The afternoon became a fixation on what to wear tonight. We scoured my walk-in wardrobe, akin to Miley Stewart's in Hannah Montana only with more organisation. There were expensive designer outfits, from Chanel to Dior, in one corner all hung up or on mannequins in fashionable poses. My simpler clothes made up most of the overly large, circular room.

Rena thumbed her way through bland and patterned dresses. She trailed a perfectly manicured finger over every shelf with neatly folded jeans, blouses and shirts. A quick glance at the t-shirts and she walked away towards more appropriate clothing.

I sat in the middle of the room on a patchwork couch, watching her closely like a hawk.

It wasn't often I let her roam free here. Only when the moment called for it.

She hummed. "What about this one?" A hanger hung from her finger. Attached to it, a block black dress with ruffles.

I tilted my head from side to side, lips pursed. "It looks like something I would wear to a funeral, not a memorial dinner," I said thoughtfully. "Remember, this is the Thorntons. You know what they're like."

Rena bowed her head, her gaze distant as she browsed a few more options, pulling them out to the same reception—a decisive 'no'. She held up a beige dress with black ribbons, then a button-down dress made from denim. None of them felt appropriate for the occasion.

After what must have been the hundredth dress she'd picked out, Rena held up a pure white, button-down, silk shirt with a black pinafore dress to go over the top. It seemed perfect somehow. The right amount of elegance, but not so extravagant that it would raise eyebrows.

Her shoulders slumped at seeing my face. "Come on. This must be a good one," she almost begged.

I gave her a weak smile—the most I was able to manage. "I love it," my voice came out deadpan.

"You could sound more enthused," Rena pointed out.

Gliding over to me, she placed the outfit on the back of the couch. After staring at me for a long moment, she sighed and sat beside me.

"We don't have to go, you know," she said gently. "We could go to the pub like we planned. Meet up with Sky. Pretend like it's the old days."

My arms wrapped around my body, keeping me encased from the outside world. "Nope. I've committed now," I decided.

With a sidelong glance, I took in the approved outfit. Something snagged inside me—a long distant memory of when I first bought this dress. It was a couple of years ago. I couldn't remember the specifics. My mind protected me from difficult memories at the best of times. However, I remember buying the dress because Jonathan was there.

Snapping out of my reverie, I stood up and took the dress towards the bedroom to get ready. I wanted to get this over with.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The home of Jonathan's parents looked out of place in a village like Amblewood. Compared to the more modest manor homes strewn around the outskirts by the forest, the residence of the Thorntons' was something fitting The Great Gatsby in a booming American economy. It didn't belong in the northern, English countryside.

With a large fountain spraying water onto the marble beyond the dark gates, cars of every size, colour and brand carefully rounded it before spewing out the guests dressed in lavish gowns and tuxes. They put our casual outfits to shame as we treaded the path I'd walked only a couple of times to meet with Jonathan—he spent more time at Eleanor's than he ever cared to admit.

"Was there a dress code on the invitation?" Eleanor whispered from the side of her mouth.

Rena shook her head. She looked as dumbfounded as I felt as she gawped at everyone, her jaw slackened.

Inhaling a sharp breath, I held my head high and pushed my shoulders back. It didn't stop the stinging in my eyes or the wooden walk up the sparkling steps into the house.

We were greeted by two butlers, one offering me a wink when we walked past. The glint of recognition was all I needed. I hid my chuckle behind the back of my hand.

Neither checked invitations. All the staff knew everyone passing the double doors into the glittering main hall by the grand staircase. It wasn't just their job to know, but it was their duty.

Wandering into the middle of the room below the warm, ambient amber glow of the pure crystal chandelier, we listened as everyone gushed and laughed with drinks in their hands. There were smiles galore as I spun in a circle. Expensive jewellery blinded me.

Nothing about this belonged to a memorial. It felt like a frivolous affair made to impress the richer families than to remember their son.

One of the waiters in their pristine, tailor-made suits made their rounds with a tray of champagne glasses filled to the brim. I grabbed one, downing it instantly, before placing it back on the tray while they manoeuvred around the rest of the guests, silent but commanding.

Turning to my companions for the evening, I found Eleanor smiling, impressed, and Rena staring with wider eyes than she came in with.

"What?" I shrugged. "I needed that."

Eleanor hummed in response. "I think I need a gallon. This is clearly just a publicity stunt. It's a wonder there are no cameras."

Gulping, Rena found her voice, "There seems to be a few local newspaper reporters and editors here, as well as some from the international tabloids."

I pushed down the urge to roll my eyes. "I hate this," I muttered under my breath. I could almost hear Jonathan's snarky comments disguised as teasing in response.

"Everyone hates this, so long as they're in their right mind," I imagined him saying. It was similar to something he'd said to me years ago, during one of the first parties we had to tolerate each other's company.

Offering me a sidelong glance, Rena said, "I think this was a bad idea."

The sudden clinking of metal on glass erupted through the room. Everyone turned towards the sound, immediately quieting. At the top of the grand staircase, the shimmering marble almost distracting me to the Thornton family—the remaining three—gathered close to each other in their expensive finery. With the proper poise of people in their station, they stood above with the air of the wealthy who were used to looking down at everything below them.

I gulped at seeing Jonathan's favourite colour so blatantly draped over them—emerald-green, though they took some creative liberties by adding neutral tones. In front of me, a tall, bulky man hid me from a family I could never belong to, even while he was alive.

"Welcome, everyone," boomed Mr Thornton from the top of the staircase. Even to this day, I still didn't address him by his first name. "We will be beginning dinner shortly, so would you all be so kind as to follow our head butler, Donovan, to the dining hall." He gestured to the doorway closest to us.

With a wave, the butler who winked at me earlier began ushering eager guests into the room near him. He caught my eye again as we passed, offering a bow of his head in recognition. I gave him a weak smile, my stomach turning the longer I stayed here.

Their large dining room was decked out in everything green, from the curtains to the tablecloth to the swaths of silky material hung up either side of the roaring fireplace. The long, mahogany table custom designed with carvings of dragons and other mythical creatures etched into the woodwork became full of the main guests—many reporters, like Rena had pointed out.

On the outskirts of the room, there were a few large round tables where names weren't assigned. In the furthest corner, we took our seats, trying to blend into the shadows or hide behind the menus. The food was already planned from the looks of it. The menus were just for show.

"What if I don't like caviar on everything?" Eleanor muttered from beside me.

Rena chuckled, running her finger over the mains. "I guess you'll have to swallow it even if you don't like it, won't you?" she teased.

Maybe it was the fact we weren't a part of the main group of grand company, but they both seemed to be more at ease. Apart from me.

Absent mindedly, I chewed on my fingernails and picked at the skin surrounding them until one of my fingers bled. Cursing under my breath, I took a serviette from my place setting and wrapped it around the injured finger, all while Eleanor watched.

Biting her lip, she placed her steady hand over my tremoring one. "Tess, we can leave. No one will miss us," she whispered.

I considered. There was no harm in leaving. I'd showed up and found out exactly what this was about. I was more than ready to leave.

But before I could muster the strength to let her in on my decision, the last face I wanted to see poked between me and my godmother.

"Well, I didn't expect to see you here, Miss Graves," Marcus Thornton snickered. He smirked between me and Eleanor, his face as obnoxious as the first time I met him when we were children. Back then, I had no choice but to tolerate him and his brother, though Jonathan turned out to be the better of the two.

I narrowed my brows. "Good evening, Mr Thornton," I said between gritted teeth.

He stood up straight, his slicked-back hair now clearly drowned in hair gel and his suit ill-fitting against his bulky frame. "Please, Mr Thornton is my father. I am still little Marky. That reminds me, I don't see Sky anywhere to be seen." He made a point of looking through the crowd—still settling down into their seats.

Rena's eyes flashed. "He couldn't make it," she almost snarled, but managed to restrain herself at the last minute.

Marcus chuckled, the sound grating against my ears. "A pity," he said. "I trust you will be staying for the speeches."

"Speeches?" I asked, a bout of waves rolling over in my stomach at having nothing prepared.

His smirk never relented, but a playful glint entered his blue eyes—the same, I hated to admit let alone notice, as Jonathan's. "Oh, yes. I have something special planned before dinner is served. I wouldn't want you to miss it." He patted my shoulder before walking away into the crowd.

It took everything in me not to recoil. I would definitely be taking a long, hot shower tonight after this was over.

We shared a look, Eleanor, Rena and me. I could tell they wanted to say something, but they had to bite their tongues as another round of clinking grabbed everyone's attention once again.

This time, everyone stared at Marcus, his smirk still plastered to his face. He held his glass of champagne and nodded at me.

I shivered. My gut yelled at me to run, to get out of the room, for my legs to do something—anything—to protect me from what was coming. But I was planted to my seat, my body refusing to move.

"We have a special guest joining us this evening," Marcus began. "Miss Tessa Graves herself has decided to show her face."

Murmurings spread throughout the room, everyone turning to each other. I watched the reporters take out their pens and notepads, scribbling away. Those who preferred more modern means took out their phones, voice memos on record.

"Of course, we all know Miss Graves. A beautiful actress who has been working since she was a child. A talented musician. But did you also know she was engaged to my brother?" he asked conversationally, not like he was addressing an entire room of potential strangers. "The poor thing lived through the tragedy and has made it out the other end unscathed it seems."

Small bouts of laughter reciprocated his sentiments.

"Now, Jonathan was picky about who he dated and who he shared his time with. I can only count a couple of serious girlfriends on one hand. Which was why I could never understand how he came to love Miss Graves—if we can even call it that." He paused for dramatic effect, more chuckling and giggling following. "To be honest, I still don't understand it. But when he died and she wasn't there, it got everyone thinking. Was it money? Was it wealth?"

Everyone hummed, placing their heads closer together to speak quietly. I couldn't make out what they were saying, especially from those on our table. A voice in the back of my mind told me I didn't want to.

"Then there were rumours that his death was no accident. I'm not sure what I believe, but I can tell you Miss Graves being here is no coincidence with all these reporters about," he said. "Anyhow, I propose a toast to the memory of Jonathan Thornton. The former heir to the company, a true inspiration to all and, most importantly, my brother. To Jonathan."

Everyone repeated the refrain, taking a polite sip of their drinks in champagne flutes.

I sat completely still, speechless. I wasn't sure what happened. I could barely comprehend the implications of Marcus' supposed 'speech'. What I could understand; the greedy reporters ate it all up.

Vision blurring, everything around me tilted onto the side. My breathing became erratic, despite my feeble attempts at counting back and forth from five or identifying three things in the room. I heard voices without listening to them.

Scraping the chair legs backwards, my body finally kicked into motion. I ran out of the room, not seeing where I was going. I bumped into a few people in my effort to leave. Footsteps followed, voices calling after me. They were held up, their calls becoming distant.

I raced down the steps of the mansion, hoping I would never see it ever again. I didn't wait for those tailing me. My feet took over, my legs in a rush to get me as far away as possible. Cars beeped at me for being in the middle of the road, but I didn't care. I needed to get away. My body knew that. I just didn't know where it was taking me. 

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