So what if she likes to dress up and show off her body? It’s none of his damn business.
As is obvious by now, I don’t react well to people hurting or bad-mouthing my family. Besides, that damn president knows shit about our lives and the type of pressure and danger we’ve had to navigate through since we were kids.
Maya is an independent girl who loves dressing up and showing off her beauty. She definitely wasn’t looking for that scum’s attention.
Naturally, I was blacklisted from the club, despite being the best they had. Anyway, I was able to join the local chess club a few weeks ago after seeing a few flyers outside our dorm building.
There are some decent older players, but many of them come to gossip, as if it’s some sort of knitting club.
Anyhow, since chess and meditation help me quiet down my demons, this is my last resort.
I also love looking after plants, but I’ve been hesitant to have any here. It’d feel like I’m cheating on my pretty flowers back home.
Point is, I really can’t get myself kicked out again or I’m in trouble. In my family, I can only play chess with Gareth, but he’s busy with studies lately.
I walk down the street, ignoring the looks everyone gives me. Today, I went back to my signature look—an ample black dress with a fluffy tulle skirt, chunky boots with chains, and matching ribbons in my hair. Oh, and killer blue-mirror sunglasses.
What? It makes me feel like the villain.
Many call this a goth look, but, really, it’s not. Nor is it my Satan worshiper look—I’m out of that loser’s league. I also don’t wear black makeup. In fact, my only makeup is pink lipstick and mascara. If I’m in the mood for mayhem, like that day in the Elites’ mansion, I add bold eyeliner.
I love being cute and deadly. It’s my strength.
Once I’m inside, I remove my sunglasses and wave at the club’s president. The other members look up, but upon seeing me, they either go back to their gossiping or their games.
Oh well.
Somehow, they figured out my origins and won’t touch me with a ten-foot pole. They rarely talk to me either.
The only one who does is the president himself. He’s usually my partner in the game as well. At my wave, he slowly stands from his sitting position by the reception and advances toward me.
Mr. Whitby is a nice old man with white hair, sagging wrinkles, and an impeccable posture for someone his age.
“How are you today, Ms. Sokolov?”
I do the okay sign that he understands by now. Everything else, I have to write in my phone’s notes app.
After I type out my reply, I show him. “I told you to call me Mia. Just Mia.”
He nods as the most perfect English gentleman I’ve ever seen. After my dad—who has a British accent but comes from a very complicated ancestry.
The only difference is that Mr. Whitby doesn’t kill people for a living like Dad.
The old man smiles faintly. “I’m sorry I can’t stay around for today’s game. I have an urgent errand to tend to.”
Oh.
“I’m sure one of the others would be thrilled to play against a bright young lady such as yourself.”
No, they won’t.
Mr. Whitby faces the other members. “Anyone?”
I hang my head. Seems no meditation or chess are on the table today. I do need to purge this energy before it consumes me, though.
This morning, I caught myself standing in front of the mirror, opening and closing my mouth. The disturbing part wasn’t looking like a haunted, mentally-damaged goldfish. It’s the fact that I haven’t done that for years.
After I stopped talking at the age of eight, I tried to speak a few years later by standing in front of the mirror and opening and closing my mouth, attempting to turn the noises I sometimes release into words, but that only made me cry and even pushed me into a panic attack.
So I stopped altogether.
I’m just under a lot of stress lately or I wouldn’t have done that today. It could also be because of the nightmares—
“I’ll play against her.”
My spine jerks and that familiar chill snakes to the bottom of my tight belly.
It can’t be.
I must be imagining things.
I don’t turn around to the source of the voice, though.
If I pretend I didn’t hear it, that means it didn’t happen. Who knows? Maybe my ears are catching up to my tongue and are also becoming dysfunctional.
A shadow stops in front of me, and this time, I do raise my head. My audible gasp nearly chokes me as my eyes clash with none other than Landon fucking King’s.
For the second time in my life, I’m speechless. No, I’m stunned. Everything about this man is unsettling and none of his charm is able to camouflage it.
It’s unfair that he always looks as if he jumped right off of a runway or out of a brand commercial. A crisp white button-down is tucked into his tailored black slacks, highlighting his sculpted waist. There’s an effortless elegance in the way he carries himself, highlighted by a sharp presence and a sardonic smirk.
Unlike a few days ago, a slight stubble covers his cutting jaw, giving him a subtle ruthless edge.
The bastard sure knows how to use the weapons that are at his disposal. Beauty, style, and infuriating charm.
He cocks his head to the side, and the same grin from the other night curls his lips. Provocative, sinful, but most importantly, dangerous.
“Landon.” Mr. Whitby clutches his shoulder in a friendly greeting. “Long time no see.”
Long time no see? Long time no fucking see?
Please don’t tell me this bastard is a member of this club.
“Frank,” Landon greets the president with the familiarity of close acquaintances, his smile subtly switching to appear welcoming. “I missed this place and the people in it, so I thought I’d pay a visit.”
Everyone, and I mean every single one in the hall, either smiles or stands up to surround the freak in a close-knit circle.
The women basically fight for his attention, and he acts like some sort of celebrity. Unlike a celebrity, however, he knows all their names and compliments one lady on her new haircut, another on her flattering glasses, and another on her cardigan. He also greets the men in a bro kind of way, and they all nod enthusiastically.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
I watch the show with my mouth agape. This must be what Bran meant by “You’ve never seen Lan in action. He can be the most charming or the deadliest depending on his mood and goals.”
Now, I see it. The other side of Landon that I’ve only heard about but never had the misfortune to witness.
He captures people’s attention with ease. It’s clear that he’s a natural at this and can’t possibly be challenged at his own game, let alone beaten.
The worst part is that people flock to his presence with the suicidal tendencies of a moth to a flame. In no time, I’m the only one who’s standing outside the circle, an outcast through and through.
Mr. Whitby clears his throat and manages to break the circle from around Landon.
Suddenly, I’m back in Prince Not-So-Charming’s field of vision. Somewhere I definitely don’t want to be after I single-handedly destroyed his party the other night.
“All right, everyone,” Mr. Whitby says. “Landon came to play, so how about we let him do that?”