Chapter 15 – Aster
ASTER
“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” I grumble, readjusting my bowtie for the third time as I try to ignore my absolute disdain for these stuffy events. They remind me of a part of my life I’d prefer to forget entirely. I always feel perfectly in place, yet like an outsider all at once.
The valet trades me a ticket for my keys, and I store it inside my suit’s breast pocket.
“Maybe if you tried to have a good time, you actually would,” Diego says, a cocked brow and a smile on his face. A security guard confirms our names on the list, then opens the ornate front doors and ushers us inside.
“The exhibition begins here,” an older man in a tuxedo says with a practiced smile while gesturing to a large archway. We enter the main room to find at least ten sparkling stuffed animal carcasses scattered around. It reminds me of my family’s hunting cabin, only gaudier.
“These are the sculptures people are paying millions for?” I ask Diego as we pause before a raccoon adorned with thousands of black gemstones. The entire body is covered. Only its head is visible aside from eyes made of large dark jewels. “Is this even legal?”
“Completely. They’re non-protected wildlife, and there’s no law that prevents the placement of…” Our eyes drift to the bedazzled rodent. “Sparkles.”
“People seriously pay for this shit?” Although I’m hardly surprised.
“According to my sources, there will be an all-out bidding war tonight.” He gestures to a massive sparkling bear in the corner.
It’s wearing a jacket seemingly made of diamonds, although by the shine and lack of security near it, I suspect they’re fake.
“That one is rumored to capture upwards of ten million.”
Ten million. For fake diamonds on a stuffed bear. Shaking my head, I say, “If only there were better uses for that type of money.”
I understand the privilege of growing up rich, which is exactly why I left that lifestyle.
I got so damn sick of seeing these pretentious assholes dropping money on ridiculous things while their employees defaulted on their mortgages.
My dad bought another McLaren while his head engineer worked two jobs just to afford his son’s medical bills.
Not that my dad gives a shit about anyone but himself.
I may have splurged a few times over the years, but they’re normal things like a single car or motorcycle. Not an eighteenth vehicle to rot in my thirty-car garage, or a five-million-dollar painting to put on the wall over my marble fireplace.
“If I had ten mill, I’d buy a 1957 Ferrari 250 Testa Rossa,” Diego says, making fake driving motions in the air.
I huff a laugh, slapping him on the shoulder. “Hate to break it to you, but you’re going to need about four times that.”
He shoves me off him. “Could you just let a man dream for a minute?”
“Diego!” Someone waves from across the room, and he excuses himself, leaving me with the “art.”
“You’d be surprised what people will pay for access,” a woman says, appearing beside me. A golden, form-fitting gown hugs her curves as she nurses a glass of champagne.
“Access?”
She gestures at the sparkling zoo around us.
“This room is full of people who understand the value of this art is not simply the stones or the uniqueness of the mounts.” My gaze bounces between people deep in conversation.
“It’s being in proximity to others with the same goals and ambitions as you. So what’s your goal, Mr. Blake?”
I slide my eyes slowly to hers as a smile spreads across her face. “You know who I am?”
“Of course I do. It’s my job to know the names of everyone who steps through the front door. Especially those who write for Solarium News and have a history of hating the rich.”
“I don’t hate the rich. I hate people who care solely about lining their own pockets at the expense of the innocent.”
“No one is innocent.” Her lips curve, while her eyes reach right into my soul. “Especially not you.”
My heart stops. Could she know?
I shake away the thought. Of course not. She likely hates me for my reporting on the crime section and shit-talking about these art pieces. I unbutton my suit jacket as the temperature in the room increases. Can someone turn down the AC in here?
“These animals were innocent, and look where that got them.”
“Every single one of these poor things suffered from an incurable illness or injury,” she states, gesturing to the raccoon. “Georgie here had a broken foot.” She points to a snake whose gems are adorned in an arrowed rainbow pattern. “That one swallowed trash and couldn’t digest it.”
A rock settles in my stomach. “These innocent creatures were shown mercy,” she continues. “These pieces freeze them in time. Ensuring they’re never forgotten about, even after death. They’re eternal.” Her gray eyes meet mine. “Pretty things deserve eternity, don’t you think?”
A chill scatters down my spine in a way I can’t quite explain. The way she speaks, there’s so much I fear needs to be read between the lines, but I don’t have the cipher. “Of course.”
She leans close, tone hushed. “Is it safe to assume you won’t be bidding on this piece?”
I gesture towards it. “It’s all yours.”
“Isla,” a familiar-looking man says, walking up with loafers, slacks, and a burgundy velvet suit jacket on. He leans in, kissing her on both cheeks, and the way her eyes brighten, they are clearly familiar. “How is it going tonight, love?” he asks in a thick British accent.
“So far, so good,” she replies, then gestures to me. “This is Aster Blake… journalist.” The words are like a warning. Don’t say anything you don’t want plastered on page ten.
“Frederick Vetrel,” he says, taking my hand and shaking it. “But just call me Vetrel.”
“Like the bar on 58th Street?” I ask, and he nods.
“Yeah, it’s my place.”
“Nice to meet you,” I reply curtly. Now I know why he looks so familiar.
Vetrel’s Bar is headquarters for some of the most nefarious crimes going on in Cleosville.
Drugs. Weapons. Call girls. You name it.
I haven’t yet been able to dismantle them as it’s felt a bit like a chicken walking into a fox den, and I want to ensure I’m fully prepared for whatever blowback that would cause.
“Here for business or pleasure?” Are you here for information gathering or connections? That’s what he’s really asking.
“Just came as a plus one,” I say.
“Frederick, there you are,” a blonde woman says with another thick accent.
“Karolyn,” he replies, kissing her on the cheek, and drops his mouth to her ear.
She shakes her head. “He knows,” she whispers just loud enough for me to hear.
Vetrel’s jaw tightens, and he takes a slow breath, scratching his graying beard. “You’re sure?”
“Isla,” another woman says, waving and getting her attention. “The French ambassador would like to have a word.”
“Excuse me,” Isla says, slipping away. Vetrel and Karolyn are having their own hushed discussion, leaving me with no one to converse with but the trash panda.
Isla’s explanation regarding the art was intriguing, but something about all of this is still… weird. I should’ve just stayed home and finished painting. Or checked in on a certain pink-haired spitfire.
Before I decide to do something reckless like leave and resume my stalking habit, I wander in search of Diego.
As I weave through three more rooms of sculptures, the light harmony of string instruments catches my attention.
I follow the sound floating down a corridor to a small ballroom filled with people laughing and dancing.
A mahogany bar lines the wall, and there are a few high top tables where people are eating hors d’oeuvres.
What grasps my attention the most is above the wide rumbling fireplace on the far wall.
A massive mirror with gold framing is adorned with the top halves of three human-shaped skeletons protruding out.
They’re jeweled just as the other pieces, but these sparkle brighter.
Each skeleton is positioned differently.
The first has its hands covering its eyes, the second its ears, the third its mouth.
See no evil. Hear no evil. Speak no evil.
Interesting choice of art.
Beside the fireplace, a door swings open, and a few waiters appear with full trays of food, causing my stomach to rumble.
The soft sound of a woman’s laugh, a familiar laugh, has my head snapping to the side. Lily’s talking to some pretentious trust fund baby looking guy. Her hair is in big loose curls, and a fitted silk maroon gown adorns her body like a fucking sculpture of Aphrodite.
My neck burns, and I bring my fingers to the place she carved me.
Branded me. A constant reminder of what she’s capable of.
And I hate myself for loving it so damn much.
Since my collar mostly covers my neck, I was able to forgo the bandage tonight, and the scar flames under my touch.
The last time I saw Lily this close, I’d just pulled a dagger out of my leg.
A dagger she placed there. And I still can’t find it in myself to hate her for it.
Seeing Lily here, in that dress, my resolve wears thin.
Her baby blues connect with mine, and a deep frown envelops her face. She returns her attention to the preppy guy, faking a smile. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I stride over, her body tensing more with my every step.
“There you are,” I say, sliding my arm around her waist, pulling her in, and dropping my lips to her ear.
“Caught you.” Her body shivers under my touch, and she laughs nervously, placing an arm on mine.
Her fingernails dig in, and I revel in the pain.
“And who is this, darling?” I ask, smiling towards the man.
I’m not sure when I decided to pretend she and I are more than we are.
And what is that exactly?
Enemies?
Mutual stalkers?
But his expression, and the way his envious eyes trail my hold on her, fill me with great satisfaction.
“I’m Judious Westerford,” he says in disbelief. “Of the Westerford Oil family.”