Chapter 11
From her vantage point at the front of the room, Fola Button could see it all.
She could see the crowd of stunned journalists before them. Out of the corner of her eye she could see her father stiffen next to her. She could see Claire beckoning Henry over, most likely to ask him to create some kind of diversion as she summoned the security guards.
But most of all, she could hear the deafening quiet that had just fallen over the room.
“Is it difficult to sleep at night, knowing you’re a murderer?”
Ms. Bachchan’s venomous words clung desperately to the oxygen in the air, making it a little difficult for Fola to breathe.
Fola had had a bad feeling about the journalist before she had even opened her mouth to speak. A bad feeling that was not based on the irrationalities of emotion, but instead based on keen observation and fact.
Her first observation had been the poster Ms. Bachchan was holding, which bore the words: NURTURE MOTHER NATURE.
Fola recognized those words. They were one of the more prominent slogans of those vexatious animal- and climate-rights activists she’d seen on the news. But what would an activist be doing at a press conference about prodigies?
Her next observation gave her some insight into this question: Ms. Bachchan’s press pass—or more accurately, her lack of one.
Where the other reporters in the room had bright yellow lanyards dangling from their necks, Ms. Bachchan’s neck was void of one, confirming Fola’s developing theory that she was not a journalist at all.
Immediately after her egregious accusation, Ms. Bachchan finally held her poster up for all to see, as Claire hurriedly called for the Manor’s security team. Reporters shuffled back uncomfortably as Ms. Bachchan continued her shouting.
“You are a murderer, Leontes Button! You are burning down the planet with your Button Games factories all over the world. Do you know how much carbon you produce every year? How would you like it if someone came and burned down your home?” The activist was still yelling as the magnificent force of the Manor security burst into the room, four huge men in tailored black suits storming toward the small woman.
“And your games themselves are murder! Your famous leather-bound chess sets are made from Dauphine calfskin. Are you okay with killing cows for your games? Look at the state of this house, this room! How much blood do you have on your hands?”
The heretic gestured her poster at the taxidermized heads of animals strung along the walls.
“You are a murderer, Leontes Button, and you will pay for—”
Whatever Ms. Bachchan was about to say was cut short by her swift removal. Her muffled screaming could be heard from the corridor outside as an uncomfortable silence cloaked the library in the aftermath of the hurricane.
Fola felt her chest constrict as her gaze dotted around the room at the chaos the intruder had left behind. She felt as though a rug had been pulled from under all of their feet, leaving their whole world unstable.
How had that woman managed to get in here? Past the security? Under the guise of a reporter?
She nervously looked out at the sea of journalists, wondering if there were any more wolves in sheep’s clothing. But everyone looked just as rattled and confused as she felt. She looked at her father, seated next to her, wanting to ensure he wasn’t shaken by the whole ordeal.
Though, unlike everyone else in the room, Mr. Button was completely fine. In fact, he looked a little amused by it all.
Claire quickly stepped into the front of the room, switching into PR crisis-solving mode.
“I think that is a brilliant place to end the conference! Thank you all for joining us this afternoon. Refreshments will be served in the drawing room down the hall if you will just follow the senior staff members out—”
Mr. Button stood, cutting Claire off with a sweep of his hand.
“Yes, yes. Refreshments are over in the drawing room. No cows, I’m afraid, but I hear there are many French pastries,” Fola’s father said with a laugh that seemed to carry through the room, rousing everyone’s spirits.
“It has been a pleasure welcoming you all into our home on this tenth anniversary of the Prodigy Ball. I look forward to seeing some of you on the yacht this evening for the main event. And I’m sure we’ll all have good fun reading about the explosive events of tonight in tomorrow’s papers,” he finished with a wide smile. “Claire?”
“Uh … yes, please follow Mr. Torrez out to the next room,” Claire said, looking and sounding like a nervous wreck as she pointed to a server.
After obscenely lengthy applause, the journalists finally began packing away their things and migrating to where Chef Gray’s baked goods awaited them.
Fola’s siblings quickly vanished from the library, Octavius getting up almost immediately and stalking out of the room without as much as a brB.
Bilal announced to Fola and Perdita that he needed to use the bathroom, while Perdita told Fola that she needed to take a thirty-minute power nap before the over-two-hour-long car ride to the Hamptons for the ball.
This left Fola as the only Button sibling. Even Romeo, knowing him, was probably already in the drawing room having some self-imposed competition over how many pastries he could fit in his pockets at once.
Fola pushed herself out of her seat, pretending not to eavesdrop on the hushed conversation going on between Claire and her father.
“I assure you, Mr. Button, we will be doing everything in our power to scrub her presence from today’s conference, and to understand how she was able to enter the Manor without a press—”
“Claire.” Mr. Button held his hand up, wearing that specific wide staged smile Fola knew all too well.
It was the smile that said You have royally messed up and we will be having serious words later, in private.
The smile that more or less meant that there would be no redemption.
It was a smile Fola had thankfully never been on the receiving end of, though she had witnessed it in various guises over the years.
“There will be no need for you to be in attendance at the ball tonight. As I would like no more surprises and for things to go ahead as desired, I’ll have Henry run through the order of events with the staff, and deal with any residual communications issues. ”
“Mr. Button, I—” Claire started.
“You can go now, Claire. I’ll speak with you in the morning,” Mr. Button said with an air of finality, his jaw set and his back rigid.
Claire’s shoulders slumped and she nodded, accepting her obvious fate.
“Yes, Mr. Button,” she said, sounding miserable.
If only she had been more competent, then things wouldn’t have had to end this way.
Now she was being replaced by Henry, something that happened quite often when staff members weren’t up to par.
Sometimes Henry was doing the job of nine people at once, on the occasions when Father had his mass-firing sprees.
Claire skulked away, a false smile in place but her bleary eyes revealing all too much.
It’s a shame, Fola thought. Claire was very good at her job. Usually, anyway. She was an award-winning publicist, after all. Too bad this would most likely be her last day as one.
Without another glance at Claire, Fola’s father placed a hand in his pocket and began walking toward the double doors that had been opened to the long, drafty hallway and the adjoining east wing staircase beyond.
Fola hastily veered around the table, wanting to stop her father from leaving. She needed to ask him a question, one she had been hoping to ask all week. She sped up behind him, standing on her tiptoes to tap him on the shoulder before he could reach the doors.
“Father,” she said in a breathless voice.
He stopped and turned around. Fola knew that her father’s attention was hard-won, and she could just as easily lose it again, so she quickly launched into her practiced speech.
“I’ve been struggling a lot lately with making this really big career decision and I’d really appreciate your advice on—” Her father’s phone rang loudly in his palm.
DR. BENSON flashed up on the screen. The family physician.
He sighed and waved her off. “Not now, Fola. I’m busy.” Mild annoyance laced his words as he turned coldly away from her and stalked out of the room, a slight hobble to his step.
A rapid sinking feeling, which Fola quickly realized was embarrassment, came over her. She immediately tried to shrug it off, hoping no one had seen that interaction. But when she turned around, she was greeted by an audience of two a few paces away.
Her brother Romeo stood there, predictably eating what appeared to be two stuffed éclairs, and next to him was a girl.
Fola folded her arms, trying to look composed as she walked over to the pair.
“Hi, Fola,” Romeo said, his mouth full of éclair.
She paid his greeting no mind; she was too busy staring down his companion.
There was something familiar about the girl.
Fola took in her dark brown skin and soft features, sorting through the complicated filing cabinet system in her head.
Mere seconds later, the answer smacked her in the face.
“Evelyn Gray,” Fola said.
The girl seemed to brighten at the sound of her own name. “You remember me?” she asked.
Fola tilted her head a little, as a few memories filtered through. One prominent memory hovered above the rest. “Hmm, vaguely,” she replied, ignoring the subtle heat rising in her face.