Kelsey POV
Sarah and I emerge from the coffee shop.
Two glossy black GLE Mercedes Benz wait right out front. One guard stands in front of one of them with his hands clasped in front of him. Once he spots us, he activates his earpiece and informs whoever is on the same line.
"Wow, Avara travels fancy," she notes, making her start to them. "And heavy."
"You mean you travel fancy."
"I really like this outfit," she says in a nervous rush, like she's trying to distract herself. "It's giving, the duchess of Cambridge. You know her, right?"
"Princess Kate?" I ask, astounded. "What poor soul doesn't?"
When we approach, the guard opens the back door. Sarah slides inside and I go in after. Frank gives her a silent greeting, a smile they trade through the rear-view mirror. The cars roll out as a convoy with her guards just behind us. And Sarah is shaking, her one knee bobbing up and down ceaselessly. I make it a point to stare at it until she gets the message and crosses her leg over the other to still herself. After half an hour, we arrive at the open venue, which has much more hype than what Avara disclosed.
When the car comes to a standstill, both of our doors are opened. We both exit, assailed by clamor, the throng of press behind the barricade. Sarah rounds the car and we make our way down to the first stop. The photo booth with a massive backdrop with the logo of an NGO. A non-profit that works independently from the government to promote change, broad-based, but today's focus is on education and trying to raise funds for underdeveloped institutions of learning.
Sarah and I stand in front of the backdrop, poised for a series of photos.
"You're doing great," I whisper with a smile. "Just keep smiling."
"Oh, there she is."
I glance at the sidelines. Samantha, Judge Peterson's wife, sashays onto the scene, smiling and waving for the cameras as she links up with us. Both of us flanking a mute Sarah. Sorry, I mean Avara.
"How are you, dearie?" she says with a voice rich with cadent energy. "I'm so sorry I couldn't attend your father's inauguration or his dinner party. I had come down with a severe fever and I couldn't risk getting anyone else sick."
"Funny you say that," I say, slotting my head out of alignment briefly. "Avara can't talk at the moment. She has laryngitis and her degree of infection makes it difficult to talk. She has strict instructions from her doc to not even try."
Her eyes fill with motherly sympathy. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. And despite that, you're still here. A testament to your character."
I move out of the spotlight and onto the sidelines. Other people take turns taking pictures with Avara's double and so far. Sarah is handling herself well enough to not rouse suspicion. After a while, she struts away and comes to my flank, adjusting the scarf around her head that blurs her features adequately. We saunter into a giant gazebo that shelters the gentry beneath it. All the chairs and tables are white with sparkling gold garlands and table decor.
"You did good."
"I need a drink."
A waiter wafts by. Sarah steals a curated cocktail from the tray with a sleight of hand.
"Avara doesn't drink."
Sarah snorts wryly. "She does today."
Out of nowhere, Governor Adler obstructs our path.
"Avara," he greets somberly, his gaze aloof, visibly scrutinizing the drink in her hand. "I'm grateful to have found you. I spoke to your father about this, but I thought I should do you the courtesy of extending the invitation myself. I am hosting a function in the near future. Nothing serious, just an orchestrated chance for an introduction I'm hoping Mayor Matthew can make for me. You are welcome to attend. I know my son would very much appreciate it."
"Your son, Grayson?" I blurt.
He tosses me a disinterested glance. "The one and only."
"Is he here?"
"On his way," he says, eyeing me down distrustfully. Then recognition captures the scornful look on his face, turning it into an indulging smile. "My apologies, you must be Kelsey. Alden speaks of you like you're one of his own."
"What can I say? I'm a loveable person," I say, pushing out a manufactured laugh. "I've known the Du Ponts my whole life, a perk that came with being best friends with Avara. Who unfortunately can't speak at the moment. She has laryngitis."
He glances back at her pitifully. "What a shame. My nephew had that last year and couldn't speak for a week. If only it was contagious, so I could put him in the same room as my wife."
I eject another laugh.
"I hope you make a swift recovery," he says to Avara, giving us a dignified nod in farewell.
Sarah releases an explosive breath, inhaling half of the cocktail. I grab her wrist to stop her and I take the glass out of her hand before I lead her to the buffet table. She pinches something directly from the platter and pops it into her mouth. I gawk at her in horror and she stares back at me cluelessly.
"What?"
I take a side plate and I shove it in her hands. "You animal."
She makes a face and starts loading her plate, ogling the selection of gourmet hors d'oeuvre, ranging from ricotta and roasted grape crostini to mini deviled crab cornbread muffins.
"You're not going to eat anything?" she asks with a mouthful of bruschetta, crumbs crusting the edges of her mouth.
"You're lucky you're pretty."
"Avara?"
I sneak a glance over my shoulder. My head snaps straight.
Vance approaches us. Promptly, I snatch the side plate from her hands to dump it on the edge of the table. Soon I can feel him looming behind me and the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. He's so unnecessarily close I can feel his warmth radiating off him. Sarah perks up, star-struck. She takes up a napkin and starts dabbing it around her mouth politely. The last thing I need is her fawning over Avara's fake billionaire boyfriend.
I swivel around. His face sours, but his eyes steal a glance at my dress.
"Avara—"
He steps aside, but I impede his path. Repeatedly.
"Move or I will move you."
Something in that rends the breath from my lungs. "That a threat?"
"I'm here to talk to Avara. Not you."
"Well, she doesn't want to talk to you." I glance back at her, sending her a desperate look. "Isn't that right, Avie?"
Sarah nods awkwardly, repositioning her sunglasses and turning her face away.
He looks me up and down, slowly, stone-faced. "I don't need your permission."
"You're not getting past me, Mr Vacheron."
His eyes spark, alight with tightly controlled fervor. "Unless you want a repeat of what happened in your house. I suggest you make yourself absent."
"You're gonna send your goons to put their hands on me again?"
"No, I'm going to do it myself."
My eyes flare, panic stirring, because something in his eyes tells me he's not bluffing.
"Okay." I turn around and I stand at Sarah's side. "Avie. If you want me to leave. I'll leave."
Sarah shakes her head vigorously, then starts to cry, covering her mouth with her hand.
Atta girl.
"See," I say to him accusingly. "Look what you did." I drape an arm around her to console her. "It's okay, Avie. It's not your fault your boyfriend's a dick. Let's go get you cleaned up. I think you smudged your mascara."
I steer her away from Vance, walking hurriedly to the outdoor bathrooms, but Vance is relentless. He follows us. All the way out of the main area and he stops at the sidewall just outside the women's lavatory.
"I'll be right outside when you're done, baby."
Sarah and I exchange horrified looks.