Chapter 2
1635 Words
CHAMPAGNE AND SHATTERED GLASS
~ELENA POV~
{Four Days Later. Christmas Eve.}
I adjusted the strap of my emerald green satin gown, wishing I was literally anywhere else. I wished I was in my apartment in sweatpants.
I wanted to be buried under a big stack of legal papers for the Henderson divorce.
I wished I was in a coma.
Right now, I was hiding behind a big, fancy ice swan sculpture, holding a glass of warm champagne that I hadn’t drunk.
The swan was slowly dripping water onto the soft tablecloth, which matched how I felt inside. I felt a connection with the frozen swan; we were both cold, stiff, and there just to look nice.
My "holiday bad luck”….the curse that Sarah laughed about and I dreaded…was already in full swing.
It had started two hours ago. My Uber, a luxury sedan I had pre-ordered to ensure a flawless arrival, had sputtered and died three blocks away from the hotel.
The driver, a man with zero sense of urgency, had simply shrugged and said, “Alternator’s shot, lady.”
Because the universe apparently found my suffering funny, no other cabs were available. I had been forced to walk three blocks in a pair of four-inch Jimmy Choo stilettos. I walked through a messy mix of snow and dirty water.
The wind was strong, making my nice hairdo a mess. Standing in a fancy part of Manhattan, I could see the damage.
My usually neat bun was frizzy and all over the place.
My feet hurt, and I felt really down. I looked at the crowd. Women in expensive dresses laughed loudly at jokes from rich men who made big financial decisions.
It was all a performance.
“Elena?”
Amid the background noise of a string quartet playing Jingle Bells, I heard a familiar voice that made me tense up. I turned to see Greg walking toward me.
I had to say, he looked really good. His tuxedo fit him perfectly, showing off his strong shoulders and handsome face that people in the suburbs liked.
But his smile…that perfect, white blinding smile…didn't reach his eyes. It never did. His eyes were always scanning the room, looking for someone more important to talk to.
“There you are,” he said, gripping my elbow. His fingers dug into my skin a little too tightly, a gentle scolding for me not being around.“Senator Miller is asking for you. I told him you were freshening up, but you have been gone twenty minutes.”
I looked down at his hand on my arm, then up at his face. “Hello to you too, Greg. Merry Christmas.”
He didn't flinch at the sarcasm. He leaned in close, the scent of expensive scotch and peppermint on his breath. “Put on a smile, El. We need his approval for the primaries next year. If I lose the Miller backing, the campaign is dead in the water.”
“I am tired, Greg,” I muttered, pulling my arm away from his grip.
The movement was quick, causing a few droplets of my champagne to spill onto the carpet. “My feet are bleeding, and I spent the walk here dodging yellow snow.”
His face became serious. For a moment, he looked less like a nice boyfriend and more like someone who was only thinking about his goals.
“Don’t start being negative tonight,” he hissed, his voice dropping to a register that only I could hear.
“I know you hate the holidays. I know you think this is all fake. But just play the part of the supportive girlfriend for two more hours. That’s all I am asking. Then you can go back to hating the world and billing clients by the hour.”
He didn't wait for a response. He didn't ask if I was okay. He simply adjusted his cufflinks, flashed a blinding smile at passing supporters, and vanished into the crowd, swallowed by a sea of black tuxedos and red dresses.
I stood there, fuming. My knuckles were white around the stem of the champagne glass.
‘Play the part.’
That’s all my life was, wasn't it? A script. A contract. Be the ruthless lawyer. Be the trophy girlfriend. Be the strong, independent orphan who doesn't need anyone.
I was so good at playing roles I wasn't sure there was a real person left underneath the costumes.
I needed air. Or a stronger drink. Preferably whiskey, neat.
I abandoned the melting swan and wove through the crowd, keeping my head down to avoid making eye contact with anyone who might want to discuss the bond market.
I headed toward the VIP suites located down the East Hall corridor. I knew Greg had a designated "ready room”…Suite 402…where he kept his spare shirts and, more importantly, where the open bar was awfully less crowded.
As soon as I stepped out of the ballroom and into the corridor, the noise faded.The quiet noise of the party seemed far off, replaced by soft carpets and dim lights.
I walked quickly, my high heels sinking into the soft rug.
I just wanted to find my coat, steal a bottle of bourbon from the minibar, and maybe sneak out the service entrance before the speeches started.
I reached for the handle of Suite 402.
The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of golden light spilling out onto the dark carpet.
“...Greg, stop. Someone will hear.”
I froze. My hand paused over the brass knob, inches from the metal.
The voice wasn't Greg’s. It was high-pitched, breathy, and sickeningly familiar. It belonged to Tiffany Miller, the Senator’s twenty-two-year-old daughter.
The one who had been "interning" at Greg's campaign office for three weeks.
“Let them hear,” Greg’s voice replied. It sounded rough, full of arrogance, and lacked the smooth flow he usually had. “Elena is clueless. She’s probably outside right now lecturing an ice sculpture about tort law.”
A giggle followed. Cruel and bubbling. “You are terrible.”
“I am stressed,” Greg groaned. There was the sound of rustling fabric, the slide of silk against wool. “And you’re the only thing that helps.”
I stood in the hallway, staring at the brass room number. 402.
I waited for the heartbreak. I waited for the crushing effect of betrayal to buckle my knees. I waited for the tears.
They didn't come.
Instead, I felt… hot.
A strange, vibrating heat started in the center of my chest, right behind my sternum. It wasn't a flush of embarrassment.
It was a strong feeling, almost like a deep, old instinct. It ran from my arms to my fingers, making my skin tingle like I was touching something very powerful. It wasn’t anger; it felt more like wild energy.
I pushed the door open.
The scene was a cliché. A bad soap opera scene that I would have rolled my eyes at on TV. Greg was pressed against the vanity, his tuxedo jacket thrown on a chair.
The Senator’s daughter was straddled on the edge of the table, her legs wrapped around his waist.
They both froze. The giggling stopped. Their eyes widened as they saw me standing in the doorway, the emerald dress framing me like a warning sign.
“Elena!” Greg scrambled back, tripping over his own feet. He pushed Tiffany out of the way awkwardly, quickly trying to fix his cummerbund. “It’s not…I can explain, it’s not what it looks like”
I stared at him. The heat in my chest was becoming unbearable now.
It felt like I had swallowed a star. The pressure built behind my eyes, a beating headache that screamed for release. I needed to scream, to yell, to throw the champagne glass at his head, but my voice wouldn't work.
Buzz.
The sound came from everywhere and nowhere.
Above them, the huge crystal chandelier started to shake. The crystals clinked together, making a sound of wind chimes in a room with no wind. The wall lights flashed quickly, like strobe lights matching my fast heartbeat.
Greg stopped buttoning his shirt. He looked up at the lights, then back at me. His face went pale.
“Elena?” he whispered, looking terrified.
He wasn't afraid of being caught cheating. He was afraid of me.
“Your eyes…” he stammered, backing up until he hit the wall. “They’re… they’re grey. Why are they glowing?”
I didn't know what he was talking about. I just felt the pressure snap.
Snap.
The lightbulb in the tall floor lamp next to me exploded. It didn't just burn out; the glass shattered outward with a violent pop, raining pieces onto the carpet.
I gasped, stumbling back. The sudden noise broke the hex. I looked down at my own hands.
They were trembling violently,I felt tiny shocks of static electricity between my fingers. The mood in the room felt stuffy and tense, like just before a tornado.
I looked at Greg one last time. He looked small, he looked weak..
“You are pathetic,” I finally choked out. My voice sounded strange…layered, distorted, like two people speaking at once.
I turned and ran.
I heard Greg shouting my name, but I didn't stop. I sprinted down the hallway, ignoring the burning in my lungs and the pain in my feet. I flew past the entrance to the gala, past the confused security guards, and burst out the side exit.
The heavy metal door slammed shut behind me, cutting off the music and the warmth, dumping me into the freezing, hateful darkness of the New York night.
But even the blizzard could not calm down the fire raging under my skin.
- Writer
