My hair is in a messy chignon, with loose tendrils falling out, framing my face. My make up natural. The four-inch Dior heels hug my feet, and the dress looks amazing.
I look amazing.
My dark hair and bright blue, piercing eyes have quite the effect, my complexion clear. My make up is contoured and I have powder accentuating my key features. Making everything more prominent.
Having spent last night reading the information provided from Andrews and staying up well into the early hours adding my own information, I’m feeling reasonably well acquainted with Mr Cooper.
Who, it would seem, has managed to bury Owen King exceptionally deep, so deep even our intelligence has had a hard time trying to locate anything concrete.
Snippets of reports here and there, but one thing that was easy to find: our link.
Which should put my mind at ease, but it doesn’t. If anything, it raises the question as to why he hasn’t buried me? Buried us.
As for Owen Cooper though, well, he went to university, studied politics, and passed with a 2.1 and a butt ton of debt. From there he started local, building a name and following for himself in his local community. Support built, along with pressure for him to join a political party, but he was independent, and adamant about staying that way.
Although that’s what the intelligence says, I don’t believe it. Not if he somehow has ties to the Covenant. And if there’s doubt, it’s a real possibility that everything I have read is fake.
Foster care, school, university, politics.
I climb out the car gracefully, careful not to step on the train of my dress and slowly make the walk up the red carpet.
Eyes are on me, and I stop across from the cameras to pose.
Tonight, Kara Snow is wearing a mask.
The mask of Lucy Cook.
Heads turn. Men stop mid conversation, their dates looking over to see who has caught their attention. I nod my hellos andsmile politely at people who watch me pass. I think it’s safe to say I’ve made an entrance.
Doormen stand, waiting at the opulent entrance that has had a modern facelift with Roman stone and a mirrored foyer breaking up the otherwise red bricked building.
The doorman opens the double doors and I step into the grand lobby of Claridge‘s, its black-and-white checkered floor and ornate decor welcoming me into the luxurious space.
People are directed through the hotel towards the ballroom reception.
The whole way, I feel like everyone is watching me as I follow the stream of people. I take a glass of champagne from a passing server and slowly follow the couple in front of me down the corridors, which have been decorated with large vases of lilies and white roses, the red carpet our personal guide to the event.
“Independent Politician,” I overhear the man in front.
“They say he’s making quite the impact, David,” the woman replies.
“As an independent?” he retorts with a snort, his posh, pompous accent and deep voice giving him an air of arrogance—which I can imagine is exactly what he is. “How can he possibly make an impact without a political party standing behind him?”
“Things are changing, David. People are fed up.”
“Nonsense. People are like sheep, they follow. Social Media outlets help that, the media. They control them all, Diane.”
I roll my eyes.
This is why I am dreading tonight—nothing to do with Owen Cooper.
It’s the politics, and arrogant people like David here.
I hate it.
I hate anything that the government stands for. The entire system is broken, and here I am, hearing the first conversation of the evening talk about not only Owen but also politics.
This is going to be a long, trying night.
