Trust me, we’ve already argued; there’s no changing this.
Upon arrival at Newark, New Jersey’s airport, I was escorted right off the plane into a waiting Porsche on the tarmac by twomen in black suits and put in the back seat without so much as ahey, how ya doing?
The windows were tinted in both directions, making it nearly impossible to see outside as we drove at an incredibly fast speed out of the airport and up into some suburb of New York I’m imagining to be Westchester.
The truth, though, is that besides the luscious green grounds and intimidating gray stone of the biggest mansion I’ve ever seen, I haven’t a clue about where they’ve brought me.
Where they’ve brought all of us.
Women of a distinct age group—mine—mingle and mill about the large space, drinking fancy cocktails and whispering to one another in excited flutters of curiosity and intrigue. There are no men in the room as of yet, other than the gruff-looking security guards at the doors, which is at least a small comfort, but the energy feels off, nonetheless.
Despite a wide array of colorful gowns and ethnicities, the group of women still manages to feel similar. The perfectly crafted makeup, the attempt at wealth on an array of budgets—the sexual nature of their appearance in every way.
We’re products here, not people. And our families sent uswillingly.
My breath comes out in a shaky huff as I set down my now-empty glass on a passing tray and force myself to move deeper into the room. I don’t want to participate, but I do want to blend in, and loitering at the door in abject horror is exactly the opposite of what everyone else seems to be doing.
I reach for my phone in my purse to find distraction and only remember that they took it, along with my luggage, when I arrived at the airport andconveniently forgotto give it back, when I come up empty-handed.
My bags were in my room before I was, but my phone is long gone.Probably at the bottom of a bucket of blood or whatever the fuck vampires get a kick out of.
I have a feeling that’s by design, not coincidence.
“Hi,” I’m surprised to hear from my left, spinning me around in a whirl. The young blond woman smiles and shrugs. “I’m Abigail. What’s your name?”
“Romy,” I answer, trying not to take the level of unease I’m feeling about becoming a vampire’s plaything out on her and succeeding partially. I’m not sure what my face is doing, but if she asks, I’ll blame it on RBF.
“Romy,” she repeats kindly. “I like that a lot.”
“Thanks.” I clear my throat. “Sorry. I’m not trying to be… I’m just nervous.”
“Really?” she asks, surprised. “I’ve been waiting for this for, like, forever. My mom started talking about the Selection when I was a kid. She says it’s the highest honor and philanthropic in ways the public would never be able to understand. You and I, and all these women…we’re thereasonthese vampires will continue to exist. You don’t think that’s exhilarating?”
I snort. “Yeah, not really. I mean, don’t get me wrong, my mom has always told me the same thing. I just…”
“Don’t believe her?”
I shake my head. “Think it’srosiedupa little bit too much. You’re not worried about not having a say in who picks you?”
She balks for just a fraction of a moment before smiling again. “No. I have no reason to be. These are all the literal strongest, most powerful, richest, handsomest men in the world. Any of them would be better than the crop of human men out there.”
When I grimace, she laughs.
“Oh, come on. You really think these vampires are sending three a.m.you up?messages in between unsolicited dick pics? Because that’s what I’m getting outside of here, and I know just from looking at you, you are too.”
“Okay, I’ll give you that it’s not great out there. But surely there are good ones. Romantics. Men who would never participate in something like…this.”
She reaches out to squeeze my hand, a motion intended to comfort me. It’s funny, though, because her naïveté about what’s really happening here doesn’t console me at all. “It’s going to be amazing, Romy. You’ll see. And if you need someone to hang out with until you’re convinced and vent out all your worries, you can hang with me.” She looks around the room conspiratorially before lowering her voice to a whisper. “Some of these other ladies seem a little uptight.”
For the first time since entering this ballroom of doom, I laugh. It’s not as if I feel good about any of this yet, but maybe it’s not such a bad idea to have a pseudo-friend to stick with through it.
I nod. “Okay, yeah. Thanks. That’s really nice of you.”
“Come on,” Abigail says, grabbing me by the hand. “Let’s go get another cocktail and a bite of something to eat. Shall we?”
“We shall.”
It’s not like I have many other options right now anyway.
