Limerence: A Dark Romance (Fated Fixation Book 1)
Limerence: Chapter 22

“Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?” Adrian leads me through the ballroom without so much as a glance toward the party that’s already in full swing.

He’s too busy looking at me.

“At least three times,” I respond, as if I’m not basking in his attention like a cat in the sun. Because, while my stomach may be a knotted mess, I have zero complaints that Adrian hasn’t been able to take his eyes off me since the moment I descended the West Wing stairs and he hooked an arm through mine.

The full weight of his attention used to be unsettling – now I’m beginning to replace it thrilling.

“I can’t help myself,” he shrugs shamelessly. “I like dressing you up like this.” He catches a caterer that’s wading through the sea of red dresses and black suits and plucks two long stem glasses off the tray.

“What? Like a doll?” I inspect the glass of copper-colored liquid he hands me.

“Precisely.” He takes a swig of what I assume is some sort of sparkling cider, eyes gleaming. “A pretty little doll that I get to show off…and only I get to touch.” His words are threaded with something greedy and possessive – and it sends an unexpected shot of heat straight through me.

I should not like this.

I take a swig of my drink to hide any heat that might’ve made its way onto my face, my nose crinkling at the bitter after-taste. “Okay, this is not apple cider.”

He shrugs. “Of course not. Someone always bribes the caterers to switch out whatever non-alcoholic juice blend they’re supposed to serve for champagne.”

“Dean Robins hasn’t caught on?” The man in question is going over the set list with the string quartet set up in one of the far corners.

“Oh, he knows, but as long as a nice vintage replaces its way to his office by Monday morning, he won’t say a word.”

I take a few more sips of my drink. It burns going down, but the pleasant warmth that settles in my belly more than makes up for it.

Definitely better than the Busch Lights Rick used to keep in the freezer.

“You look really good tonight too,” I suddenly blurt out. “I can’t remember if I said it before.”

He arcs an eyebrow.

“Not horrible, I mean.” I blame the alcohol. “You look…not horrible.”

More like the opposite of horrible.

His dark curls have been swept away from his forehead and appropriately tamed, his black suit fitted to perfection. As tradition, he wears a red boutonniere to fit tonight’s theme, but he’s replaced the standard rose with something else.

A poppy.

An amused smile plays on his lips. “I’m glad you think so.”

Cheeks tinted pink, I turn my gaze back to the dance before I say anything else that might be fueled by the alcohol running through my veins.

It’s clear that no expense has been spared to make tonight happen. I’ve only been inside Grimaldi Hall – donated by yes, those Grimaldis – once before, and that was during a school tour my freshman year.

Even then, empty of anything but sunlight filtering through its large windows, it was like I’d accidentally stepped into someone else’s fairytale.

Tonight, it feels like my fairytale.

The hall is as large as the gymnasium, though it trades hardwood for marble and bleachers for a spiral staircase. Several crystal chandeliers bathe the space in warmth, the waning sun visible through the hall’s massive arched windows.

Red roses cover the banisters, the drapes, and make up most of the table centerpieces, but the real centerpiece tonight is us.

We’ve had eyes on us since the moment we walked through the door.

I’ve dreaded this moment, the swell of self-consciousness that’d follow their probing stares, but it never comes.

If anything, it’s like I drank a vial of liquid courage that kicked in the moment I found Adrian waiting for me at the bottom of those steps because I want them to stare.

I take another sip of champagne, my gaze catching on a particular, unmistakable face across the room, and some of my newfound confidence dampens.

Sophie stands beside her date, looking nothing short of jaw-droppingly beautiful because of course, she does. On anyone else, her crimson halter-neck gown might look shapeless, but the loose satin pooling at her feet only accentuates how tiny she is.

She wears her hair in an elegant up-do that emphasizes her delicate features, especially her green eyes, which are currently burning with jealousy.

I know the expression too well to mistake it for anything else.

She’s not looking at me or Adrian, but the space between us – right where my arm interlocks with his.

My mouth quirks up and I glance away before she catches me looking.

Of all the jealous stares we’ll probably get tonight, I already know Sophie’s bitter envy tastes the sweetest.

“Would you like to dance?” Adrian’s low voice suddenly fills my ear.

A new song has started up, sweet and slow, and I give him my best impression of a deer in headlights. “Oh, no, I can’t –”

He’s already pulling me toward the mass of swaying bodies before I can appropriately protest. “No, Adrian –” His hand settles my waist.. “I can’t dance.” I shoot a panicked glance toward the other dancing couples, none of whom appear to be fumbling over their feet the way I’m about to.

Adrian looks entirely unconcerned as he places my hand on his shoulder, rearranging me like the doll he seems to think I am. “Do you trust me?”

I blink up at him. “Is this a trick question?”

He doesn’t answer but he does twirl me so quickly it leaves me dizzy. The music picks up. “Adrian –”

He dips me.

I latch onto him for dear life, terrified he’ll drop me – because he might – but he just leans in close, smiling softly. “See? Nothing to be nervous about.”

His words siphon some of the tension from my body, and I reluctantly relax.

Fortunately, I manage not to make a fool of myself through all the dips, spins, and footwork, though that has far more to do with Adrian than it does with me. He’s effortlessly graceful, somehow able to make every single one of my missteps appear intentional.

“Where did you learn to dance like this?” I ask, hoping that talking will give me something to focus on other than how many times I’ve trampled over his Italian loafers.

“My mother enrolled me in classes as soon as I could walk,” he answers, and gestures to the couples twirling around us. “As you can see…not unusual. Too many childhood social functions.”

I nod. “Guess it paid off.”

His eyes meet mine, that soft smile still playing on his lips. “Guess so.”

The air has shifted to something lighter tonight. Adrian is lighter. Less intimidating. Less like the dangerous sociopath I’ve come to know, more like a normal teenage boy.

Normal.

That’s a word I haven’t been able to use lately.

But here I am – a normal girl having a normal night at a normal school dance with a very normal boy. Maybe the universe is throwing me a bone. One normal high school experience to make up for a lifetime of lackluster ones.

By the time we dance through two more songs, I’m a little dizzy from all the spins and the half-glass of champagne still working its way through my bloodstream, so I detach from Adrian long enough to replace the bathroom.

I avoid the bathroom in Grimaldi Hall, knowing it’ll be teeming with dolled-up girls trying to take group photos or last-minute hair and makeup disasters, in favor of the restroom outside the ballroom.

It’s mercifully empty.

I lean against one of the marble sinks, close my eyes, and relish in the peace and quiet. My back tingles with Adrian’s phantom touch like he’s still here, still gently leading me from one dance position to the next.

The door creaks and I peek one eye open, my stomach dropping when I spot a familiar halter-neck gown in my peripheral.

Great.

Her heels clack against the marble as she strolls in, stopping short of the sink I’m leaning over.

“Sorry, do you need to use the sink?” I ask half-sarcastically, recalling the last time she cornered me in a bathroom and demanded I stop “asking Adrian for charity.”

I turn around to face, ready for anything – but her expression roots me to the spot.

It’s doubt and defeat and devastation all at once – a startling raw version of Sophie I’ve never seen – and when she speaks, her voice lacks that trademark sense of superiority. “I need to know,” is all she says.

I keep my back pressed against the sink, unsure what to do with this Sophie. So much for that normal streak I had going. “What?”

It might be the fluorescent lighting playing tricks on me, but I swear there’s a sheen of tears brimming at her lash line. “I need to know how you did it.”

I just blink at her.

Her lips, colored to perfectly match her dress, curl into a sneer. “Don’t play dumb. I need to know how you did it.” Her voice wobbles.

A little bit of pity stirs my chest.

“What is it?” She snaps when I don’t immediately answer. “Seriously. Tell me. Tell me how you got Prince-fucking-Charming to fawn all over you.”

You don’t even know who you’re chasing after, I want to say. He’s not your Prince Charming. He’s nobody’s Prince Charming.

“Sophie –”

“Four years of my life. I’ve done everything. No makeup. Tons of makeup. Brown hair. Blonde hair, which –” She tugs on a piece of her red hair and scoffs. “Looked awful on me, by the way. I’ve done clingy. I’ve played hard to get. I’ve tried making him jealous. I’ve done everything, and he’s never so much as looked twice at me. He’s never looked twice at anyone. To be honest, I was starting to think he was just asexual or something.” Sophie points an acrylic nail in my direction. “But then you come along and he’s all over you. So, before this year ends, before I move on with my life and marry someone worth my time and energy, I want to know. Tell me what you have that I don’t.”

Her stare is fierce and unyielding, and though I don’t think I owe Sophie Adams a damn thing, that ripple of pity is annoyingly persistent.

She’d never believe anything close to the truth, but…

“You really want to know?”

She gives me an expectant look.

I sigh. “He likes me because I’m the one thing you aren’t.”

Her gaze sharpens. “Which is?”

I hold my hands up, a gesture of surrender. “A charity case.”

“Oh, please,” she sneers. “Tell me the truth.”

I shake my head. “No, it’s true. You’ve met him. He’s got a real savior complex. I’ve got a sob story that tugged on his heartstrings.”

“You’ve got to be joking,” she deadpans.

I feign a shrug. “You can be everything, Sophie. Except poor.”

She studies me from head-to-toe like she might discover a bottle of pheromones or a book of witchcraft tucked into my pocket, and promptly scoffs when she replaces nothing.

She mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like a waste of my fucking time before stomping out of the bathroom without another word.

I can’t keep the smile off my face.

It’s not funny – not really – but I think it may be about the only explanation Sophie would buy.

The sad charity case and the boy with the bleeding heart who couldn’t resist.

It couldn’t be farther from the truth.

***

I return to the party to replace that Dean Robins has roped Adrian into a spirited conversation across the room, and that the auction started.

This was the official reason for the St. Benedict’s Dance: donated items from students and faculty to be auctioned off, the proceeds going toward a charity that funds the research of neurological disorders.

Unofficially, it bolsters the school’s reputation – and gives everyone an excuse to shed their school uniforms and dress up.

Penelope Lawson, decked out in a volcano red sequined gown, is hosting from the second-floor balcony. “And our next item is…” She squints at the index cards in her hand, giggling. I’m guessing she’s had more than one glass of the champagne floating around. “A test drive in Tristan Bell’s Lamborghini!”

By the time I’ve snagged another glass of champagne, it’s gone for $300.

Next is a bottle of vintage wine that auctions for $1,500 to one of the professors. A few seniors try bidding on it, but chaperoning faculty shut them down.

There’s jewelry, signed sports memorabilia, vintage bags, and even professional styling sessions – but my interest really only piques at the sight of a travel roll. It’s made of real, hand-crafted leather with all sorts of slots to keep my paintbrushes and pencils in.

I could take that to Pratt.

When Penelope starts the bidding, I swing my paddle in the air – only for Monica Jensen to get there first. “I’ll take it for $100!” She calls.

“$150,” someone else counters.

“$200!”

My dream withers.

Disappointed but not surprised, I tune out the bidding and return to the one thing I can actually afford tonight: the complimentary champagne. Adrian is still being held captive by Dean Robins. His charming smile is beginning to look pinched around the edges.

Maybe I should rescue him.

“Poppy.”

My eyes go wide as I turn, nearly choking on whatever’s left of my champagne in the process.

“Freddy!” I hope he doesn’t notice the dribble of champagne that’s landed on my chin. “It’s good to see you.”

He casts a shy smile toward his polished dress shoes. “You too.”

“You look really nice,” I say, but quickly add, “With Millie. You guys look really nice together.”

He adjusts his apricot-colored tie. “Thanks. Her date bailed at the last second, but she works quickly. Picked everything out so we could match. Not sure the color’s doing me any favors though.”

I shake my head. “No, it looks really…”

Don’t say nice. Or good.

“…great. Brings out your eyes,” I finish.

He cracks a smile. “Thanks.”

An uncomfortable silence blankets the space between us, and I fidget with the stem of my empty champagne glass. “So, uh, about your rose…”

He shakes his head vehemently. “You don’t need to explain. That’s not why I came over here, and honestly, I saw what happened in College Preparations. Adrian’s proposal blew mine out of the water. No explanation needed.”

Somehow, Freddy’s gentle reassurance makes me feel even worse.

I swallow down the lump forming in my throat. “Your proposal was really nice too. It’s just…”

You never really stood a chance the moment Adrian decided he was interested in me.

He waves me off. “You and Adrian have a thing. I get it. As I said: no explanation needed.”

I’m not sure I stand much of a chance, either.

“Anyway…” Freddy fumbles for something in his back pocket. “I actually came over here to give you this.” He pulls out the travel roll.

My breath catches. “You won?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. I wasn’t going to bid, but I saw the way you were looking at it.”

“You didn’t need to do this,” I say. “I know it was expensive.” Now I feel guilty that I can’t remember how expensive.

“Nah. My parents gave me an allowance for the auction, and nothing else caught my eye. I considered bidding on that bottle of wine, but Professor Ayala looked ready to hand out suspensions.”

I nod. “Probably a safe choice.”

He holds out his hand. “Here. It’s yours.”

“Are you sure?” My fingers itch to grab the roll, but I reign in the impulse.

He nods encouragingly. “Definitely. I don’t think it’s going to fit my vibe.”

I pluck the roll from his hand, a flush that has nothing to do with the alcohol flooding my cheeks. “Thank you, Freddy. This is really sweet.”

His entire face brightens, and a sudden thought strikes me: if anyone here tonight fits the bill for Prince Charming, it’s probably Freddy. Attractive. Thoughtful. He’d easily make for leading man material in someone else’s sweet, gooey fairytale romance.

He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “You know, if you really wanted to thank me, you could have a dance with me.”

My eyes widen, and I open my mouth to reply, but someone else beats me to it.

“Oh, isn’t this lovely?”

Adrian’s voice is cold water trickling down my spine – or maybe that’s the cool hand he curls around my waist. His other hand brushes against the leather of the roll. “You should’ve grabbed me, sweetheart. I would’ve bought you anything you like.”

“Oh, well, auction’s over now,” Freddy replies, one bushy eyebrow raised. “And you weren’t here.”

“No, I suppose not.” Adrian is calm and measured. Only the tightening hand around my waist signals his displeasure.

Freddy is smiling, and Adrian is smiling, and I’m smiling – but it feels like I’ve been strapped with chew toys and thrown into the ring with a golden retriever and a pissed off panther.

One of us is blissfully unaware of the danger here, and it’s not me.

Adrian flicks his gaze toward me. “You’ll have to forgive me. I promise I tried to escape – multiple times – but Dean Robins was determined to talk my ear off about the Ellis family’s contribution to this year’s fundraiser.”

My eyebrows furrow. “Your family made a contribution outside the auction?”

It’s only when Adrian’s eyes slide toward Freddy that I realize his explanation wasn’t meant for me. “Of course. I managed to talk my father into two million.”

Freddy’s confidence wavers.

He’s not going to win this tug-of-war.

“Adrian,” I say eagerly. Too eagerly. “I think the music is starting again soon. Will you dance with me?” For good measure, I place my hand on top of his – the one that’s touching my travel roll.

His dark stare settles on me. “Of course, sweetheart.”

A quiet sigh of relief escapes me as we venture back to the dance floor.

Crisis averted.

“Poppy!” Freddy calls. “I forgot to tell you. You look gorgeous tonight!”

I don’t even have time to open my mouth before Adrian has whirled around, his fist colliding with Freddy’s face in a sickening crunch.