Page 197 of Fatality

“What did you just say?”

“You heard me.” His expression doesn't change. “I was instructed to personally deliver the box into your hands, ensure you open it, and then escort you to a fitting boutique, where a dress is already waiting for you.”

I snatch the box out of his hands and rip the ribbon off.

The moment I lift the lid, a mechanical butterfly flutters into the air.

A familiar scent fills my nostrils.

My mother's perfume, my nose wrinkles in disgust.

My hand shoots up, catches the butterfly mid-flight, and crushes it in my fist.

That kind of thing is expensive, fragile.

“I sneezed. My bad,” I say, my voice completely flat.

I uncurl my fingers and let the twisted remains clatter to the floor at my feet.

Inside, I find a letter—No, a note, really.

Riven Laordie, heiress to the Laordie empire, daughter of Adrien and Celine Laordie, are hereby invited to attend a business dinner this evening with the members of the Central Authority, the governing body of our magnificent city, Kairo-9.

The clatter of silverware echoes through the opulent, utterly ridiculous dining room.

Everything is marble and gold, completely devoid of humanity or any personal touch. Every inch of the place was designed to look perfect.

The waiters aren’t even human.

They’re those humanoid robots with those creepy, almost like faces that I saw once in the restaurant where Liam wanted bring me to.

I can never look at one without feeling like I either want to offer it my heart on a silver platter—or piss myself.

Now I don’t even have a choice, and I’m trapped in a dress that covers my entire neck with some ridiculous stand-up collar, all silk, sleeves reaching my wrists, the skirt so long I can’t even see my feet.

I feel suffocated.

If I don’t get a flute of champagne or a shot of tequila in the next minute, I might rip this damn thing open right in front of half the members of the government.

The conversation drifts from one work topic to another. I have no idea what they’re talking about, and I couldn’t care less.

When I throw back a shot of tequila—either my brain manifested it or one of those creepy robots actually listened when I told it to bring me something strong—I catch my mother glaring at me from across the table.

I wink back.

When I got to that stupid fitting, there wasn't a chance in hell I was wearing that dress, but the woman didn't have a single other option.

Nothing else.

Then again, my mother probably made sure of that.

Dinner drags on.

I absently toy with my fork, trying to bend the damn thing.

Dessert arrives just as I'm about to stab someone with an unbendable fork simply because it's starting to piss me off.

Maybe I'm not that different from him.