Page 5 of This Cruel Fate

While these dinners happened every year, this one was especially important. All the pundits and journalists speculated that this would be the day Peter announced his plans for re-election in the first official election since the rebellion, or Variants’ Revolution as it was colloquially known. Tensions ran high as new political parties sharpened their sights on the chancellor’s position and unseating FAR.

Xolia glanced down at her phone, the screen opened to the most recent news coverage about other potential candidates. No one had announced yet, it was as if the entire country was caught up in a bubble that was about to burst. The door handle turned, and Xolia hurried to swipe away the incriminating evidence of her addiction. She wasn’t supposed to watch the news; she’d been re-admitted to rehab three years ago when a rogue human militia group killed the first variant couple to conceive a child post-rebellion. Krista had, in no uncertain terms, told her to protect her mental health and stay away from upsetting news coverage from then on.

Marshall entered the bedroom with a towel slung around his hips. His body had filled out since their younger days. He smiled and dropped the towel, his eyebrows raised suggestively. Xolia swiftly turned back to the mirror, trying to hide her eye roll.

“You really don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” she said, giving him yet another opportunity to drop out of the pre-gala activities. “It’s never any fun.”

“I want to spend time with you,” Marshall said, stepping into the pressed trousers of his suit. “Unless you really don’t want me to go.”

“That’s not what I said. You can come, I just don’t think you’ll enjoy it.”

Marshall pushed the laundry to another part of the bed and sat next to her. Now in the process of pulling on his white button-down shirt, he leaned over and pressed a kiss against her temple. “Look at it this way—I’ll be your bodyguard against Atlas. You won’t have to talk to him at all.”

She waited until she was done with her makeup to exhale. “I don’t know how many times I have to say this, but I don’t hate Atlas.”

Marshall snorted, not even bothering to hide his disbelief. “You don’t have to lie to me, Xo.”

“Don’t call me that,” Xolia snapped and got up. She clasped a simple teardrop necklace that had been a gift from Marshall a year into their relationship around her neck. “Are you ready?”

Marshall nodded. “Actually, you can start heading out. I’ll be right behind you; I need to grab something.”

What could you possibly need? “Yeah, fine.” Xolia didn’t stop to see what he was rummaging around in his dresser drawer for and walked to the front door of their small one-bedroom apartment. She grabbed her coat. Even though autumn was only starting, the weather was unpredictable and they had a long walk ahead of them.

The Presidential Palace was one of the oldest buildings in Atalia, gothic in appearance with spires and gargoyles looming overhead. Its use as the heart of the Risian government dated back to when monarchical rulers had governed the land, all of whom had been variants. One thousand years ago, the humans had rebelled and installed a quasi-democracy that revered humans and reduced variants to little more than fighting and killing machines. One thousand years of human presidents presided over the country, until the Variants’ Revolution opened the doors for FAR to install a chancellorship. Rebellion was the way of change in Ris. Xolia wondered who would instigate the next upheaval or if the election would pass by them in peace, with Peter presiding over the country for another seven years.

Xolia and Marshall walked past the main gates, which would be open in the evening to allow for the influx of esteemed guests, and went to a small wrought-iron gate where a pair of guards waited for them. Once their identities had been vetted, the taller of the two guards led them through the doors to the main hall.

The ballroom, which hadn’t changed much in two thousand years, was adorned in soft green and white. FAR’s four-pointed-star-and-halo was emblazoned on a flag on the right wall. A long table, dressed for ten people, and a podium were placed in front of the flag. Thirty smaller tables, these ones round, filled the rest of the room. The room’s balcony doors on the left wall were propped open while staff bustled in and out of various doors and hallways to finish preparing the room for the evening’s festivities.

Peter, surrounded by numerous staff members, assistants, and guards, entered the room. Even after all these years, the first thing Xolia noticed about him was the faint white scar that went from the corner of his mouth to the bottom of his ear lobe. Her mark. Her reminder of her past and the forgiveness he had extended to her. She owed it to Peter to do all she could to make sure he was re-elected. His brows were creased, his salt-and-pepper hair grayer, and his frame thinner than Xolia remembered. His head was bent as he listened to what a sharply dressed woman to his right was saying. She held a clipboard and pointed to various places in the room.

Xolia’s shoulders relaxed slightly at the sight of Peter sans Atlas, and she strode over to him. At the click of Xolia’s heel against the polished marble flooring, Peter looked up and broke out into a wide smile. “You look beautiful,” he said, opening his arms for an embrace.

She walked into his waiting arms and gingerly hugged him back. It was safe, comforting, a reminder that he was real and alive and still in her life. “It’s good to see you,” she said as she pulled away.

“Same to you,” Peter said. He looked over her shoulder. “It looks like you’ve brought a guest with you.”

“Yes, I hope that was okay,” Xolia said. She stepped to the side to allow Marshall to join the conversation.

Peter shook Marshall’s hand. “Of course. I’m happy to see you settling down. You look good together. What’s your name again?”

“Marshall,” he supplied.

“That’s right. The years haven’t been as kind to me as they’ve been to you all.”

The same woman who had been talking to Peter earlier motioned for him to come back.

“It looks like we’re needed. Atlas should be here any minute, and we’ll run through the speech order. I proposed a small change,” Peter said. “I want you to be our closing speaker.”

Peter’s words alarmed Xolia. She never followed Atlas. He was Peter’s vice-chancellor. “We’ve never done it that way.”

“There’s a first for everything.” Peter winked, already walking back to the waiting gaggle of people. Without making sure Marshall was following, Xolia stepped in line behind Peter. A coughing fit stopped Peter in his tracks.

“Are you okay?” Xolia froze. Should she help him somehow? Was he choking? Peter recovered and shook his head at her, smiling though his eyes were tense.

“Xolia, you’ve brought someone with you,” came a loud tenor that grated on Xolia’s nerves.

She tensed her shoulders and breathed in deeply. I don’t hate him, I don’t hate him, I don’t hate him. “Atlas, so kind of you to show up.”

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