“How lovely to see you, Brielle.” He smirks, as if we didn’t see each other a few hours ago when we checked into the hotel together. Always a flair for the dramatic with him.
“Stop being ridiculous and let me in,” I respond, but I can’t help but smile back.
That evening, we walk through the city and have dinner together, discussing plans for tomorrow. We’ve decided that he’ll help by keeping lookout, with a few additional options in mind depending on how the evening goes. He had gotten me a pre-paid cell phone for safety purposes as well, so I’m able to text him if needed.
Aside from murder being the topic of discussion, the evening almost feels like a normal date with a normal man, and I find myself wondering what it would be like to do this more often with him.
When we head back to our respective hotel rooms after having a couple drinks at the bar beside the restaurant, I’m almost sad to part. It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten to spend time in a public place without worrying about keeping up appearances. It’s justus.
The next day, I wake up early and slip into a black dress that hugs my curves while maintaining just enough propriety to blend in with the crowd. The necklace sits cool against my chest beneath the dress’s high neckline.
Today’s the day.
Ambrose and I walk to the hotel, and the ballroom is packed by the time Abbott takes the stage. The crowd emanates an almost frenzied energy that makes me uncomfortable, especially knowing they’re all here to feed off of his negativity.
The thunderous applause dies down, and Senator Abbottspeaks. He starts strongly enough, with practiced professionalism, but the speech quickly devolves into his typical bullshit.
“We need to do something about the people in this country,” he declares, his voice booming through the speakers. “For too long, we've enabled weakness. We've coddled those who refuse to help themselves.”
The crowd around me cheers, and my fists clench at my sides. All the people applauding and whooping make me nauseous. How can people pretend to care about the wellbeing of their country while simultaneously wanting to case aside or punish anyone who needs help? If you only want those who are already well-off to thrive, that’s not patriotism; it’s a superiority complex.
“These parasites drain our resources,” he continues, and more cheers erupt. “They want handouts while the rest of us put in hard work. They claim mental health issues when what they really need is faith!”
I think about all the nights I spent hiding my breakdowns in the safety of my bathroom, having no one to go to for help. How desperate I felt when I was falling apart a little more every day. I never wanted anything but to feel safe, to have somewhere to go when I felt utterly alone. I remember the shame that overtook me when I was told my depression was a moral failing by the man who was supposed to support me most.
The words that Senator Abbott is using now are the same ones Joel had used to convince me I was broken, that I deserved the abuse because I wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t motivated enough, wasn’tgoodenough.
The longer he speaks, the more my stomach turns with revulsion. What kind of monster would want to take awayprograms that help people while funding ones that add more stress to the majority of society?
My jaw hurts from clenching my teeth so hard, until something warm touches me. Ambrose slips his hand in mine and squeezes, letting me know he’s here for me while the man on stage proudly proclaims that my existence is a burden on society.
When the speech finally ends to thunderous applause, the crowd surges forward, eager to speak to the senator. But I hang back with Ambrose beside me, watching as Abbott works the room. Finally, with the crowd thinning, he leaves the ballroom.
Ambrose and I follow him from a distance, watching as he enters the steakhouse on the second floor with a handful of people.
We decide to eat there as well, opting for a table in a back corner to keep watch.
When dinner is over and the senator receives his bill, I take that as my cue.
I slip into the shadows, using the necklace’s power to conceal myself as much as possible, while Ambrose heads downstairs to see if he can disable the security cameras from the control room. We aren’t relying on that part of the plan working, but we’re hoping the combination of his charisma, manipulation skills, and magic—still present but dulled without use of the necklace—will be enough to get him in. Worst case scenario, our figures should be hazy on the cameras between his abilities and the artifact I’m channeling the power through.
The elevator doors open with a soft ding, and I step inside, alone and heading straight to the twentieth floor.
When I step out into the hallway, I take a deep breath and prepare myself to put on the act I’ve plotted. Maybe oneday I’ll stop playing the role of a woman down on her luck and vulnerable, but it’s so easy to play the same character when I know men will take advantage of it every time.
I smudge my mascara slightly under my eyes, slump my shoulders, and cross my arms tight over my chest as I lean against the wall right outside the elevator alcove.
When the elevator door dings, I jump slightly, overreactive from nervous anticipation, but I maintain my forlorn appearance. In my periphery, Senator Abbott rounds the corner, and I can tell he’s alone. Thank God for that.
As he passes, I sniffle for added effect and raise my head to make eye contact with him. With the power from the necklace, I project my presence toward him, willing him to notice me. Ambrose had said the power works to both avoid and attract attention, after all.
His gaze latched onto me, his eyes raking over my tight dress and then my face. As expected, he stops to speak to me.
“Rough night?” he asks, his voice filled with false concern.
I offer a weak smile. “That obvious, huh?”
He chuckles before glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one else is in the hall. “Forgive me if this is too forward, but can I ask what’s wrong?”
