You were his wife in the 40's through thick and thin, sickness and health, richer or poorer, and through all of the twists of life. Even 70 years later you continued to love him, and stay by his side.
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New York.
2 Years Later.
Interestingly, I had been invited to the party of the year by the infamous billionaire, whom I highly doubted knew my name was even on his guest list. The bad blood between us from past events the snag that caused the formation of our friendship to unravel. Two years had gone by since that day in the Siberian facility, two years of no word from him, and for awhile at least I had settled on never seeing the Iron Man again. However, here we were again, and here I was back in New York, the city I knew all too well.
So, donning a little black dress and some little black stilettos I took a cab to where the illustrious event was taking place, the Plaza Hotel. The lineup outside unfurling around the block as eager guests awaiting entry stood beneath the gleaming emerald and gold landmark. The Gatsby-esque place seeming to outshine the rest of the city.
Pulling up to the curb I turned away from the red velvet carpet that rolled elegantly down the lobby's steps, and from the crowds who were dressed to the nine's in high, luxurious fashion. Not even the flash of the paparazzi's cameras aroused my attention as my gaze was fixated on the lone skyscraper positioned in the mob of other buildings, it's "A" no longer lit up.
The tower dark, and in the distance it stood out; the sole piece of iconic architecture who's lights were switched off. The blackened out tower serving as a cold reminder to everyone who saw it that no hero stood proud ready to defend the earth within it, that the once team who gathered inside were now separated, ripped apart like a mere piece of paper.
With a glint of sorrow in my eyes I looked away, the beams of white camera flashes instead meeting my darkened gaze.
I went on inside anyway, past the armed security dressed in uniforms, and past the fervent high class members of society who were pushing, and clawing to get in.
The Plaza at least a welcoming comfort as it had not changed much even though it was along in years. Like me it was old, yes, but preserved. A relic that held so many stories, and had seen so much, and I had remembered coming here a number of times back in the day. The lavish Champagne Bar being the place where a special first Anniversary occurred at, back when a certain Sergeant was all too invested in impressing me for the evening.
With my heels clicking along the marble floor I waltzed past the Oak Room, and the Palm Court in order to get to the area where the main event was taking place, the Grand Ballroom.
The lush hall built specifically to look like a beautiful French Chateau glistened gold, and at the center plunging down from the domed ceiling was a sparkling crystal chandelier.
Illuminated up in candlelight the room was sparkling, the party-goers merrily drinking and dancing, thoroughly enjoying the night of opulent bliss, and sitting idly in the corner a string quartet played their instruments, their bows whisking along the strings, and I listened to the music they created. Their symphony of notes encasing the ballroom in a lovely melody, squelching the noise from the hoards.
