[Eric]

Once I'm standing directly in front of him, I'm at a loss for words. I've never flirted with a man before. This isn't a part I've played before. Elmo, sure, but this? It's more difficult than you'd think.

The boy and the girl he is with look up at me.

"Hey," I say to him, ignoring the girl. "You look like you could use some company."

He raises an eyebrow in surprise. Up close, he seems more emotionless than angry. A blank canvas. None of his emotions show.

"Yes please. Camille was just leaving."

The girl next to him slams her drink on the table.

"I will tell your dad about this," she says, storming off.

Looking back at me, the boy simply shrugs. Then he nods towards the chair Camille was just in.

"We're supposed to be dating," he explains to me. "She's the daughter of a fashion designer."

I sit down in the plush seat, taking another deep sip of my drink. I'm going to need to be more drunk for this conversation.

"Gross," I say, and the boy cracks a smile. "I could see across the room, she wouldn't stop talking."

"It's like my dad wants me to date a poodle," he says. At the mention of his dad, his features darken. His face lowers so that shadows coat it. Clearly, his dad is a sour subject. I have to try to bring him away from thoughts of his dad.

"I'm Caden," I say, reaching out a hand. "I just came back from college."

"Drew," he says. "What school?"

"University of Boulder," I say, figuring that he did not go there. "You just graduated, too right?"

Suddenly, he looks away.

"I'm going to get a drink," he says darkly, storming away.

I leap after him, dancing around other guests who give me strange glances. He's at the bar by the time I catch up to him. He doesn't look my way for a second, putting his entire concentration on the bartender crafting his cocktail.

"What's wrong?" I ask him. Somehow, I have already messed up.

"Did my dad send you?" he hisses, still staring straight ahead.

I'm taken aback by the question. He guessed I was a spy so quickly, but he assumed the wrong employer. I odn't work for his dad, I work against.

"No," I say honestly. "I've never even talked to your dad. My father told me you just graduated college, and we had some things in common. That's all."

His features relax, and he dares to make eye contact again. When the bartender orders a drink, he asks for one for me, too.

"Sorry, you can never be too careful. Everyone I know is not truly my friend, or loves me, they're always working for my dad," he sighs.

A pang of sympathy rips through my heart. That must be difficult. At least I know everyone hates me because they genuinely hate me. No girl is throwing herself at me because of my last name and demands of the President.

"How do you trust anyone?" I say, taking the drink he handed me. Vodka soda with lemon and orange slices muddled at the bottom. It's a good vodka, something that tastes more clean, and burns more purely than anything I could afford before.

"I don't," he says.

He offers me a sad smile. The first emotion I have seen on his face since Lana first pointed him out.

"Look at these people," he offers,gesturing about the twinklng room. "Would you?"

My eyes trail troughout the room. All the old money, the people with companies that their ancestors created, with all the comfortability of knowing that their wealth will only grow and move down their ancestors line. They have every resource. Own way too much clothes. Drink too much. Still, there's something deeper. Even past the smiles they throw at each other, there's something lurking in the corner of their eyes.

Hatred. They don't miss anything. Everything that happens, they are a witness, and will gossip to no end. All of them watch each other for a slip up, so they can tear each other apart.

"No, I wouldn't," I told him.

Following Drew, we sat back down on the couches. A few moments pass in silence, where we simply watch the people around us. My eyes follow Lana and Fabian, who seem to dance around the room on a mission. Fabian's had so much to drink I don't know how he's still standing straight.

"I went to Colorado College," he tells me, to resume the conversation. Of course he did. It's not very expensive, but it's the hardest college to get into. It's the best college in the Western Alliance. Unfortunately, the area we are bordered in wasn't known for its advanced education. The best schools, like Harvard, Yale, MIT, brown; they're off-limits to us. That's where he would've gone then, but now he's sentenced to Colorado College.

"Your major?" I asked him.

"The same as everyone in this room. Business."

"I didn't major in business," I tell him.

In surprise, he turns to me with an eyebrow lifted.

"I majored in art," I tell him, "so that I had more time to party."

"I bet your parents were thrilled," he laughs. "Who are your parents?"

I point across the room, towards Lana and Fabian, who are the buffet table chatting up a man with a pronounced mustache.

"The Putters? Oh, I see," he says amusedly.

"What?" I ask him.

"Everyone likes them, but they're also sort of a joke amongst us. They're new money. They don't understand that you are supposed to be a dick to make it. They're nice to everyone. My mom and dad really like them though."

We continued to talk, about our experiences in college and the stories we made. I learned a lot about him. He was introverted. He liked to read. He hated his father and his brother, and felt sorry for his mother. He had one serious boyfriend in college, but they broke up because his boyfriend was intimidated by the family's status.

At that moment, a knife knocked gently against a champagne flute. Everyone stopped their conversation. It was the president, with a white beard and tiny spectacles resting on the bridge of his nose.

"Now that everyone had their starters and got the chance to talk, we are going to be moving to the ceremony hall. Thank you."

Two employees opened the large wooden door into a large, wooden hallway strung with lights. The mahogany benches were shining. The front room was adorned with thousands of white dianthus and roses. The room smelled of fresh pine and magnolia.

Drew nodded at me goodbye, walking forward to join his father. We could meet at the reception, which we had to drive to. It would be at the president's house, which I was excited for. Never in a million years did I think I would be at the President's house party. Quickly, I found Lana and Fabian, who instantly whispered in my ear.

"You were talking a lot," Fabian whispers.

"I think I actually saw him smile," says Lana happily.

"Good job."

We find our seats. Drew and his family sit at the front. Our family is positioned towards the back. The lights dim, as if the wedding is a show. Then the music begins. The groom stands at the front with his arms behind his back. He is the spitting image of his brother, except he seems happy. He is the 2.0 version of Drew. The jaw is sharper, the brows more pronounced. His hair is not wild but tamed, and the stubble on his jaw seems professional. Something about him is more manly. I can see why Drew hates him.

"Did you find out anything?" Lana asks me. Her knees are bouncing with excitement.

"I found out my employers are my pimps," I say jokingly, "but not much else. He's starting to trust me though."

They nod in contentment.

"You'll have plenty of time to spend time together after the reception."

Unlike most weddings, there are no best men or women. I guess that would've caused too much controversy.

The music crescendos. All the lights flicker back on, and the bride walks down the aisle, accompanied by her father. A floral laced veil covers her face. The man beside her is wearing a huge smile, staring straight ahead with his arms looped with his daughter's.

"Mr. Trott," says Fabian. "He owns the main oil company in the Western Alliance."

All marriages at this level were for a reason. Staged. Planned.

Two littles girls followed the bride, throwing flower petals at her feet. Holes in the roof opened up, and gold glitter fell down, swirling around the room. When they reached the front of the room, the father released his daughter, planting a kiss on her forehead.

"Susan, his daughter," Fabian whispered, narrating the wedding to me. "No one has laid eyes on her until now. She is Mr. Trott's most prized possession. Everyone's been waiting for this moment for years."

Watching the scene before me, the bride is helped to the front, where she stands in front of her soon to-be husband. They clasp hands. The man removes the veil from her face, and the sound of the pastor fades. The music fades. Everything goes quiet for me alone.

I know her.

She is beautiful. She looks like a snow angel, sparkling white with long, curled blonde hair. Her eyes are crystal blue. The makeup she is wearing perfects her features, making her perfect. Almost unreal.

I don't care though because my world is spinning. Everything is wrong.

It's Anela.