“Good evening, ma’am,” an attendant in dark gray said, stepping out from behind an oak stand. He looked around my age. Had we been in the same classes before all the males were taken away for service training? How did they decide which males were fit for the sky and which remained on the ground? Was it his aptitude for their training or his genes that granted him a position in the clouds? “May I?”
I extended my wrist, fighting the shake, and the scanner beeped, no report given. “This way, Ms. Emeline. He is waiting.”
My heart began an erratic dance. Not trusting myself to speak, I nodded. As we approached the curtains, they pulled back automatically.
A magnificent secret garden unlike anything I had ever seen sprawled before me, stealing my breath. Flowers of all kinds exploded everywhere—large white hydrangeas, amethyst wisteria, honeysuckle, buttercups, and orange lilies—spilling onto the tile, climbing the walls, and hanging from the ceiling. Small glowing orbs swayed from the ceiling among the wisteria, almost like stars. In the very center of the room stood a beautiful willow. A tree in the sky. It was art. Did the Elite see it? They destroyed ancient art, yet created their own. Why?
Hesitantly, I followed the attendant into the hidden paradise. I didn’t know where to look first, every step revealing more beauty. Alone, I might have run my hands along the flowers and stopped to smell each one.
Life below, my life, was primitive and barren in comparison. I had been living a bleak existence, waiting in perpetual solitude. We all just accepted it.
Lo didn’t. I understood her constant nagging and dedication to improving her social standing. But the sweet perfume of the flowers turned sour at the truth that Minors were given the bare minimum while the Elite surrounded themselves with luxuries. Maybe a part of me wanted to be beguiled by the beauty surrounding me. Another part—the part that didn’t fit—couldn’t stand the divide.
Bright colors and sparkling jewels adorned the Elites sitting at every table we passed. The glittering observers whispered behind heavily ringed hands or elaborate embroidered fans. My breath became too quick as more leaned in like a swarm of bees, lined eyes watching my every step.
The rules from the Grooming slithered into my mind.
Rule One: Remember your place. Although you are in the clouds, your MIND has deemed you defective. You are until your last breath a Minor Defect.
I looked straight ahead, unable to meet anyone’s eyes, even with the lens. My golden dress was a stark, unsettling difference in a rainbow sea of colorful flowers and gowns. I was the antithesis of the delicate blooms. It was as if I were the sun shining brightly, and all the flowers and people revolved around my presence. Never had I felt so seen. I wasn’t entirely sure it was a good thing.
The attendant finally stopped at a small table below the willow, its branches swaying gently. The man blocked the person waiting for me at the table. A chair scraped against the ground, and my stomach twisted viciously, heartbeats turned violent, slamming into my chest like it might bolt, and I fought the urge to follow it all the way back to the surface forever below.
“Your guest, sir.” The man in gray stepped to the side, gesturing to me before disappearing in the throng of flowers and people.
My heart stopped. The buzzing of conversation, the blooms, and even the tree fell away. Silence found me as the most beautiful man I had ever seen waited—for me.
“Hello, Emeline.” His voice was deep, powerful.
My breath caught. There had been a mistake. A catastrophic error in the system. I had always focused on the Procreation Agreement and its implications. A scary, unpleasant thing. The man standing in front of me wasn’t unpleasant at all. I hadn’t considered what my Mate might look like. He would be Elite; I knew that. He would be attractive; it was what they valued. Seeing it in person, though . . . I hadn’t considered this. Him.
The Elite, my proposed Mate, watched me. Did he see my weakness? Could he see past the captivating façade the Starlings had created? Did he know the Defect that was hidden? The stunning man extended his hand toward me. “I’m Collin. It’s an honor to finally meet you.”
Honor?The word clanged through me.
He stood patiently, waiting. The first example of my wrongness. I hastily attempted a curtsy, placing my hand in his. It was clumsy, missing his confident elegance. His large hand flipped mine before raising it to his mouth. His lips, warm and soft, brushed the back of my hand. An involuntary shudder engulfed me. “Please, sit.”
Rule Two: The mark of a suitable Minor Mate is obedience, above all else. Always remember it is an honor for you to be among the Elite.
Collin walked to my chair, pulling it out for me. His black suit was immaculately tailored, displaying his muscular frame. I took a step, realizing I still hadn’t uttered a word.
“Thank you,” I muttered hastily before taking a seat, my back to the room. Collin pushed my chair in before returning to his, unbuttoning his jacket as he looked at me with calculating eyes.Polishedwas the first word that came to mind. An elegant, meticulous beauty like the ancient marble statues I had seen in the Archives. Nothing out of place, his midnight black hair perfectly styled.
“I hope I am not a disappointment,” Collin said in my silence. All rational thoughts scattered about the room to play with the flowers.
My mouth hung open, and his keen sapphire gaze traced the outlines of my lips before finding my eyes once more. I fought the urge to look away, to hide. I expected to be treated like a vessel, a means to further humanity. Yet I was asked if he, an Elite, was a disappointment to me, a Minor. As if my interest in this agreement mattered, as ifImattered. Shaking my head, I snapped my mouth closed.
Rule Three: The most desirable trait will be your ability to be seen and not heard among proper society. You are to be but a decorative piece, a silent accessory to your Mate. Your ability to be trained and tamed is vital to your success.
“No, not at all. You aren’t a disappointment”—I fumbled—“sir.” I looked down miserably at my hands twisting in my lap.
“Sir?” he inquired, amused. “You can call me Collin. I have no desire for titles.”
I glanced up, his eyes still on me like the room behind me held no interest. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
Rule Four: Respect is demanded at all times. Failure to show respect will risk your usefulness to the Greater Good. Without use there is no purpose for you. Without a purpose there is no place for you.
“I’m confused,” I admitted, my voice small. Those lecture hall rules conflicted with the man before me.
