Copyright © 2014 by roastedpiglet (of Wattpad)
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author.
Piggy's Note:
Hey, lovelies! \(◕‿◕✿)/
How've you been?
This is dedicated to @XxWhite_RosesXx for being her phenomenal self and supporting HTFIL for a very long time now. You rock, dude. Thank you. :)
Shout-out to: @OnyxCat28, for her witty comments and hilarious jabs; @mclovinthedark, for her empowering support since five months ago; and @palindromes, for not just reading HTFIL, but for being a rather great friend.
Song to the side is "A Thousand Years" by Christina Perri, for one listens to Christina Perri when it's time to dance. A pretty, luxurious picture of a chandelier joins her and lights up the sidebar with its beauty.
Hope you'll like this chapter! Be a darling and vote and leave a comment, please? Thank you! ^_^ Every time I see and read a meaningful comment, I just feel super inspired to finish writing the next chapter. It's like my spinach.
See you again soon?
Cookies x muffins x cupcakes
Myka K. \(◕‿◕✿)
❀❃❀❃❀
c h a p t e r t h i r t y - t w o
[ h o w t o d a n c e u n d e r t h e s t a r s ]
I panicked.
With my heart pounding hard in my chest, I scrambled to my feet and dashed to the washrooms, quickly entering the ladies' and locking myself inside the single-cubicle room.
The cubicle was relatively small—as I pressed my back against the brown door that completely shielded me from the outside world, the only thing I could see, under the bright LED light, was a single sink to the left, with different amenities atop it, and a high-tech toilet to its right. High-tech—because there was even a bidet and a music button.
What kind of toilet had a music button?
Was this reality?
Or was this just fantasy?
But those last two questions were in vain—for I knew exactly what the answer to them was.
This was most certainly reality.
So tell me—what was Finn Laurel doing here?
"You need to calm yourself," I said to myself, tone haranguing. "Why are you so worked up anyway?"
Uh, first—because you're not exactly supposed to be here.
I scowled, hating more and more each day the voice of reason in my head. "What do you mean I'm not supposed to be here?"
It's three o'clock. You're not supposed to be anywhere else except at Laurel-Tech until five, during weekdays.
At this, I felt the jolts of guilt creep their way into me. I'd signed a waiver, I'd truthfully sworn to an oath not to contravene the code of the corporation, I'd promised myself I'd do my best to honour my profession—and yet, I still did what I did.
From another standpoint, I should cut myself some slack. After all, it wasn't like my resolve didn't waiver, it wasn't like I didn't realise my mistake and I still didn't want to stay—for I did.
But what happened?
Alex turned a complete one-eighty on me and showed me a side of his I had never before seen—someone furious, and thoroughly disappointed. He looked like he could very well then eat me alive—his eyes betrayed not having known me, as though I were a stranger to him, someone he hadn't seen before, but most importantly, that he was a stranger to me as well—someone I didn't recognise.
Despite my fervent attempts at getting to him after his almighty speech of me proving my feeling sorry by ultimately leaving and doing what I initially wanted to do, I wasn't successful. And with the too-loyal-for-fugitives'-good Emerald Mercy at my back continuously chiding me for my unrespectable behaviour, there wasn't really anything I could do but leave the place, serving a dual purpose of appeasing both Alex and Emerald and of attending the event I'd set my mind into believing I needed to attend—or face the wrath of the Chief Secretary of Laurel-Tech, lose the last strips of dignity and pride I harboured, and ultimately lose the job I cherished.
A job you cherished. But still, you left.
I banged my head against the door, ignoring the string of pain that passed through my head. "I know."
And now, instead of facing it like a grown-up woman, you lock yourself in the women's washroom in fear of dealing with the fact that the CEO of the corporation whose policies you contravened is right outside, lolling in the same event you attended.
I clenched my fist, sending it straight to the wall beside me. This time, the string of pain augmented into a collective ache-inflicting pang, sending me nursing my fist and saying sorry to it.
"I really am," I said, feeling apologetic. "I'm so sorry, hand. For a minute there, I've forgotten about your total lack of muscle endurance. I won't do that again."
My hand shook uncontrollably for a while as a response, and my heart broke for it. "Look, I'm really, really sorry . . . ."
I was about to pretend my hand responded, when my mobile phone rang from the purse I held in my other, unbruised hand.
Passing the purse into my damaged hand, I used the other to zip open the purse and retrieve Angel's Wings, feeling myself release a sigh of relief when I saw the caller.
I slid the screen.
"Hello?" I said.
"Where'd you go?"
I managed to smile at the concern visible in Miles' voice. In the background, the acquainted instrumentals were frolicking—indicating that Miles was still in the ballroom, with his speech done and over with. "You know, just here and there."
"The information in your answer is so thorough I'm just downright speechless."
"Ha, ha," I said sardonically. "But no, really. Are you done delivering your manly speech?"
"Manly speech?" he repeated, sounding amused. "I wasn't aware you were listening."
I furrowed my eyebrows. "What do you mean? Of course I was."
"Just, whatever you—"
"Mr. Royal! It's very nice to see you!" a voice of a man called from the other line.
Miles lowered the phone, the sound reflecting that, as he entertained the man for a bit, before he left and Miles finally got back to me.
"Sorry 'bout that. People show up here and there. It's getting tiring. Anyway, where did you say you disappeared off to?"
I smiled, finding the perfect tie-in. "Like I said, here and there."
"Doing stuff you're not supposed to?"
"Precisely—" I stopped, catching what he said. I knew it was meant to be a joke, just a tiny teasing to match my cryptic response. But that wasn't how I felt—my heart sunk, but I couldn't blame Miles. For how could he know that funny enough, what he said applied to my situation right here, right now? I stifled the urge to sigh. "Yes, you're probably right."
There was silence on the other end, for a moment, it was only his breathing that I heard. He asked after a while, "Are you okay? You don't sound fine."
My eyes widened at the realisation that he heard it, felt it, the unhappiness in my tone. Some people called me an open book, some a crybaby. But right now, I was positive I was being extra careful in keeping my emotions in check. That was what the whole run-to-the-cubicle thing was for. Yet . . . "How'd you know?"
He intercepted my honest question with another question. "Did something happen?"
This time, I sighed. I slumped down the cubicle, thankful that despite the ordinariness of the cubicle, it was large enough for me to be able to squat without the tiles touching my dress. I held the phone in my hand and my purse in the other, if it were an animal, being suffocated from the tight grasp of my hand.
"Honestly speaking, there's a lot that happened to me these past few days—weeks. I've done a great job crying about them—"
"And there you have it, the world's finest crybaby."
"—but in reality, those were just useless tears that did nothing for what I was aiming for—erasing the present and renewing the future. Like a fool, I had genuinely wanted that. Thinking back on it, I still do. But I learnt, somewhere along the way, that that's not going to happen. And to be a hundred and one percent honest with you, when I think and tell myself I'm fine, when I convince myself that everything's going to be fine, I end up being rammed with the fact that I was doing nothing but deluding myself."
"Mia, what happened?"
"I suppose part of why I'm feeling this way, why I'm suddenly telling you things I've never told anyone, is because early in the morning, I found out it was that time of the month."
Miles made a gagging sound. "There was seriously no need to tell me that."
"But I suppose deep down, even if we have a friendship that's so strange it confuses me every time I think about it, subconsciously, I've always thought of you as someone I could rely on, and someone I would lend a hand to whenever he needed me too. And for what it's worth, I'm prepared to do things twice as huge as those you've done for me."
"Strange friendship," he repeated, sounding nonplussed. "Did you . . . did you think I was pertaining to you?"
At this, my eyes widened with astonishment. It took me a moment to recover. "Weren't . . . you?"
On the other end, there was a queer beat, a silent one, before Miles burst out in laughter. Why exactly, I had a few possibilities in mind, ranging from arrantly barbaric to decently acceptable. "No—I—wasn't." Laugh. "I was pertaining to the person who just entered the ballroom in the middle of my speech. Being sat at the back, I think you saw him too."
Oh, my god.
There was no need for my mind to wander back in time to guess who that person was, for my mind had an answer prepared this whole time.
Finn Laurel.
Was Miles Royal referring to Finn Laurel?
But weren't they . . . on bad terms?
"Are you perhaps referring to—?"
"Someone you wouldn't know," Miles continued for me, and at this, the music in the background vanished. The voices of several people were caught on the phone as he informed me that he was walking away from the ballroom, whiffs of air blowing from his end. And then, his shaky breathing became more even, and that was when I knew he'd reached his destination—and taking the sudden serenity, it might be the garden I passed by earlier through a vast glass window when the people in grey were guiding me to the ballroom. "He's an old university friend from Minnesota."
The name of the state had my attention. I repeated, "Minnesota?"
"Yeah," he said, and I presumed he'd taken a seat when he let out a sigh of bliss. "Kimberly University. You've heard of it?"
Kimberly University—I'd heard of it, all right. It was the university my mother wanted me to matriculate in. She'd said it would be better for my medical career, further raging about the fact that all Boscora College knew was to produce talents in the humanities and arts, with absolutely no regard for sciences and maths, the latter the exact same field she wanted me to pursue a career in.
That was settled soon, though, when my father died and then merely thinking of ever going back to Minnesota became the equivalent of my mother dying herself.
"Yes, I have," I answered quietly. "Why Kimberly? Did you take up a medical course?"
He laughed from the other end. "My figurative competitive mother wishes. Because, no, I don't have a competitive mother. My mother is a kind-hearted woman."
Swap with me.
"Whoa," Miles said, chuckling a bit, "that got emotional real quick. Erase, erase."
I felt warm at the prospect—I sure knew how he felt. Emotional talks were a sore spot. I said, "Sure."
"Thanks. Anyway, I was taking up Philosophy with a major in Literature; but I needed to draw back almost instantly since a homeschooled future seems to be the better option—when I'm being groomed to become the next president of the massively growing Royal Group."
I was too taken aback to say anything for the next minute.
"You didn't fall asleep due to the boringness of this conversion, did you?"
I shook my head with vigour. "Not at all! I was—I was shocked, actually."
"About what?"
For some reason, I felt giddy. "Since when did you know you liked literature?"
"Since a very long time," he said, quickly. Then, "Why?"
"I studied in Boscora with a course in Literature," I told him, feeling myself smile. I stood up from my slumped position, regretting to have ever slumped due to the numbness I now felt in my legs. "It's just amazing having to know that a friend of mine appreciates this form of art as well."
"I don't like to sound clichéd, but I'll say it anyway: What bastard doesn't appreciate literature?"
I laughed, appreciating his sentiment—that even though my eyes were peeled open enough to know that literature was considered a lesser art by people these days, that didn't mean that I didn't agree with Miles.
Truly a charming—and alluring—gentleman.
Who wouldn't love to have him in their lives?
"There's something else I want you to kn—"
"You son of a—what the hell are you doing out here when you have guests to entertain inside?!"
The new adult male voice—that sounded a lot like the voice of the man who introduced Miles to the stage, his very own father—chimed in, barring its way through and compromising our conversation.
I knew Miles' hand fell to his side when his phone bumped against his dress suit, emitting a screeching sound.
But that only lasted for a while—for I could hear precisely what they were saying.
"I brought you here to make you a man competent enough to be my son. I even sent that Filipino friend of yours to Yale and paid for her sister's health issues. Do you know how much that cost? I could've started a new line of business with the money I spent on such useless people!"
There was a grunt of disbelief. "Useless? You're one to talk."
There was a force at the other end of the line that muffled the audio until it shattered once and lost reception completely.
And then, like some hope-squandering machine, there was only the grey beeping sound left for me to hear.
With a heavy heart in my chest, I clutched my chest and told myself to get it together. I took a look at the screen. Five minutes. It said five minutes.
Within five minutes, there was so much I learnt about Miles Royal.
With a question answered—that no, he was not referring to me when he said 'strange friendship'—there were so many new ones that popped up.
What was Miles' backstory?
Who was the girl his father was referring to?
What kind of relationship did he have with both his father and mother?
Technically speaking, I hadn't known Miles for long. Literally speaking, I still didn't know him all that much. But there was a proverb, a small saying somewhere, that if two people fought first before they became friends, they become friends forever. Besides that proverb describing what my relationship with Miles was, my gut was telling me that I indeed was friends with Miles, and that I wanted to know more about him outside of what I already knew—that he wasn't merely Challuring, that he wasn't just Prince Charming.
And that he was so much more than Miles Royal.
Maybe it was my mood swings caused by that time of the month, or maybe it was just completely irrational thinking caused by nothing but a figment of my imagination, but when I left my cage and returned to my spot at the ballroom, noting that there was someone else speaking at the stage and the instrumentals had faded once more, it was all I could think about.
I was completely immersed in it, for a fact, that I had completely forgotten about why I fled to the women's washroom in the first place.
Finn's unexpected appearance.
I looked around, my eyes darting from table to table, and released a sigh of relief when he was nowhere to be found.
I wasn't a fool, though.
I knew he was here somewhere.
And that brought up a new line of questions—what should I do? Should I leave? What would that change, when I was positive we'd made eye contact and he knew I was here?
Where did that leave me?
"That leaves you to wondering why I'm here," a new voice piped up, this time, not from my mind, not my voice of a reason, but a voice I knew all too well that came from a man I'd had too many experiences with not to say I didn't know all too well as well.
It was as though at that second, my whole surroundings froze, as all I could see was Finn in front of me, having stood up from the table situated a few feet from mine, and approaching me—slowly, but surely.
He was dressed in a black-and-white tux that for some reason showed off the enigma that was his cyan-grey irises. His hair wasn't gelled; it was dishevelled in so many places, strands falling everywhere, but not once covering his eyes. The prodigal lighting didn't help either—it shone on him like he was the lone star I needed on a moonless night.
When he finally approached me, just two inches away from the seat opposite me at my table, he took one last step, before he stood completely still.
I felt awkward, my cheeks heating up instantly.
"Hi?" I tried.
He cracked a humourless smile. "No wave?"
I waved instantly, giving off the vibe that I felt nervous. "Better?"
"'Fraid not."
I watched as he pushed the chair back and took a seat, right across from me. There were merely two china sets and a squat flower display that separated the two of us, the azure table clothing complementing his exotic eyes. Under the table, I was completely exposed—if he wanted to stomp on my foot, he could do so just fine.
I cringed at the plausibility.
He caught that, and that added colour to his rather stoic smile. "If I were to press charges, it wouldn't matter anyway. You look so guilty they'll believe in whatever I tell them."
That took out the nervousness inside my system.
I flashed him a scowl. "Was is it with you and pressing charges? Seriously?"
He placed his elbows on the table, making it easy for him to lean forward. I felt my heartbeat accelerate.
Be still, my heart.
No, my heart said. It's not often this kind of thing happens, you novice.
There were a good countable inches between our faces, up to the point that I could count start counting the number of eyelashes above his eyes, and feel his breathing fanning my nose. And the worst thing was, I couldn't draw back—his cyan-grey irises, which were latched on me, had me rooted to my spot.
Dammit.
"I'll make it easy for you," he whispered, as though this was a deal we were having between us.
"Who invited you? You said you'd rather die than be associated with Miles. Isn't attending his event associating with him?" I spluttered on, my lack of tact caused by the sudden reappearance of my anxiety, heart beating like the drum set of a rock band—bam, bam, padam, padam, padam. Pound.
But before Finn could think of a reply, Fate had a way of teasing us the royal way when Miles chose at that succinct moment to return, his eyes quick to appraise the scene before him. When they landed on me, his face broke into a smile—but when they carefully shifted to the person sat in front of me, his expression instantly hardened.
When I looked over at Finn, his was extremely awful as well. Abysmal, even.
What was up with these boys?
But instead of doing what I expected, instead of making his way to us, what Miles did was tear his gaze away from us with purpose, to continue on to the front tables, as though he hadn't seen us, as though we weren't here.
For some reason, I felt deflated.
I instantly rummaged my purse for my phone and flicked open the screen, typing a message to Miles:
What happened?
In an instant, the phone beeped.
Got in a fight with my father.
I was about to send a new message, when a hand ripped the phone from my hands and kept it in his.
Finn examined the mobile phone, turning it over to look at the brand, and his eyes enlarged the slightest bit when he saw Ralez's Tech. "How did you—"
"Miles," I said, "gave it to me."
His expression darkened. "You're all about the creep recently, aren't you?"
I heaved a sigh, feeling exhausted all of a sudden. I reached to take the phone back when he leant back, easing his way into the mattress of the seat as he turned the screen off and held it arrested in his hand.
I felt a spark of anger fire my insides.
"Return my phone," I barked icily.
He didn't even bat an eyelash. "Get it from me."
I sighed again, drained from even feeling an argument start. "You don't need it. You have your own phone. Go bother someone else. Go bother Artemis Rose."
I froze at my name-slip.
Uh, oh. The last thing I wanted was for Finn to think I was . . . professionally challenged by the head of my department.
No way.
But to his credit, Finn seemed like he couldn't care less. In fact, he put down his pretence, the façade he'd absurdly decided to put on, and offered my phone back to me, which I instantly retrieved.
Finn released a sigh. "Why are you here, Mia?"
At that second, my phone beeped.
Not knowing what else to say, I countered, "Why are you here?" before checking out the new text message.
Your ex-boyfriend bothering you?
I looked up and saw Miles craning his neck just to raise his eyebrow. My phone beeped.
Just say the word.
I shook my head.
He's not my ex-boyfriend. He's not my boyfriend. He's a friend.
"Are you seriously sending that creep text messages whilst I'm here in front of you?"
I tore my gaze away from my phone and stared at Finn, who looked absolutely indignant, and . . . and livid. And the odd thing was, not with me. All the reasons were blurring, coalescing, colliding, and creating an unreadable solution of compound emotions, doing absolutely nothing good to my heart.
"Sorry," I said, meaning it. "That was rude of me."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Really," I reinforced. "I am."
Finn looked mollified, as he let out another sigh, but it happened to only be for a while. He said, "You didn't answer my question. What are you doing here instead of working at Laurel-Tech?"
"I happen to be curious about that too, actually—"
"Mia."
"Finn," I said. "Back at Via's Pizzas, I told you I'll be meeting Miles soon, didn't I? You knew the specifics. You knew I was going. I went."
He didn't look cross—I was being perfectly unprofessional, but he was being level-headed, with no hint of fury in his eyes, when just a second ago, before I answered his question, he looked ready to pop a balloon or three.
He stood up, trekked a few feet away from my table, and folded his arms over his chest as he stared at me with thought. His brows were furrowed, buried deep in thought. He shook his head, as though there was something he couldn't understand.
And then, his brows straightened, his eyes glinted—he finally got it.
A trickle of electricity went up my spine.
"So that's why . . ." Finn's eyes widened at the realisation, as he said, "So that's why I came here . . ." He snapped his head up, his eyes meeting mine. In that moment, that same mixture of curiosity and concern was present in his eyes—but on whose viewpoint those two were rooted from, I didn't know. I seriously didn't. I wanted to, though. How I wanted to know.
In the background, my ears barely registered the instrumentals treading by, reminding us of each passing second, like a metaphorical grandfather clock.
But that, I didn't notice.
The only thing I recognised was Finn's eyes on mine, our gazes mending.
"Mia," he said, his voice turning softer. "I don't know why I suddenly rushed to this place on the way back to Laurel-Tech. I was at a traffic light, waiting for it to turn green, when I made a U-turn and went here instead."
The hosts at the stage returned, holding the microphones with finesse and belonging they appeared to be excellent masters of the event.
"But I do know this—" He was interrupted.
All eyes were on the people stood on the stage.
"So, Uffa," the male host said to the female host, "on the invitation, it said 'Royal Ball.' But aside from the royal designs and the obvious pun on the names of the Royals, I don't see the point of calling this a royal 'ball.'"
The female host—Uffa—nodded. "I agree with that, my friend Opper. I mean, there hasn't been a single dance sequence, and the tables are arranged in a way that makes this place less identifiable to be a 'ballroom.'"
The male host—Opper—pretended to think assiduously. "What should we do about it? We are getting paid after all—we must give all we can to make this event the most memorable one yet."
Uffa brightened up. "Ah, I got an idea."
Opper shook his head in delight. "What is it?"
They both turned to the audience, with Uffa saying, "I think it's time for the ballroom sequence."
Opper smirked. "And ballroom sequence it is."
Suddenly, the lights dimmed, and the spotlight went crazy, as it circled everywhere, flicking light upon numerous people. And the next thing I knew, Uffa was laughing as she said, "Welcome to the hidden expansion of this ballroom!"
The ballroom, which was once a vast square of grandeur, split into two—with my table being situated slightly left from the centre, I felt myself being hurdled to the left as I stared down at the red-orange carpeted floor and realised that, after the split carpeted floors stopped moving and settled, from the chasm-like void in the middle that was once occupied by the ballroom, elevated a different floor, a rectangular white carpet-covered base that ultimately allotted an entire expansive space for the elite. It was like curtains drawing, only to reveal behind them another curtain.
Amazed, I immediately turned to the right—where the washrooms were—and realised that the reason why they were relatively small considering I was expecting the opposite due to the status of the hotel was because they were part of the right side of the original floor, and that they moved along with it to make way for the white carpeted base.
It was worth a standing ovation.
Too much, in fact, that I forgot about the pressing issue at hand. The other issue.
The portion of the square where the stage was situated was the only part that didn't move—the stage stayed as it was, and on them stood grinning Opper and Uffa, with the former saying, his voice thick with enthused chi, "Ladies and gentlemen, it is time to dance!"
And this was when the elite stood up from their places, their eyes fixated with astounded wonder, as they grabbed their partner and made their way onto the white carpeted base.
My surprise was still high up the sky, but with each passing second, it was decreasing, and the slight decrease was enough to remind me of what the other issue was.
Finn.
Oh, my god. Finn was saying something.
But when I turned to my left, to where I last saw him, stood up, looking expressive, now he was nowhere to be found.
My head snapped all around, trying to make sense of the scenario—of people dancing, smiling to the now changed background music of something resembling the soft tune of an oldies song—and ultimately dying to find Finn and know what he was about to say before Opper cut him off.
But out of the blue, I felt someone take my hand in his, the warmth of his hand despite the cool air-conditioning surprisingly welcoming.
I almost, in reflex, shook my hand away, when the owner of the hand gently turned me around so I could face him, and I saw who he was exactly.
For some reason, I felt deflated.
"Miles."
Miles' eyebrows arched in the middle. "Is there something wrong?"
Had I been that false? Was I too obvious about how I truly felt?
Or did Challuring really have the ability to distinguish whether or not what I showed was how I truly felt?
"I just—I'm looking for someone," I told the truth. "But I—I can't see him."
"May I have this dance?"
I blinked. "What?"
A chuckle left his lips.
Instead of asking who that person was, all Challuring did was take my arms and put them around his neck, and with his hands light on my waist, he slowly led us to the white-covered base, to the middle of the ballroom, right where everyone else was swaying.
By this point, the oldies song was replaced by a noticeably more modern song—a song about a love that could endure many and all. A love that could last for a very long time.
Under the starry-like ceiling consisting of luxurious chandeliers, Challuring's tree bark brown eyes shone the brightest. His small smile as he started swaying the both of us to the slow beat of the song was the only thing I could focus on—it felt like it hid all the secrets in the world . . . hid all the secrets the person it was for held.
For me.
It was royal.
"Do you always speak your thoughts?" Miles asked, releasing a short chuckle.
I rolled my eyes. "Whatever, Miles. It's witty. It's basically your last name used as an adjective to describe your smile."
He blinked, caught off guard. "My smile?"
My eyes enlarged a fraction when I realised what I'd said. But this time, instead of flushing, I merely sighed. "I'm too blunt with you. I'm beginning to dislike it."
The song transcended into its chorus, and I felt Miles pull me closer so that there was only an inch between the two of us. Like someone else I knew, he was a full head taller than I was, so if I wanted to close the distance between us to rest my cheek on his chest, I could. He kept his hands on my waist, their warmth beginning to spread throughout my entire body. My arms stayed relaxed around his neck despite our height difference, so if I wanted to run my hand through his dark brown hair, I could.
But I didn't.
"Don't you like it, though," Miles asked, a small smile playing on his lips, "that you feel so comfortable with me you haven't even noticed we're the only ones dancing?"
As Miles turned me around, I let my eyes wander—and that was when I realised that we were in the middle of the white carpeted base, and we were the only ones on it, swaying to the beautiful lullaby. Everyone else who danced to the oldies song was now in their seats, their eyes latched on the two of us, sneaky smiles on their faces. Both Opper and Uffa, who were dancing on the stage earlier on, were sat on their seats at front, staring at us with sparkling eyes.
Miles smirked, leaning closer to whisper to my ear, "How I'd die to see you blush right now."
And then, right at that moment, I did.
He let out a shaky laugh. "Jesus. You're so cute."
I swatted him with my hand, before snaking my arms around his neck again. "Stop saying flirtatious things."
He put his hands up in surrender, before placing them back on my waist. "If you call the truth flirtatious, sorry, but I can't stop telling the truth."
And then at that moment, the song ended, with the violin harping the last few notes as it quietly faded, until there was a new song, something more cheery, buoyant, that replaced it.
And at this, people clapped, and all I could do was stare at them as the both of us froze, as though our bodies only functioned for the that love song and that love song only. I let go of Miles, and he let go of me too, and this was the point when the elite stood up, grabbed their partner once more, and trotted to the white carpeted base, dancing to the upbeat song.
Miles and I stared at each other. Then after a while, we laughed.
"That was dream-like," I admitted to him, feeling more surreal, now that the dance was over.
He was about to reply, when a woman—probably two to three years older—broke free from her partner and approached Miles.
She gathered her scarf and batted her eyelashes, sending Miles a coy smile. "Mr. General Manager. May I steal you away?"
Miles looked at her, then to me, as though to ask if it was okay.
Being the girl that I was, I saw no wrong in it, I felt no strange pang. I didn't even understand what the prospect of it was for—Miles and I weren't in a place where we belonged to each other, where a third party was completely atrocious. So, I nodded. "Go charm her, Royal."
If Miles looked the slightest bit disappointed in my answer, he hid it well, what with the bright smile he then flashed to the woman, who swiftly took him by the shoulders and showed him her dancing flairs.
I tried to give Miles a little wave, but when he didn't see it, I merely smiled and slowly made my way through the dancing crowd, which was considerably easy, seeing as the area was expansive and the elites' formal demeanour showed even through their dancing.
After a second or two, I was out onto the red-orange carpeted floor, trekking back to my table. When I sat down, my eyes registered the azure table cloth, and remembered something else: there was someone else sat in front of me before the ballroom split into two.
And that someone, based on my amazing scanning skills, was nowhere in the area.
I bit my lip. Maybe he left already.
Should I leave as well?
Not that I would leave just because he'd already left, but because I genuinely felt happy, satisfied, like my coming to this event served its purpose: spending quality time with Miles.
I nodded. Yes, it was time to leave.
I prepared to do just that, remembering that I brought along with me my invitation, some pocket money, and Angel's Wings.
I'd left my silver purse in my chair, knowing that it was a safe place and no one would actually steal here, so when I turned to the back of the chair, searched under the table and the tables nearby, and realised my purse was indeed positively missing, my mind was on a thunderous whirl.
"Where is it?" I hissed, standing up and looking for it all over the place: from the end-rows, the mid-rows, and even at front, where both Opper and Uffa were dancing again. I even headed to the washrooms to see if it was miraculously there, but no. It wasn't.
I was screwed.
Holy sheep!
"Where are you, where are you, where are you?" I chanted desperately, my heart begging for the purse to show up.
Knowing that my purse was not in the ballroom, I took one last glance at it—at the different-coloured floors, at the stage with that luxurious backdrop, and at the elite in the middle, dancing to an even more joyous song, its drums dominating the song and ergo the people's dancing.
Once outside, I was astounded at the lack of guards in sight. It was like they'd all disappeared, seeing as there was no more to guide through the mazes.
"You're wrong!" I uttered bitterly. "I need you!"
For how was I to manoeuvre my way through the intersections in front of me?
Through eenie mini mini mo, the idiotic part of my brain suggested.
I named the first intersection Cave A, and the second Cave B. And then I did the eenie mini mini mo.
My finger pointed at Cave A.
I pretended to ponder for a while.
I trudged through Cave A.
Once through Cave A, I was faced with two more intersections, namely Cave C and Cave D. But this time, there was a way to my left, an entryway that showed an elegant spiral staircase of strong wood and complex carvings with just one simple curve. That was Cave Staircase, just because.
Obviously not the way to the entrance, I did the eenie mini mini mo for Caves C and D only, when in the middle of my chant, I felt someone's arm snake around my waist and with its force push me against the wall of the entryway of Cave Staircase, the other arm of that someone slamming the wall beside my face.
When I opened my eyes, I found myself staring back at strong, fighting clouds across beautiful cyan-grey irises.
We were so close to each other—like magnets of like charges, creating a slight repulsion and building a trivial, almost non-existent, space between the two of us.
Right now, that repulsion was all I could rely on—everything that mattered, everything there was to espouse, so that our faces would be far apart.
Finn retracted the hand that was around my waist to bring it up to my face, dangling in front of my eyes what I'd been looking for: my silver purse, its sparkles winking sadly back at me. "Are you looking for this?"
At the sight of my purse, I felt overprotective—with dynamism and force I snatched it from him. His hand fell back to his side, but he kept his other plastered on the wall next to my head, giving off a sense of entrapment, of no escape, albeit on technical terms, my right side was open, and my right side was the side of the open entryway, there to help me achieve freedom.
But Finn gazed at me with mocking eyes, as though he was daring me to actually escape. And if I did, I'd be a coward.
I scowled.
"How dare you steal—?"
"How dare you choose this ball over Laurel-Tech?"
"You never let me finish!" I yelped, too annoyed to even register that what he said held a sliver, a barrel, of truth.
"That's because you're almost always in the wrong that your right of speech is legally overlooked."
I gaped, indignant. "Excuse me, asshole?"
His jaw fell open, incredulous at how I'd used that word, that same word I knew he loathed. "Again with the asshole, Mia?"
Instead of letting my blood boil, I closed my eyes, told myself to get it together, and gave him one last fierce look before turning to the entryway and choosing Cave C, when—
Finn grabbed my wrist, pulling me back to him. We almost crashed into each other if not for him stopping me at the last second, again proving that there was a repulsion between the two of us that kept us apart. My breath hitched when I saw his eyes—they were dark, darker than they were, frightening. A clouded look covered his features, and for a short moment, my gut told me to run as fast as I could.
But because my heart declined, my feet stayed right where they were.
Until Finn took a step closer to me, making the two feet distance between us only one. He said, "You needed this employment, Mia. To help you with your education—I'm presuming."
I took a step back. For some reason I'd probably in future like to bang my head with a preferably sturdy frying pan, instead of taking a step towards Cave C, where I was sure would lead me to a different set of intersections that would then lead me to the exit, my step took on a curve—my feet led me back to Cave Staircase, my eyes registering that I was right under the entryway, and because the designer of this cave was idiotic, there was a mistletoe hanging above it, as though we flash-forwarded to three months later, right in the heart of December.
All the while, Finn's gaze was on me, carefully studying my move. He shook his head, incredulous. "Yet you treated it like it meant completely nothing to you."
He took another step closer. I took two steps back.
"And all because of what? A stupid ballroom event?"
He took two steps closer. I took three steps back—but I stopped, because the back-heel of my sandals reached the edge of the first step in the staircase by which the name Cave Staircase was coined. I took a look over my shoulder—the one-curve spiral staircase led to a chasm of black void, something I didn't want to immerse myself in.
But like a fool, I knew it was either that, risking the chance of whatever there was up there, or trying to intercept Finn when he was blocking my way with himself.
Or . . . trick him into thinking I was going to this way, but in actuality, I was going to the other.
Thank you, heavens. I silently whispered, You are a genius.
"Let's just say, I expected more from you."
And he took three steps closer. This time, I didn't move. I stayed right where I was—and all I could do was keep myself from moving my eyes and staring at his, keep myself from breathing heavily as I took in the less-than-an-inch space between us, keep myself from shivering from his hot breath on me as he whispered, "But why is it that I can't bring myself to get mad at you?"
At this, my head snapped up—and it was a terrible mistake. Terrible indeed, for I saw his eyes, that bizarre, exotic glaze, those cyan-grey irises where a collision of curiosity and concern was swimming with other raw, inexplicable emotions that I couldn't quite place.
I took a step back, one step higher on the staircase. And another, and another, and another, until I was right in the middle of it. Finn remained in his spot at the foot of the staircase, his eyes following my every move, his eyes which were confused, frazzled, as though they didn't know what they were doing.
"Are you with that creep?" he asked, voice as even as the number two, as the plain grounds far south. Flat, level, monotonous, but so, so confused.
It took me a moment to register what he'd said—and in that moment, I'd already scowled. "His name is Miles."
"Alex called me just a while ago. He told me what happened."
At this, I felt a pang of guilt hit me in full blast, and in an instant, I felt my expression soften, feeling more apologetic than anything else. "I'm sorry."
With his eyes, those electric eyes, still trained on me, he took a step up the staircase, his voice challenging, "Are you?"
I gripped the handrail tight. I sounded imperative, "I am."
He took another step up, and another, and another, until he was right on the step below mine, making our eyes level for the first time, our heads right at the same height. The repulsion, it was still there, keeping us apart. He was defying gravity with his feet slightly off the step—any time, he could fall.
But he seemed like it didn't matter.
His eyes burnt, scorched, blackened, the diminutive emotion clouds in his eyes whirring past each other in full, dynamic speed. "I saw you dancing with that creep; it was only the two of you. You looked ecstatic, blissful." He cleared his throat, his tone turning sad. "You looked nothing like I've ever seen you be when you were with me." His voice was lower, more serious. "But didn't I tell you? Miles Royal is the ultimate dick. You can't trust him."
With a mind of its own, my hand flew to swat Finn's chest for insulting Challuring, my Prince Charming, but Finn caught my hand with his own, stopping its motion. The force made him slip a little though, and that little was enough to make him lose his balance. In a surprised state, all my brain mustered to think was: catch him. So I did, I took him by his collar, with both of my hands, and straightened him back to his position.
But when I thought everything would be all right, and that we were both working according to gravity's rules, I was proven wrong when I felt myself losing balance and in that moment of knowing you'd fall and there was nothing to hold on to and even if there was you couldn't anyway due to the velocity of the event, all I could think of was how I wanted to do so many things and discover the infinite secrets of the world and how, if I really did fall, I would not be able to do either.
But in that exact moment, I didn't fall.
For someone caught me.
Finn swiped under my body to carry me bridal-style, swiftly turning a hundred eighty so as to no longer defy gravity, with my dress working fluidly with his arms as his left was at the back of my neck and his other under my knees. My hand, which was once joined with the one that held my purse safe and sound, made its way around Finn's neck, helping me to a more comfortable position as I squeezed myself up and against his chest, against the rather soft, almost velvety, feel of his tux.
"Jesus Christ! What are you kids doing?!"
And this was the part where an arbitrarily—appearing man was to blame for his cruellest sin yet: screeching in surprise at the sight of us.
Finn and I were suspended in the middle of the vast staircase, with him carrying me bridal-style, his arm at the back of my neck as his other was under my knees, supporting my weight.
There was nothing wrong with that aside from the fact that we were, in fact, situated in the middle of the staircase, with him carrying me bridal-style.
But when the arbitrarily-appearing man spoke, Finn jumped in surprise. There was nothing wrong with that, aside from the fact that our faces were right in front of each other's, we were right in the middle of the staircase, and Finn almost lost his balance when he jolted in shock.
I was speaking in circles, repeating points I'd already stated, for my mind had been compromised.
Because when Finn was startled and jumped in surprise, he was still carrying me bridal-style. And with our faces right in front of the other's, I was also startled, and jumped in surprise. But there was a missing vital point in that narrative—the whole time, Finn was looking at me. And when the both of us jolted, the distance between us vanished—just like magic. And just like that, the repulsion between us was gone—no more force that kept us apart.
And that was the cruellest mistake of the arbitrarily-appearing man.
Because right now, right here, right at this very moment, Finn Laurel's lips were on mine.