Navigating the dining hall while quasi-tipsy is a task proven to be much more difficult than I intended.

That, combined with my incoordination and my inability to walk in heels was a recipe for disaster. Really, I can only attribute it to pure luck that I hadn't fallen off a ledge and broken all 206 of my bones. Also doesn't help that the train of my too-long, uncooperative dress keeps sliding underneath my shoes. Luckily, my footwear is new, or else there would be prints all over the shiny fabric. I can't ruin the most expensive item in my wardrobe like this.

But I am a woman on a fucking mission, and I'd be damned if I let that stop me. I just needed to find Tara...or anyone for that matter. If it isn't blatantly obvious, I'm very desperate.

Grumbling curse words under my breath, I bunch the skirt that fans out with my hands, hoping to create enough space for mobility.

The stairway looks almost endless from the bottom floor. The spirals of velvety crimson carpet stretch to the sky. One hand on the carved white railway, I hold my breath, concentrating on bringing a foot up after another. Stumbling up a few steps, somehow I manage to make my way to the top and through a sea of bodies.

Suddenly, my toe collides with the side of a crinkled pillar, and a sharp pain jolts up my calf.

"Fuck me," I hiss rather loudly, earning a few wide-eyed glares from the guests around me who watch as I fumble to take off my strappy shoes, putting them against the wall.

"I mean—" I begin, slightly slurring my words once I notice that more people are lurking on while I try to figure out a way to save my image, "what I meant to say is that—uh—Jesus is our Lord and savior."

Real smooth.

The audience I've garnered simply exchanges a look of confusion amongst themselves, nodding as if what I am saying made complete sense. To be honest, I had no idea what was going on either. I'm not even religious.

Get a grip, I tell myself.

Thankfully, none of them question the nonsense I'm spewing, and with one shooing motion of the hand, they resume their more interesting conversations and sipping drinks of their own, most of the red wine variety.

A couple of caterers maneuver around me, balancing trays filled with bite-sized appetizers that I don't even know the name of. I wonder if the food here tastes as pretentious as it looks. I could really go for some McDonalds right now.

"Leighanna?" a semi-familiar voice calls, bringing their hands to my waist to steady me.

Through my squinted eyes and CCTV quality vision, I could only make out two faint silhouettes that likely belong to a man. Blinking furiously, my perception restores, and I realize that it's Hunter's dad, dressed in a navy blue suit, holding me up. Ripping away from his grasp, I slowly wobble to stabilize myself.

Whoops.

"That's—that's...my name," I confirm rather slowly, grabbing onto the air in an attempt to keep my balance, "...don't wear it out."

He grimaces, back stiffening enough so his posture is straightened. "Christ, you're hammered already? Tara told me you just got here."

The alarm bells are going off in my head. "Oh me? Nope. Not at all. I'm fine, I swear," I ramble, mostly to conceal my unease. Even in my drunken state, I could smell trouble off of him from a mile away.

Out of nowhere, my knees buckle, and I lean on the wall next to me for support.

"You need to sit down somewhere," he says, reaching toward me.

"No!" I insist, sticking my hand out before he can get within my vicinity. "I got it."

Out of concern, he sighs, walking over so he's a breath apart despite my consistent protesting. "Let me help you. I'll bring you to the office. You have to sit down since you can barely stand."

I don't have a good feeling about this, but he's right, I'm a whole ass mess right now.

"Okay," I agree, and he snakes an arm around my shoulder, guiding me down a bridge where crystal chandeliers blind me with their sparkle to a dimly lit room that's secluded from the main ballroom. A soft hum of the classical music causes the glasses on the table to vibrate. There are stacks of papers piled near a speaker. This must be the office where the speakers and other organization members hang out.

Plopping down on a wooden chair, I groan, the ache in my feet finally subduing. The door slams shut, leaving us alone.

"Water," I mutter, curling into a fetal position and clawing at my throat, right above where my pearl necklace sits, "I need water."

He nods, taking off his cologne-scented jacket and putting it on my lap. "I'll get you some. Stay there, okay?"

Weakly, I make a sound of agreement, the pounding in my eardrums growing louder by the second.

With one last lingering look, he exits the room.

Of course, I immediately took the chance to crawl over and lock the door.

Relieved, I slump onto my bottom, scooting over towards the desk situated in the middle until I'm an arm's length away.

Drew's messenger bag is slung lazily behind a swivel chair. Feeling around the seat, I pull his things onto my lap, ignoring the sharp pain from the legs of the chair poking my back. The contents spill onto my lap and the polished tiled floor.

I flip through a few pastel-colored papers that serve me no good. Most of them are about where the donations are going to be used for (surprise, surprise, most of the funds are going directly into his pockets). My mind is in overdrive as I force myself to speed read all the tiny print.

His phone falls into my hands, and I take a moment to inspect it. He has a clear case, a picture of him and his daughter showcased on the back. Pressing the home button, a password secure page pops up. Fuck.

What would a person as self-absorbed as him have as a password?

His name? I tap in the corresponding letter. That's a fail.

His daughter's name? Again, nothing.

...His company name? As quickly as I can, I type in Woati and Co.

It's a hit.

A knock on the door pulls me out of my train of thought, causing me to jump. Oh fuck, this is awful timing. I need to finish this quickly. Or at least, figure out a distraction.

"Unlock the door this instant," sounds from the other side, followed by the thud of someone ramming their arm against the wood.

"Coming. I need to—I need to—uh," I call out, frantically trying to dig through his texts for any sort of suspicious messages, unable to formulate a coherent excuse to stall time.

More excessive pounding of fists against the door. "Hurry up!"

To make things easier, I type in Kass' name in the search bar. No results pop up. Fuck.

The knob turns several times, syncing with my erratic breathing. "Leighanna, I'm serious. Or else I'm going to have to tell someone to open it."

"Wait," I desperately cry out, slightly panicking. Scrolling through his contacts, I try to spot what she could be named instead. Drew's not stupid enough to save her information with her name, right? "Give me a moment."

Heather Pham? Nope.

Crystal Philips? Uh, probably not.

May Twice. Weird name. Wait...wasn't Kassie's birthday on May 2nd? This had to be her, right?

Clicking on their conversation, I notice that most of the texts have been deleted, except for one string of numbers: 5584.

What the fuck is this supposed to mean?

Muffled by the walls, I hear the jingle of a pair of keys. Taking that as my cue, I put everything back into place, packing the papers so they're lined up, making sure the contents look untouched.

When the door finally opens, Hunter, his dad, and Wash are on the other side, watching me curiously. Wash gives Hunter's dad a nod of reassurance, which allows the older man to depart.

"Why are you barefoot?" Wash asks, lifting me so I'm sitting upright. Unfortunately, I'm not able to stay in that position, and I end up falling back onto my stomach, cheek against the rough carpet.

"I don't know," I answer, truthfully.

"Lay, your feet are bleeding," Hunter deadpans with a sigh.

In shock, I look to see that my feet are caked in dried blood. Yikes, I must've stubbed my toe a lot worse than I thought I did.

Remind me to never wear heels again.

"Can we please stop talking about my feet?" I grumble, pushing with my hands so I'm sitting with my back against the legs of the chair again. The shallow ache on my soles reignites, and the fire burns with every small movement I make.

"How many drinks did you have?" Hunter asks, leaning against the door to keep it open.

I take a moment to deliberate. "Two."

"Jeez, you're such a lightweight."

"Tara's making her speech soon. We should go support her," Wash tells us, putting a hand low on my back to usher me out.

Finally soaking in my surroundings, I can't help but feel so...out of place amongst the rows of platinum Bergere chairs, the parabola-shaped damask printed ceiling, and the diamond-encrusted lights. Here I am, dodging the hundred other guests that actually earned their invitation, wearing a dress I didn't even buy, while observing foods I can't even pronounce. No matter how hard I try, I would never be one of them. After all, a bronze medal painted gold is still a bronze medal at the end of the day. I am an imposter. A total fraud at best.

This alcohol is really getting into my head, huh?

Near the stage, a burgundy curtain is finally opened, revealing a projector stand with rainbow light beams shooting from the machine. Crowds of people are already there, anxiously waiting for the film to start.

There, Tara stood, mic in hand, going on about how she helped direct a movie with an acting troupe in a neighboring city. A couple of people on stage help her pull down a screen. The room is silent, anxiously waiting for them to finally begin. Slowly, the room becomes dark, and all our attention is focused on her.

I get a bad feeling as soon as I see the title flash across the screen.

They were acting out...Miss Saigon? Out of all the movies they could've picked, they chose this one?

Depictions of the Vietnam War play; false portrayals romanticizing a relationship stemming from a false narrative, one that reinforced a stereotype I spent my entire life defying. A story that is used to justify the horrific war crimes perpetrated in the former communist state. Scenes that villainized an entire ethnic group of people; pro-war propaganda that fueled anti-Vietnamese sentiment in America. A movie that had so much history behind it that she simply ignored.

And I feel sick to my stomach.

I should be grateful for the representation, right? Except I know. I know that the only reason Hollywood casts Asian actors in the first place is so they could play Kung Fu masters, doctors, or comedic reliefs.

With another blink of my eye, the movie's over, and Tara's making her way next to us, an innocent smile plastered on her face.

"Did you guys like it?"

Not at all.

"Tara," I begin, swallowing the liquid courage burning on my tongue, "you shouldn't have played that. That was wrong."

Her perfectly sculpted brows draw together. "What? Why?"

Why am I saying this? Is it the liquor talking? "Because you had no right to! You shouldn't—"

"I had every right to," she retorts bitterly, arms crossed, "it's my freedom of speech—"

"Legally, you have the right to," I snap, unable to mask my anger, "but morally, you and I both know you shouldn't have. Frankly, I'm disappointed in you. I expected more from you than playing that racist—"

"Jesus, Leigha, not everything is about race! I don't see color—"

Is she serious right now? Did she really think she didn't do anything wrong? My blood runs cold, the anger in the pits of my stomach boiling hotter by the second. "This has everything to do with race, and you know it," I counter, hands shaking, "you and I both know the audience you're showing this movie to are terribly ignorant, and you still fucking showed it. You should've been more responsible."

"I—" she starts, but I interject.

"Are you even my fucking friend? Or am I just another charity to you? Is this another one of your attempts to save face?"

A single tear rolls down her cheek, a line of smudged mascara dripping down to her chin. Then, another. And another, until the dam to the floodgates is broken down. When a choked sob escapes her, guilt rises back to my throat. A few stragglers that have lingered look at me in horror, as if I am the one that caused the problem. I don't let that discourage me, though, because I am in the right. Still, that doesn't mean I don't feel remorseful.

I groan, watching as she uses her palms to wipe her face. Even crying, she's still pretty. The tears are more like liquid jewels than a manifestation of guilt, courtesy of her sparkly eyeshadow. "Tara—"

Without another word or glance in my direction, she purses her glossy, quivering lips. Her shoulders slump, and then she storms away, back towards the office is my best guess. I don't bother running after her to apologize.

"You wanna talk about that?" Hunter mutters from beside me. He witnessed the entire confrontation, staying uncharacteristically quiet while he stood idly, purely observing the explosion of words. I wonder if he agrees with her, and that maybe, just maybe, I'm the villain here for ruining the grand moment she worked so hard for.

"No," I shake my head, the weight of the situation hitting me like a ton of bricks. I had lost Faye, and now Tara. "Can you please take me home?"

Usually, I'd feel like a burden asking anyone for a favor, but after the night I had, I think that request is justified.

He nods, and I trail behind him as he leads me outside a pair of thick double doors, and down a stairwell to the parking lot. The chilly night air wraps around me, soaking me in the feeling of freedom. The rocky pavement grits against the skin on my foot, but I'm too tired to care. Instead, I try to walk on the white spray-painted lines. Wordlessly, we walk to his car, and I climb into the back seat. Little pebbles have stuck to my soles, and I pick them out. Resting my head on the window, I close my eyes, the song emitting from the radio sobering me. A highlight reel of tonight's events plays in my head, a nagging reminder of what went wrong.

I fucked up big time tonight, and the damage is irreversible.

Groaning, I snuggle my knees into my chest, closing my eyes for the rest of the ride, hoping that will help calm me down. Minutes later, an expected bump earns one open eye from me.

The distinctly beige garage door is the first thing I see. Definitely not my apartment's battered maroon one surrounded by brick. To my astonishment, Hunter pulls into his house's driveway, switching off the ignition.

"I'll drive you home later," he tells me, reading my mind, "you look like you need some company."

I'm in no mood to argue, and he's pretty much hit the nail on the head. Initially, I thought Tara was going to drive me back to her place so I could change quickly before my mom could notice anything suspicious. I haven't exactly told her where I was going today. Except for the fact that plan clearly isn't going to work, so I guess I'll have to come up with some other lie later. Coming here is as good of an option as any, not that I have many to pick from.

Obviously, I don't think my feet can withstand more tortuous concrete, so I hop around for the most part. Stepping onto the grass, dew drops collect onto my heels, intensifying my wound tenfold. Can't complain when it's a lot more squishy and comfortable than literal rock.

"Do you want me to carry you?" he asks, laughing as he walks up the pathway with his keys already out.

Ignoring him, I continue to trudge onto his front door, using the shrubs as support. Cherry blossom petals fall from the trees, creating a whirlwind of bright pink.

I cross my arms to warm myself, meanwhile, he fumbles open his front door, waiting for me to enter, then he closes it.

"You good?" he asks, grabbing a family-sized bag of Lays potato chips just lying on the front table where they put their keys into a small black bowl. The plastic wrinkles as he opens it, filling the air with the salty odor.

"Yeah," I lie, looking at the soot that has collected between my toes, covering up the blood. "Hungry, that's all."

He stuffs the chips into his mouth, nodding. "Yeah, that charity food...wasn't it. How can you expect me to eat a couple of fish eggs on a cracker and enjoy it?"

Somehow, between my shattered heart and the crinkling sound of his hand digging through the bag, I muster enough strength to smile. "That cracker probably costs more than my arm."

"Tell me about it," he mumbles, folding the top over to make sure the snack doesn't go stale. "I'll go make you something to eat."

"You can cook?" I ask, surprised.

"Barely," he replies, standing in the threshold between rooms, "I'll boil you some water for some ramen or something."

"Sounds appetizing," I mutter, watching as he enters the kitchen entirely.

"Can you go ask Halle if she's hungry?" he asks, pulling out a pot and filling it with water from the sink. Grabbing a pack of ramen, he cuts the wrapper open, dumps the contents into the pot, and puts everything on the stove. The artificially yellow seasoning packet is ripped open.

"Yeah," I reply, lifting my skirt to walk up the stairwell. Fortunately, I'm a lot more put together, so I don't have trouble, especially with the ivory railway guiding up the beige steps. Past a corner were vases with roses and other statuettes. Of course, since this is her little area, mostly everything is pink—including the pastel walls. I round a corner to Halle's room.

"Halle?" I call, knocking on the door.

No response.

"Halle? You hungry?" I repeat, puzzled.

Again, nothing.

Huh, that's strange. For good measure, I knock again. Harder this time. Except instead of the verbal reply I was expecting, the door simply opens from the force. The window is open all the way, the draft tickling the back of my neck. The mountains of clothes once lying around the floor are gone. In fact, that's not the only thing that's disappeared. Her desk is completely cleared, the candy wrappers previously laying around all discarded. Aside from large pieces of furniture like her bed, there's nothing to suggest anyone has ever lived here.

All the posters hung up, the dollhouse, the designer bags, the other decorations that exemplify her personality—not here anymore.

Where is she?

Then, I head towards her closet. The only thing left are 4 dresses, and the brands read as follows: Hermes, Escarda, Lardini, and Prada.

Help.

Halle D'Medici is gone, and she left the same way her sister did.