20. Two Days Until Bonding #2
Bellefleur.
That’s what they all call me, as though the past twenty years of my life as Laurel Turner were a dream and the only part that matters began when they decided I belonged to them.
After he leaves, I press my mouth close to Carrson’s ear. “The President?”
“He couldn’t make it tonight.”
“He’s…” I swallow. “One of you?”
Carrson feels the tension in me. His arm draws me closer, his hand moving down my back.
“They all are.”
I look over the room again, but the people surrounding us no longer resemble guests at a party.
A four-star general speaks with the director of a federal intelligence agency beside one of the richest bankers in New York.
The British Chancellor of the Exchequer laughs with a Saudi prince.
A European defense minister accepts champagne from the owner of a media empire whose networks reach half the world.
These people don’t merely influence governments from the outside.
They run them. Finance them. Arm them. Control which stories the public hears and which disappear before anyone knows to ask.
Understanding moves through me, sickening. I’d mistaken secrecy for smallness. Imagined The Order as a collection of wealthy families hiding in old mansions, their influence confined to universities, corporations, and backroom political favors.
I was wrong.
Their world has no borders.
If Carrson and I ran, we couldn’t trust the police, the courts, the banks, or the people watching the airports.
We couldn’t cross an ocean and hope another country would protect us.
The people who control the world are all standing here with drinks in their hands. Here to watch me be bonded and sealed.
The back of my throat burns. “We wouldn’t have made it, would we? If we’d run after seeing my father.”
Carrson’s hand stops against my back.
“There are too many of them,” I whisper. “They’re too powerful.”
“No.” The sadness in his eyes matches mine. “But for you, I was willing to try.”
Rebecca is over by the bar, talking with dignitaries from Chad.
She glances my way, and I have an urge to yell at her that what she wants is impossible.
What Silas wants is impossible. There’s no way to bring down an organization like this, not from the inside or the outside.
Not when it looks like this and reaches this far. It’s ludicrous, suicidal, to even try.
Once, after what happened to me senior year, I wished for death.
Now, with Carrson beside me, I want to cling to life.
To give every breath the gratitude it deserves.
But how can I when the difference between safety and ruin is one wrong word, one disapproving glance, one order given by any of the people in this room?
Every one of them is a threat to me. To Carrson. To the life I’ve just begun to want.
Carr comes over then. “Carrson. Laurel.” He greets each of us before placing a hand on Carrson’s arm. “The dean of the law school is here. I want you to speak with him about the internship I mentioned. The one at Oxford.”
He pulls at Carrson’s arm, but Carrson digs in his heels. “Not without Laurel.”
Carr sighs. “You can’t keep hovering over her, son. It only makes her look weak.”
Rebecca joins us, holding a glass of wine by its stem. The color almost perfectly matches my dress.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
“Carrson won’t leave Laurel’s side,” Carr explains. “It’s becoming obvious.”
“Your father is right, Carrson.” Rebecca takes a sip. Carr’s eyes follow the drink to her lips.
“Can you stay with her?” Carrson asks, sounding hopeful.
“That won’t help.” Rebecca places her glass on the tray of a passing waiter, even though it’s only half-finished.
The gesture is odd enough that I wonder if she does it for Carr. So he doesn’t have to watch her drink.
“Laurel needs to be seen on her own, approaching members and engaging them.” She smiles at me, far less intimidating than she was while recruiting me into her rebellion. “Have faith in her, Carrson. You picked well.”
My chest puffs out at that.
Carrson looks at me, and I see his worry.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I’ll be fine.”
Still, he doesn’t move.
“Jack and his son are over there, buying favor with smooth talk and promises they can’t keep.” Rebecca nods across the room. “While we’re here dawdling.”
I follow her gesture, and sure enough, there’s Jackson. His tuxedo is immaculate, his hair combed neatly into place. There’s no trace of the drugged-out mess I last saw on Silas’s bus.
He catches me looking and grins, then licks his lower lip.
I shudder.
“Ugh, gross. Why is Jackson doing that?” Samantha has appeared beside us. She raises her middle finger at him with a scowl, then adds, “Is he limping?”
Rebecca catches her wrist and forces her hand down with a hissed admonishment. “Samantha.”
“He never learns,” Carrson growls. “I’m going to kill him.”
Carr plants a hand against his chest before he can move. “That’s what Jackson wants. Be smarter than that. I raised you better.”
“Raised me?” Carrson turns on his father. “That’s a generous word for it.”
They start talking over one another, yet keep their voices lowered and their expressions neutral enough that anyone looking wouldn’t know they were airing old resentments. It’s a strange way of fighting, engineered to avoid detection by all the people watching us.
I take a step back and hold up both hands. “Enough.”
Four pairs of eyes turn toward me, widened with surprise.
“Carrson, go with your father,” I tell him. “Sam, give me enough time to make one lap around the room before you come rescue me.”
Samantha nods.
“Good. We have a plan,” I say, hoping I sound more confident than I feel. “Let’s go.”
I lower my hands, pressing them against my skirt to hide their shaking, and walk away before they can argue.
Turns out, finding people to talk to isn’t hard.
They come to me, some to judge me and others simply curious to see the new girl in town.
They ask how I like the weather here compared to California.
Humid, I tell them, but I love seeing the seasons change.
They ask how I met Carrson, and I tell them I delivered pizza to the fraternity house, leaving out the part about the dead body and Carrson covered in blood.
I smile in the right places, tilt my head like I’m listening, and accept wine and champagne only to set them down when no one’s looking.
When someone moves to embrace me, I angle my body away, protecting the brand from an accidental touch.
Sometimes I’m too slow. A stranger’s shoulder presses the bodice into the burn, and pain stabs through my chest so sharply I want to cry out.
I grit my teeth and pretend like their congratulations don’t hurt.
Through it all, I watch Carrson from across the room. He smiles in all the right places too, moving through groups of admirers who ask far fewer questions than mine do. He shakes hands, throws his head back, and laughs loud enough to be heard over the orchestra.
He’s convincing. If I hadn’t seen him happy enough to forget himself and sad enough to stop pretending, I’d believe the story he’s selling: the successful college boy with a bright future.
Everyone surrounding him seems invested in that future, as though they plan to live through him and claim each of his victories as their own.
Sometimes when I glance over, Carrson’s already staring back at me. We exchange a small, secret smile, and the version of him they’re all applauding disappears. He’s my Carrson again, and magically we’re the only two people in the room.
Laurel with MINE necklace. Art by: Momo Mitsuko