[tw: catcalling, drunk assholes, papercuts]

THE GROUND WAS LIQUID.

The ground was liquid. Warm.
And red.

Every step of mine rippled. 

My feet were smaller. 
My face was rounder. 
My eyes were bigger.

Innocent.

The woman in front of me danced. 
Every sway of her hip was hypnotizing.
Every leap and twirl, she was gliding. 
Every step she took, every move she made.
She was dancing, the woman.

She was dancing on the bodies.

Her face was ghostly white. 
Makeup? I would doubt.

Her eyes were piercing.
As piercing as the knife in her hands.

The room was quiet.
Not a breath from me, her, or the men lying in red.

The woman was elegant.
She was composed and she was calm.
She was everything I couldn't be, that moment.

"You did it," Her voice was posh. Not quite English, French, or Spanish.

But enough to make you feel you were talking to a medieval queen.
Or slave.

"Good." It wasn't a praise. It wasn't a statement.
A word.
A warning.

A sorry.

Every nerve in my body flared.
The only thing running in my head:

"I want to go home." 

I dared let my lips open to let my whisper of a voice free. I dared let my hands shake.
I dared let myself look at the dancer's face.

Her every movement was as smooth as a well-oiled gear.
Maybe she was. Made of gears and parts.
Some broken. Some not.

"Oh," Was it cooing? Or was it real pity? I couldn't tell, not even as she bent down to meet my eyes. "Oh you," her voice surrounded every sound I could hear. Her arms surrounded every touch I could feel. 

Stone. I was made up of stone in her warm embrace.

"Cry," and I did as she rubbed a palm up and down my back, "Cry as much as you must. For after this, sweet girl, you will never again have the privilege to do so."

My shoulders shook.

Her words were in my ears.
But laughter was in my mind.
Four children laughed.
One woman smiled.

"You will never again be able to be a rose without thorns ."

·······•✦•······

Apparently, I did not deserve freedom.

The ballroom was full of people. A flurry of them dancing and prancing and something-that-rhymes-with-prancing around. And the others who were here for business deals, gossip, and food. (Rich or not, foodies are universal.)

I would've, personally, belonged to the last category if it hadn't been for a certain Hawthorne.

The moment we stepped in through the massive doors, all eyes were on us.

The dancers stopped dancing.
The dealers stopped dealing.
The gossipers stopped gossiping.
And the foodies stopped stuffing.

You could hear a million-dollar pin drop.

In all honestly, it felt quite awkward having so many people gawking at me. But I showed nothing but, in Alisa's words, confidence, honesty, compassion, and... 

The power of friendship—I mean, regality.

What I also didn't show was how much his hands coiled around my waist made me want to break something.

Look at me as if I'm the only definition of love you had ever and would ever want to learn.

Grayson Davenport Hawthorne played his roles nothing but the best.
And his role for tonight was my loving, kind, and charming date.

His lips were curled just barely into a smile that made the ladies in the room fan their faces.
His eyes bore into every man, woman, and other, in the room. Assessing, analyzing, and reading them to the point he could be a man who's known them for years.
Or been them.

His arm was pressed against my back. 

He was against me.
In every way possible.

The thing about Hawthornes was that no matter how much you'd try to deny it, there was something tantalizingly magnetic about them. It made you feel so high above the ground, ready to fly. Or fall.

Ignoring the urge to lean away, I gave the room an elegant, permitting nod. Which I had to practice twenty times for, mind you.

With the glances that betrayed judgment, smiles that lied of sincerity and the masks of friendliness they all had worn like a crown of gold as they walked towards us, I knew.

The night had just begun.

·······•✦•······

"Ms. Grambs, a true pleasure to meet you!"
"Fine evening, Mr. Hawthorne."
"My, isn't it a wonderful evening for a walk Ms. Grambs?"
"Mr. Hawthorne, if you have but a moment."

Smile. Nod. Praise. Thank. Repeat.

"Mr. Olga." I tilted my head into a greeting. Picking my toy from the shelf of many. "Fine suit, I must say."

The man, not to be rude, was little less than decent when it came to his looks. A nose, so bent and displaced. A collar disheveled, a body of a plump, freshly harvested pumpkin, the man seemed anything but a drunkard running out of a bar fight after dissing his tab.

And yet his suit was something so precious, so exquisite, that I could picture my 'date' wearing it. And his jaw setting, his eyes dilating and his lips twitching at the corners.
Fighting a god-forsaken curve of appreciation.

And then I didn't.

"Haha!" cried the plump little man, "Neat little thing, ain't it? Finest silk lining, most marvelous workmanship, hand made from the best of the best—" If I had a dime for every time I wished I had some duck tape in hand, Avery and Libby would have over ten dimes. Why ten, you may ask? Well, because after the tenth time, my attention was snatched away by a blur of motion.

Quick.  I would've questioned my eyes. If it weren't for the carefully fluttering curtain.

"And the Swarovski embellishments are one of their kind, some even solitaires—" The plump man kept talking and talking and talking.
Until he realized somebody was listening intently.
Someone named Nobody.

The window was wide open.
Pretty Boy had been dragged away by ladies and officials. 
That's my go.

Sliding through the crowd was the easy part.
Figuring out where to go? Now that was the question.

I pretty much moved on instinct, aimlessly wandering about. Just away from the suffocation of the room. I lost focus, letting my legs move. So fast and smooth, I myself didn't realize when I managed to lose Ezra and Grayson.

The marble bar was cool against my skin. The array of drinks I could never drink and glasses I would never buy, reflected the lights in the most captivating way. Every color, tone, and brightness made them shine and gleam. It made me urge to idea to look for some paints and a brush. Instead, I found myself looking at her instead.

She was truly beautiful, I must admit. She had dark hair like mine. Amber, honey-like eyes, also like mine. Her face was pale and her eyes were focused on the beverage she made. Focused and impaling. 

I noticed the way her every move seemed like a dance.
The slight stretch of her fingers, the angle of her head, or even the barely noticeable leap in her steps.

Weird. I shouldn't know a thing about dancing.

Despite myself, I let my eyes go to the source of a skin-crawling whistle. Two drunk rich kids. Of course, the little bastards were catcalling her. Why was it? Because of her dancer's body? Because she was a bartender and an easy target? Or simply just because.

I shouldn't poke my nose around. I blankly glared at my fists. The cool table did nothing to soothe my urge to throw something hot at the boys' faces. 
Keep to yourself. Don't get into more scandals than you already have.

Shoo! Shoo!, I scolded the Pretty Boy in my head, How did you even get in?

"Look at that," Bastard number 1 drawled. His eyes roamed her figure. Nauseating, "Dang, girlie,  love what you're wearing. Would love it better on my bedroom floor though."

Wtf? I practically had to become gravity to keep my palm from going slap onto my face. Oh, that poor girl.

"Good one, bro!" I guess Berozgar ('Unemployed' in Urdu—and I should also not know Urdu) Bastard number dos was dumber. He went full on wallmart-dollar store-sale-discount-Brad Pitt- mode, "Hey girl, If you want to go out to do with me just smile. If you don't want to, do a backflip."

What horrible Best-Pick-Up-Lines-Ever-Sigma-Giga-Chad website did they pick these from?

I was halfway ready to diss the Pretty Boy in my head like I did with the original and go give those brats a nice kick in the no-nos but the girl made me stop dead in my tracks.

Two arms swinging forward and up, one leg in the air now two. Hovering just a moment before landing like a cat on its feet. She did a backflip. And she did it with style. 

She did something I would do.

God, would I kill to get Pretty Boy's camera— hell, any camera—right now. The gap of their jaws dangling, eyes looking ready to move out from their socket apartments. The bastards' expressions looked priceless.

I so like this girl.

"You little—" Bastard One slammed his fist onto the table, drawing a few stares. "My father will hear about this! He'll make ya life a living hell, you bitch!"

Just as Bastard The Second was about to hype his man up, "Good Evening," In a voice so silky and enticing, Grayson Davenport Hawthorne (Get out of my head, it's the seventh time) would've put his hands together in a clap, I curled my lips up, "Is there a problem here, sir?"

You're the problem, I have just the right solution that may or may not involve kicks and no-no squares.

Bastard and his minion snapped their head towards me, opening their mouth to run, but stopping mid-way. Drinking me in. Eugh. I don't know what they saw in me. If it was the non-existent curves, then I could assure them, they were hallucinating. 

"Lookie Lookie," The Bastard swayed from one foot to the other as he approached me. Drunk and wasted. "You're not half bad, huh, sugar? You got a pretty fan to hide that pretty face too."

The hand fan in question was given to me by Grayson for the ball. Said something about fan language or whatever, I didn't pay much attention. But I wonder if I slapped the fan hard on his face, would that say 'fuck you' in fan?

"Yeah, bro," squeaked Bastard II, "Could use a bit more ass though." Oh, I really want to murder something.

"Say, sugar," The man dared to touch my chin, "How bout you do ya friend there at the bar a favor and gimme a little kiss—"

Snap.
It was bent in the most painful angle possible.
I was very proud of myself. My art was exquisite! Although if Libby or Avery were here, I doubt they would quite agree with that.

The horror on his face. The redness forming on his awkwardly bent wrists. My actions.

And it was terrifying that I found no discomfort or effort in doing so.

Now only to get hold of that Drake fucker.

"Curious things," My voice surrounded the boys and maybe even the girl. The bustling sound of merry seemed to gloom and dim. Each word was a threat and a taunt, "these paper fans, are they not?" A blink and the curious thing was spread wide open. Edges so still against his throat. I wasn't a princess with a toy but a rogue surgeon with a knife. 

"Did you know?" The smile creeping up on my lips was nothing if not sinister.

Maybe that pill really did work.
Maybe that man wasn't lying.
Maybe Doctor Kiguro is still out there.

Maybe the Deadly Doll...

"A paper cut isn't a smooth slice." The words seeped into the tense room atmosphere. A bubble separated from those of bliss, pleasure, and gain around us. "It's more like a serrated blade that's grabbing and ripping. And stabbing." Punctuating every word with a soft slide of the fan against his neck, "And leaving little tiny shards of paper fibers in the cut."

The girl watched intently. I doubt her job would really advise to just stand there while a rich lady subtly-unsubtly threatens a rich dude with paper and fan, but she made no move to call us off.

Good girl.

"I don't know much of fan language, sir." The word was so sweet. So sickening from my lips. A step back, I took the fan against my own neck. "Kindly tell me would you for I must say," With the brightest, most innocent curve of my lips, the rounding of my eyes.

I slid the edge across my neck.
"I wonder what that means."

·······•✦•······

"Idiots." I sighed.  The sight of the two running with their tails between their legs was somewhat helping my sour mood. 

Libby doesn't like it when you show this side.

My life, from the age of fifteen till now, was the only I had memory of. Before 15? Nothing. I remember the first time meeting Libby and Avery after leaving the hospital and getting adopted by Ricky Grambs. Thinking back, after finding out that I had been in a coma for no apparent reason for fifteen years, the worst feeling in the world was nothing compared to when I saw her tear stained face, begging me to stop.

Begging mercy on behalf of someone who had done nothing but hurt her.

"A drink for the boss lady?" Her voice brought me back. She wiped the table free of some red stains. 

"Tempting, but no thank you." My eyes caught the little badge on her left, "Lyra Kane, is it?"

The girl smiled, "It's actually Lyra." Lee-rah. Not Lie-rah.

"Oh," my face flushed a bit, "Uhm, so sorry."

"It's fine," She put the cloth away and sat down, her lips never curling down, "most people getting wrong. Especially while reading."

She was young. Maybe around seventeen. Her eyes had bags under them yet they did nothing to deter her looks. "So, Lyra," Lee-rah, "What brings you here serving drinks?"

"What?" Lyra leaned in, "Think I don't deserve to mingle with the rich?"

"You're right, I do." The way my lips just refused to curl down, "Why would any decent human being deserve to mingle with the rich in hell?" I let another giggle escape my lips, "And as of now, I believe you seem to be more than decent."

"Quite the one with words," Lyra curled her lip from one side, "Good to know. If you ask me why I am here, which you have," She mindlessly twirled a strand of hair around her fingers, "Part-time job. University savings, school funding, and some extra bucks." Her shoulders dropped in a shrug, "Middle-class problems." 

Believe me, I would know. "The rich could never dream of, huh?" The wave of my lips wasn't just a simple showpiece. It revealed little titbits of understanding. 
Titbits of me.

"And you?"

And me? Could I say forced abduction? Or maybe being unemployed waste of time. And yet I found myself saying the truth, "A ball. A date." Some of it at least.

The word date seemed to grab Lyra's attention, "Date? Interesting. Would said date happen to be the blonde man staring at you right now?"

Turning around, silver was met with gold.

Curses to myself, it shouldn't have been so hard to breathe. What was his deal? Surrounded by women, men, and alike, Grayson Davenport Hawthorne's gaze never wavered. Never wavered from me. Those silvery grey eyes were the sharpest arrows ever made, piercing into me.

How long had he been watching?

No matter how much I tried to convince them, my eyes refused to leave his. I noticed the fact once more. Surrounded by women at least a thousand times more beautiful compared to me, he couldn't look into anyone's eyes but mine. Wouldn't.

No, I mentally chided, you're reading it wrong. Don't even think about it. 

Grayson Davenport Hawthorne had no reason to hold my gaze like that other than the fact that he was keeping an eye on me. That he was making sure he didn't have to do more damage control. That's all and everything I was to him. Damage to repair and control.

A haughty part of me wanted to prove him so wrong.

I would never admit it out loud but the simple act of averting my eyes from his felt like ripping through my skin. "No," I wondered, if I had a name spelled L Y R A, would Lie-rah suit me better? "No, that would not be my said date."

Slamming a door shut on any thoughts of the Hawthorne, I politely asked Lyra for a simple glass of water. And yet there was always that little gap from which light would peak through.

Did you see what I'm capable of, Hawthorne?

Did you see who I may be?
What would you do?

Do the burn marks mean anything to you?
Why was the dossier empty?

What—Who the hell do you take me for, Hawthorne?

My dove. My everything.

I was sinking. So so deep, I was sinking. I couldn't breathe; why should I?
I was underwater with no knowledge of how to swim.

I was nothing and no one.
And I wished it would forever last.

But his hand on my shoulders woke me up. Made me someone. Made me surface.
Made it last no longer.

Looking up, for a truly frightening moment I could feel the dangerous tug of expectation. Hope. Hope that I would meet silver once again.
And to my disappointing relief, gold clashed with gold.

"Do you want Hawthorne to fire me?" A weird sense of familiarity fluttered in my chest. His haphazard brown curls were in front of his eyes. That boyish grin.

"Ezra," was I using his name to ground myself to reality more than to name him? Might be. Nonetheless, there was a soft, airy tone in it.

The Martin boy leaned against the bar, "You know if you keep running off like this, I think I should start counting my final salary dates. No wonder the Boss Man had a sorry face when handing me your car keys," He may have been talking to me, but I caught the way his eyes would sneak glances behind his back. Sneak glances at her. "You are... something, alright."

Hello Business-I-should-not -tick-my-nose-into.

Clearing my throat before the boy had any ideas, I quickly downed the glass of water (It must've looked impressive to anyone who did not know that was water in a wine glass) and mimicked the smile on Lyra's face, "Till we meet again, Rara."

And nickname, check. Extra generous tip with money I may or may have not borrowed from pretty boys's wallet (even tho I practically own all of it), check. Friendly wave and the urge to run away at the speed of light, never meet a living soul again, check, check, and check.

Halfway through the crowd, dragging the Martin boy along, Lyra's voice called out. "Wait!" Piercing through the lively room, "You never told me your name."

I opened my mouth, the words ready to roll into the room, soon to be forgotten by her in days, "Ezra Martin!" Wait, what? Glaring with annoyance at the boy with a cheeky smile, I jabbed his head hard.

"She's talking about me, Romeo," I turned to face Lyra. And yet I found myself glancing at the Hawthorne. Dancing. With a woman in hand. And with her in his arms, his eyes landed on me. And stayed.
If I tell you who I am, will that change the way you look at me, darling?

Tearing my gaze away, I let my lips curl up like they have been doing since the beginning of the evening. Soft, calm, and natural. As natural as the rising sun. As natural