Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
I make my way down to reception to wait for the driver. I see Greg standing outside smoking a cigar. His black suit is a match for my dress. God knows where he has been.
He sees me looking at him through the glass and beckons my attention.
I roll my eyes, but my legs take me in his direction. I step through the doors pulling my coat onto my body as the cold evening air flows around me.
I watch him take the last inhale of his cigar, blowing out the musky smoke from his lips. He stumps the stump out in the ash tray and looks at me, his eyes looking through his own masquerade mask. A fox. Of course.
The Belfours love a masquerade ball, a yearly ritual for the Winter Wonderland Ball.
He smells of whiskey and smoke. “You look beautiful,” he mutters. “I was coming up to get you.”
“Well, here I am.” My tone is far from inviting.
He sighs, rolling his eyes. “Look, about earlier—”
I shake my head. “Please don’t, Greg. We both know what this is.”
He nods, defeated, not wanting to cause a scene outside our apartment. Instead, he opts for opening the door to the car and allowing me to slip inside.
We drive in silence through the city until the car eases to a stop, the soft purr of the engine quieting as I look through the tinted window.
Just ahead, the grand facade of the building rises like something out of a dream: ornate stonework, towering pillars, golden light spilling from tall windows like the free-flowing champagne which is sure to be inside.
I step out of the car, the city buzzing behind me, but here it feels hushed, like the world is holding its breath for a moment.
My heels touch down on the gleaming pavement, polished black against the streetlights.
Greg quickly appears at my side to take my arm as we walk towards the doors.
A door attendant smiles in a crisp uniform and nods, his white gloves folded neatly in front of him.
Everything in the air smells like money, like fresh roses, old whiskey, and the kind of perfume you don’t ask the name of because if you had to ask, you couldn’t afford it.
I adjust my coat, smooth my dress, and feel the quiet power settle in my chest. I am not just showing up. I belong here. This is the start of me burning this family apart from the inside out.
As the heavy doors open with a graceful swing, we walk in, head high, heart steady, ready for whatever waits inside.
A few guests turn their heads to stare at us. Some smile and nod, others whisper in groups. The unspoken mystery of me disappearing and then returning. It makes me smile. Let them talk. The more gossip, the better. Mrs Belfour hates gossip when it’s about her.
Greg leads me through the crowd in reception waiting to enter the grand hall and takes me up a separate staircase to the VIP lounge.
As we enter the lounge it hums with exclusivity and glamour.
The air is perfumed with the scent of winter roses and white peonies, mingling with hints of mulled wine and vintage champagne.
Snowflake projections dance across the marble floor as a soft, ambient glow radiates from antique candelabras and shimmering chandeliers made to resemble icicles.
Inside, the city’s most stylish elite recline on tufted velvet sofas in deep sapphire and frosted silver.
Beside them, low tables of polished mirror glass hold towers of canapés, blinis with caviar, truffled arancini, and miniature beef Wellingtons, served by waiters in tailored white jackets.
A private mixologist crafts bespoke cocktails behind a bar carved from clear ice, each drink garnished with gold leaf or sugared cranberries.
An intimate string quartet plays a modern twist on classical pieces, their music drifting beneath the low murmur of conversation and laughter.
A balcony overlooks the ballroom below with the crowds now flowing in through the doors at reception.
A flurry of conversation about business, the elaborate venue and who has the best dress fills the room.
The floor-to-ceiling windows let in the twinkly lights of the city and snow machines above the hall create a cascade of flakes that swirl around the guests.
Back in the VIP area there is a heated terrace lit by fire pits and fairy lights. It gives sanctuary to the smokers and secret conversations to be had as the night starts.
It is more than a lounge. It is a place of indulgence for these people in the heart of winter’s fantasy, where whispered deals, fleeting flirtations and high-society secrets settle like frost on the glass.
The small elite of VIPs stop in conversation to look at us, smiling under their masquerade masks.
A waiter appears and walks us over to a table where Mrs and Mr Belfour are already sitting.
Her, a vision of the devil in red. Her eyes widen and a smirk appears as we arrive in front of her.
“Gregory, darling.” She stands and air kisses his cheeks from across the table. “Gorgeous, darling. Black is always a good choice on you.” She looks her son up and down, approving his chosen wear like he is a child.
She then directs her eyes to me. “And my darling daughter-in-law, Harriet, what a beautiful dress.” She smiles to herself in a self-gratifying way.
I don’t react. I don’t smile. I sit.
Greg follows suit and sits next to me. Greg’s father awkwardly drinks his drink then breaks his uncomfortable silence. “I’m just going to go and see Martin.” He points across the room to my father who is stood with a group of men in suits, laughing and drinking.
My fingers burn at the sight of him, knowing what he has done to my mother. To me. It takes all my strength not to run over there and rip out his throat. I don’t react. I just sit and stare at Mrs Belfour.
She smiles at her husband as he stands to leave. “Of course, darling.” Then she returns her gaze to me.
I never noticed before, but Mr Belfour fears Mrs Belfour. I always thought it was him just keeping himself to himself. But I can see the fear in his eyes as he talks to her. She is a strong lady and obviously wears the trousers in the household.
“You discuss business, and we will discuss family.” She waves her hand, dismissing him like he is one of the many waiters serving the guests.
Her mouth smirks as my gaze does not fold. I stare at her with deadly intent.
She clears her throat continuing to smile.
“Now, I know this all feels a bit off, darlings, but trust me, it is going to work out for the best. Drink?” Her smile grows as she clicks her fingers at a passing waiter who quickly makes his way to us with a tray of champagne.
He places the glasses before us, frosted cranberries gleaming at the bottom of the flute.
“Anything else, madam?” the waiter asks Mrs Belfour, his face trying to hide the fear that is under his skin.
She looks him up and down in a way a tiger looks at a deer. “That’s all.” She smiles at him, licking her red lips. “For now.”
The young man leaves as quickly as he arrived.
I can’t hide my disgust as I look at her. She knows it as well, but she is not bothered. She relishes in the discomfort of others.
“Now, plan of the evening, Harriet: smile, smile, smile.” She lifts her hands over her face showing a large fake smile.
I roll my eyes and force a fake smile out to match hers.
“Good girl.” She grins. “We will wine and schmooze for a bit, then Daddy and Martin will do a speech followed by Gregory giving a loving toast to the beautiful bride-to-be and the announcement of your wedding.”
“Mother, I—” Greg goes to speak up but stops himself. My heart beats quickly. If this man stands up for us right now, I swear I will get on the floor and kiss his feet. Seconds feel like hours waiting for the next thing to come out of his mouth. “Yeah, OK,” is all he says.
Disappointment fills my bones. He is so ingrained to do what is asked for his family that he pushes his own feelings aside. He is weak.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, loud enough for them both to hear.
“What’s ridiculous, Harriet, is you being so selfish and ungrateful,” Mrs Belfour snarls quietly before returning to a natural expression. “Now, darlings,” she chimes, loud enough for any passing ears, “I must go meet our guests. Enjoy the party.”
She stands, smoothing out her red cocktail dress and taking her half-empty champagne over to join Mr Belfour and the groups of socialites in the corner.
I down my drink.
“You don’t have to be so rude, you know,” Greg whispers.
“Me? Are you kidding me? What do you want me to do, Greg? You have basically kidnapped me and forced me to be with you to stop you exposing my family! My very peaceful family I may add.”
His eyes darken. “Harri, I swear to God, carry on and I will not be so forgiving. Stop acting like we’re being so awful.
You grew up in this, it’s in your blood.
Well, with whatever else is in there.” He looks me up and down.
“This isn’t just about you. You think I like being with someone who clearly doesn’t want to be with me?
Yeah, I did fuck up, but you were so cold to me.
I knew you didn’t want me from the moment you started changing.
You are not the complete victim and life with me is not horrible.
I accept you for whatever you are, and we could just have a nice life full of the things we’re used to. So just grow up.”
He stands and leaves me sat there alone, overlooking the balcony at those below dancing to the string quartet as the faux snow continues to fall.
The people below me are completely oblivious to the heart breaking in my chest above their heads.
My anger turns to sadness until a mixture of emotions swirls through my body and into my throat.
He is right. This is it. This is how my life ends. A vision of wealth and opulence. Something I used to long for as a child.
I try composing myself and lift myself from my seat. The tears start to bind in my eyes ready to spill over. My chest tightens in panic. This is it.
I click over another waiter. “Sorry,” I stutter. “I didn’t mean to call you over like that. I really need a drink.”
The waiter, acknowledging the panic in my eyes, says, “Of course. I have whiskey sours here.”
“I’ll take two.” I grab them off the tray before he even has the chance to do it for me. I knock them both back right after each other, the whiskey burning my throat as it goes down.
He shifts on his feet, concern in his eyes. “I know it’s not my place…” he quietly whispers, leaning down to me, “but are you OK?”
I sit dazed for a moment, waiting for the alcohol to start its magic. “Yes, sorry.” I smile at him. “I’m fine, just thirsty.” I take one more drink from his tray.
He doesn’t believe me and it’s written all over his face. I try to ease him. “Honestly, I’m just thirsty.” I smile sweetly again through my anguish.
He goes to say something but instead nods then walks away. He knows I am not OK, but he also knows he is not allowed to chat with guests. The unspoken rule.
I breathe and sip this drink instead of downing it like the other two.
I walk over to the balcony to look below me.
People are chatting and laughing. No clue that up here my heart is breaking into a million pieces.
What I’d give to be as naive and blinded as those below me.
Just going about their evening not caring about tomorrow.
The sight of the marbled floor below me gives me a dark passing thought. If I just slip over the edge, then it would all be over. The dark and terrifying thought is quickly overtaken by the thought of me not even being here to protect Sam. Lola. My family.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I turn to see my father as he also leans over the balcony surveying those below us. His eyes meet mine though his mask. “I heard you’ve been quite the problem child today,” he groans in his deep voice.
“Oh, yeah? If you think today I am a problem, you are not going to like what is coming.” I turn to him. “Have you even got an ounce of love in there?” I look deep into his eyes trying to find his soul or something good within him. “Please.”
“Love is overrated.” His voice is cold and unemotional.
Anger builds in my chest. “You are just rotten, through and through.” I turn to walk, and he grabs my wrist pulling me back.
“You fuck this up for me, Harriet, and I’ll personally see to it that your little boyfriend is put out for the world to see.” His eyes are burning into me.
This man in front of me, he is not the father I remember. We were never close, but he was never hateful towards me. Not like this. Money does awful things to desperate men. My heart aches. He loosens his grip on my wrist enough for me to pull it back to me.
“I’m not fucking around.” He stands for a moment looking at me making sure I have understood his threat. Then leaves me alone at the balcony.
I feel like my breath has been taken out of my lungs, the music turning into a blur along with the chatter and laughter. I need to get away from them.
I walk urgently to the private bathroom, past the groups of men and women chuckling at each other’s crap jokes and drinking expensive drinks that are just so unnecessary. Past Greg. Past my father. Away from them all.