Chapter Seven
The theater lights bathed the lobby in a soft glow.
Her arm was looped on James’s, and she was very much aware of the people whispering and pointing.
Some were Coalition members and some not.
Her place was to be by James’s side, and if he wanted her to leave, she was to obey without hesitation. She knew the role she had to play.
“James,” the mayor greeted with a polite smile.
“Mayor,” he greeted. “You remember my fiancée, Kleya Dane, correct?”
“Ah, yes,” the mayor replied. “Nice to see you again, Miss Dane. My wife had to go powder her nose before the play begins.”
He clearly waited for James to send her to powder her nose as well. Code for, ‘we men want to talk shop.’ Only, he didn’t, so she stayed and plastered a dumb-blonde smile on her face. Leaving the mayor looking awkward in the fallen silence.
“Well, yes,” he said, moving on. Politicians did have a way of sidestepping tricky situations. “Will you and your grandfather be attending Howard’s funeral?”
“We will,” James assured him. “I believe there is a reception after, to celebrate his life.”
“There is. Veilstone Tower will be shrouded in mourning.”
The lights flickered, signaling the audience to find their seats.
“Then we’ll see you tomorrow,” James said.
“Yes.” The mayor gave a respectful nod to her. “Miss Dane.”
He turned and left them.
“He wanted you to boot me away.”
“I know,” James said, patting her hand that gripped his bicep. “I didn’t want to talk shop this evening.”
They made their way from the lobby to the Roarke family box. As they sat, Kleya looked at the other boxes and recognized a few people. Her parents waved enthusiastically from one, and she waved back. She rarely came to the theater, only when it was something she really wanted to see.
“Since our talk last night, I’ve about everything finalized for the wedding,” she announced, watching as people rushed to find their seats.
“That was fast.”
“Honestly, since we’re keeping it small, there wasn’t much to plan.”
“Who’s on the guest list?”
“My parents, obviously, and they invited the Coalition members. Your grandfather, of course. Lark. Am I forgetting anyone?”
“No.” He reached for her hand and threaded their fingers. “I’m eager to make you my wife.”
“Oh?” she inquired with a little smirk. “Why?”
He cupped the back of her head with his other hand, and planted a filthy, delicious kiss right on her lips. He even managed to slip his tongue in when she gasped. When he pulled back, he whispered into her ear.
“I’m going to fuck you until you scream my name.”
She shivered in anticipation. Perhaps I should move up the date.
****
The next day, fittingly, had intermittent showers. With that came a bitingly cool breeze, so Kleya made sure to dress warmly in her somber clothing. She wore black slacks, a black sweater, long black coat, and matched a felt hat to help keep the mist from her face.
James held her hand as they made their way from his car to the burial plot.
Others did the same, traversing the puddles of mud.
Kleya did not like cemeteries, and she would not want to languish in one when it was her time.
Truth be told, she had a hard concept of death.
Knowing that one day, the world would continue to spin without her presence in it.
It only took a generational rotation to be lost in obscurity.
“I do not wish to be buried,” she murmured.
James glanced down at her. “What?”
“When I die,” she said. “I do not wish to rot in the ground.”
“Hush,” he said, frowning. “I don’t want to hear about your death.”
“It eventually comes for us all.”
The gravesite sermon started, cutting off whatever he might say.
Since it was a closed funeral, the only people in attendance were the Coalition families.
Not one ounce of sorrow reflected on their faces.
Howard Havren hadn’t been a very popular man, but he’d done wonders for the purse strings.
Even her milksop of a father didn’t like him and yet praised his business savvy.
Like the previous night at the theater, people stared at them.
Darting between James and Landry, calculation shone in their eyes, and Kleya knew they were measuring each man up.
Landry Sessions wasn’t a bad looking man, but there was something about him that creeped her out.
Perhaps it was the shifty nature of his perpetually bloodshot eyes, looking at women like they were brood mares to mount.
How Celeste Rogers could stomach the thought of fucking him was beyond her understanding.
Once the minister finished last rites, everyone turned and quickly walked away.
They were all meeting up in the ballroom at Veilstone Tower.
It had been transformed into a celebration of Howard Havren’s life, and whoever decorated definitely took creative liberties.
The first people she bumped into were her parents.
“Kleya,” her father greeted a bit too enthusiastically. “How have you been, sweetheart?”
She raised an eyebrow. Her father had never before called her sweetheart. “I’m well, thank you.”
Her mother came forward to air kiss her cheeks. “It was so good to see you at the theater last night. Darling, we must get you fitted for your wedding dress.”
“No need. I already have my dress.”
Ellen Dane blinked. “Excuse me? But ... but ... you picked a dress without me?”
“Mother, I wasn’t going to spend thousands of dollars on a dress I’d wear once.”
“You’re my only daughter, and you picked a dress without me. Where did you buy it from?”
“I found one at the thrift store.”
For a moment, Kleya thought her mom was going to faint. “You bought a used dress?”
“Nothing wrong with used dresses,” she argued. “The thrift store employs people trying to get back on their feet, and I plan on re-donating it after the wedding, to help keep the funding open.”
Tears welled up in her mother’s eyes. “How did I raise such an ungrateful daughter?”
Kleya shared a quick glance with James, and rolled her eyes. “You’re being over dramatic, Mother. It’s just a wedding dress.”
“But you took that away from me.” She used a napkin to pat her crocodile tears. “Sometimes I don’t know who you are. I hope your future daughter does the same thing to you as you just did to me so you understand my pain.”
With a sniff, she turned and flounced away. Her father shook his head and marched after his wife.
“That was brave of you.”
She shrugged one shoulder. “She’s made gaslighting an art.
My entire childhood was her stuffing me into dresses that I hated, all in the name of outdoing all her friends’ daughters.
” She turned to him. “If we have a daughter, I refuse to put them through what my mother did to me. No pageants. No child modeling. No forcing her to be something she’s not. ”
“Deal,” he replied.
Relief washed over her. The worst part of her childhood had been spent trying to please a parent who was never, and could never, be pleased.