian.’

I shook his hand, then picked up a spoon and scooped a mouthful of chocolate into my mouth while he scanned his M-Band. At least it was a delicious honey trap.

‘I take it you like to live on the edge,’ he said, watching me with open fascination.

‘Because I eat what I like?’

He looked me over. ‘Something tells me it’s more than that.’

I gave a slow, condescending nod. It was my best attempt at blowing him off. He didn’t take the hint.

‘You don’t have your Phera-tech on. May I ask why?’

‘You may,’ I replied, leaving it at that.

He smiled as if intrigued by me, but his interest came second to his blatant determination.

‘Would you be interested in a dance?’ he said, glancing towards a dozen or so couples who were already dancing. I heard a few nearby girls gasp with what I was fairly certain was envy and almost rolled my eyes.

I shook my head. ‘I don’t dance.’

He was almost as surprised by the decline as the girls panting behind him were. I held back a smile. Most annoyingly, he still didn’t go away. He actually moved in closer to speak in my ear. ‘You have absolutely no interest in me, do you?’

I stepped back. ‘Should I apologise?’

He laughed. It was a nice sound and made me think I might’ve been able to like him. Slightly. When a waiter passed by, he reached out to take a glass of champagne. The expensive stuff. A tall blonde wearing a sunflower-yellow dress swept by, brushing against Sebastian’s shoulder, and I noted he glanced down to register their Phera-rating on his M-Band. His eyebrows lifted in response before he looked back at me.