Steele calls our names. I take Eve’s hand and walk to the stage. The lights blind, the room a sea of blurred faces.
He shakes our hands before saying, “Smile for the camera,” and we do.
Then we walk off stage, straight past the line of well-wishers.
The ballroom is more crowded now. Most of the faces here belong to men and women who have never been told no, not even once.
Eve stands at my side, her hand in mine. Her nails dig in, but I don’t flinch. I like the feeling. I like being reminded that she’s here, not just something I won, but a thing with nerves and blood and will.
The last time she walked these floors, Vivienne doused her with champagne and humiliated her. Tonight, Vivienne is keeping her distance, shooting daggers at Eve with her eyes.
“I need a smoke.”
She looks at me, “Yeah, I could use some air.”
We make it five steps before Mr. Steele appears, blocking our path. He is one of those men who could be thirty or seventy, his face peeled smooth by chemicals or money or both.
He wears a blue suit, and a white pocket square. There is a spot of blood on his knuckle, the kind that comes from dry skin and too much shaking hands.
He looks at Eve, not at me. “Ms. Allen. Congratulations on your survival.”
“Thank you, sir,” she says. Perfect. Not a crack.
He turns to me. “Mr. Ellis. A word.”
I nod. We step aside, just out of Eve’s earshot, but not out of her sight. I make sure she sees my face, and that she knows I see hers.
Steele smiles. “We have not signed off on your Hunt success. You understand what that means?”
I nod, bored. “The Board wants a show.”
His smile grows wider. “Precisely. The Funders are… interested in your girl. They want to see if she’s as adaptable as the projections say.”
“You gunna let them humiliate her again?”
He waves the idea away. “Nothing so barbaric. She’ll serve champagne. Simple, really. It’s a test of poise.”
I look over at Eve. She is fidgeting, uncomfortable being alone but trying her best to hide it. I feel the slow burn in my gut, anger rising from the depths.
“She’s not a server,” I snarl.
Steele shrugs. “She is whatever we say she is, Mr. Ellis. You of all people should know that.”
He steps away, leaves the stench of authority behind.
I walk back to Eve. “They want you to serve drinks.”
She tilts her head. “Like a waitress?”
“Yes.”
She thinks for a second, then nods. “Fine.”
I take her by the elbow and guide her to the side of the ballroom, where the catering staff lines up like a parade of ghosts. One of them hands Eve a tray, the kind that’s more of a weapon than tableware. She lifts it, tests the weight, then steadies it in her left hand.
She looks at me, waiting for something.
“You’re better than this,” I say.
