Page 6 of This Cruel Fate

Golden-haired Atlas held himself with an easy confidence that almost overwhelmed Peter’s sense of authority. Atlas was always Silas’s perfect successor in that way—they both acted as if no one could tell them what to do, and anyone rarely ever did. He scoffed at Xolia and opted to fully ignore her as Peter and the apparent party planner pulled him in for a hushed conversation.

Marshall gently grabbed her elbow, perhaps in a show of solidarity or understanding, but Xolia jolted away from his touch.

“What?” exclaimed Atlas, ending the whispered conversation that Xolia and Marshall had been pointedly excluded from.

“The order change is final,” Peter said, all grim seriousness. He embodied the chancellor role in that moment, his pressed suit perfectly tailored, and his wizened face drawn up in a severe frown that brooked no arguments. “Now, are you ready to go over the rest of the night?”

Atlas glared at Xolia before nodding stiffly at Peter. “Go ahead.”

By the time guests arrived, Xolia was ready to go home. The tension between Atlas and Peter never quite went away, and Marshall was little more than an unhelpful distraction. He was acting clingier than normal, and Xolia wasn’t sure how to respond. Since the beginning of their romantic relationship, he had been the initiator, and Xolia was fine with that, but the way he clung to her arm and side, while she was trying to run through her speech and make sure it held up to Atlas’s, angered her. Not that she mentioned anything to Marshall.

Instead, she grabbed the first flute of sparkling wine as the servers handed drinks to the guests milling about the empty half of the room. Dinner would start as soon as all the guests had arrived with speeches following.

The acidic burn slid down her throat. Too late, she remembered the drink was wasted on her. Since her last meeting with Krista, she had forgone her suppressants and relished the return of her powers and quick healing rate. However, the downside was that, without the suppressants taking hold of her digestive system, she was unable to feel the effects of alcohol.

She sighed and swirled around the remaining liquid.

“What’s wrong?” Marshall asked.

“Nothing,” Xolia said. She hadn’t told him yet that she was off her suppressants. He would worry too much about the side effects, ones that had hit him hard when he was cleared to stop taking his. “Rowan should be here soon.” She took a slight detour to the open bar in the back of the room and placed the drink on the bar top.

Marshall pulled her hand into his, and they threaded through the growing number of people, offering polite hellos and shaking hands before getting close to the entrance. Outside, the dark sky contrasted with the glimmer of lights surrounding the walkway and manicured grounds. Politicians and notable variants from the rebellion comprised the majority of attendees. Journalists and celebrities made up the rest.

Rowan made her way inside, wearing a simple floor-length purple dress and glasses. Xolia started towards her when Rowan’s attention was snagged. Director Howard stood tall and proud in his black-and-white suit, talking intently to Rowan.

“Why is she speaking to Director Howard?” Xolia mused aloud.

“Where is she?” Marshall craned his neck to try and get a good look.

Xolia pointed them out. “She’s with Director Howard. I didn’t think she liked him.”

“I mean, you don’t either,” Marshall said.

“If I’m going to be vice director, I have to at least be friendly with him.” Xolia debated between letting Rowan find her or butting into their conversation. Whether it was indecision or some lurking anxiety, she stayed still, staring at their indecipherable conversation.

“Maybe she wants to move up as well.”

Of all the things that made up Rowan, ambition was not one of them. And she had been that way since Xolia first met her. It was what made their friendship work so well. Xolia was inclined to lead, and Rowan was content to follow. Still, it was strange to see her and the director talking, laughing even. Something soured in Xolia’s stomach. “You wait for her; I’m going to get something else to drink.” Xolia pulled free from Marshall’s touch and pursed her lips once her back was to him.

Keeping her head down, she barely focused on the world around her. What would they have to talk about? So consumed with mapping out the possibilities, Xolia didn’t even notice when someone stepped directly in her path and the two collided. Cold wine spilled down her chest. Her golden dress was marred with an egregious red stain.

“What the hell is—” The rest of her words sputtered out when she saw who had run into her.

“Xo?” asked a silky voice.

“Adonis.” His name rolled off her tongue. He was like a ghost before her, all lean muscle, and hazy memories of who they had been together during the rebellion. His hair was as dark and looked as soft as it had been back then; however, now it was artfully tousled instead of wild and unconfined.

His eyes roved over her, setting Xolia on edge. They were practically strangers now, and he was taking her in like no time had passed between them. She crossed her arms in a futile attempt to cover the stain.

“I’m sorry. Here.” He shrugged out of his tailored suit jacket and held it out to her. Hesitating, she kept her arms crossed, before deciding to take it. It was the least he could do, and his shirt was the deepest black. She couldn’t even tell where, or whether, the wine had spilled on him.

Enveloped in warmth and lingering notes of cedarwood cologne, she struggled to find the right words to say to him, keenly aware of just how little distance stood between them. “I’ve never seen you at one of these before,” Xolia said.

He shrugged, a laid-back gesture that was so reminiscent of who he had been during the rebellion. “I’ve been busy in the past, but I wouldn’t miss the last one.”

All warmth disappeared. “The last one? Peter is running again. He’s going to win.” There was no other feasible outcome that she had heard about.

“Right, I’m sure all the protestors agree with you.”

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