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Jael tries to hide her giggle behind a polite cough.
I’ve never been more grateful for the ding of an elevator as its doors roll open. We walk out to an open-spaced atrium with a vaulted ceiling, full of people in fanciful gowns and tuxedos. They wear their even fancier masks over their faces and socialize to the backdrop of Chopin’s Nocturne op. 9, no. 2.
I close my eyes, immediately swept away by the calming tempo and fluid composition.
My fingers ache to play along. They twitch at my sides, fluttering as if I’m at the keys, playing myself.
To any casual observer, I probably look odd as hell. But I don’t care—I’m lost in the melody of the timeless piece.
Jael finally snaps me out of it. “Why don’t you give Lyra a tour of the banquet hall, Francesco?”
My eyes pop open. “Huh? Wha?”
“Francesco’s going to give you a tour. Paolo and I will be on the terrace. He’s waiting for me out there.”
She slips straight into the masked crowd socializing about their latest Teslas. Francesco offers me his arm. I almost rush after Jael, but she’s disappeared among the sparkling gowns and waitstaff wandering around with trays of hors d’oeuvres, so I don’t bother.
I should’ve known this would happen. Last year I attended some rooftop bar party with her, and she did the same thing; she disappeared with the first guy who made her see dollar signs.
With a sigh, I resign myself to keeping Francesco company. That’s obviously what Jael wanted—me to keep him away from Paolo long enough for her to sink her hooks in him. I’ll give her half an hour, then I’m out.
Francesco is nice enough, but unsettling nerves swim inside me. There’s an element of assumption in his stare that makes me feel like he’s started some kind of countdown in his head.
He shows me the large fountain at the center of the atrium, dipped in gold and shooting perfect arcs of water through the air. Though he tries his best as he speaks, I can barely understand a word. I resort to polite nods and vacant smiles.
It’s too late by the time I realize one of these nods is answering a question—do I want to see more?
Francesco tucks my hand under his arm and leads me toward the glass elevator.
“I’d rather stay here than go.”
“Yes, we go. Fifth floor,” he answers, patting my hand.
“No, I meant I don’t want to go.”
“Yes, we are going.”
As we step into the elevator, I’m beginning to think he’s mishearing me on purpose. I wrench my arm from his and step back.
“We don’t go. You go. Bye.”
“Lyra—” his lips move as he speaks, but the elevator doors shut and silence him for me.
I huff out a deep breath, feeling like I’ve unloaded unpleasant weight. No offense to Francesco. He seemed okay… at times. I just had no interest in being his entertainment for the night.
Turning back around, I survey my surroundings. The classical music has continued to play in the background and the party attendees carry on socializing amongst themselves. Lively chatter and poised sips of champagne. They’re all so rich, yet so boring.
This was the elite party Jael made a big deal about?
I scoff and move in the direction that’ll take me to the exit. The only problem is, I step into a man. Another staff member of some kind. Unlike many of the others, who don a modest white jacket and black pants combo, this man is dressed in all-black with an earpiece.
“Are you one of the players?” he asks.
My left brow ticks up and I let out a confused laugh. “Players? As in for a live band? Is there one? I play the piano.”
He seems to find my answer amusing… or at least his lips curl.
But it’s not the kind of curl that makes me feel flattered.
