Diamonds On The Dance Floor

Their hands and feet moved in sync with the tempo of the orchestra, sliding and gliding on the floor. Diamonds and sequins, catching the light and forming soft coloured dots wherever the light reflected it.

I was transfixed.

Squinting my eyes, one of the female dancers was Constance Quinn. She was one of four mistresses to Sir Viktor Harrison— an old, grey-headed man, vying for the seat of the senate in the next election.

“Oh, lovely Constance. Always making her daddy proud.” I ignored the double meaning of the words my aunt uttered but turned to her, regardless.

She held up two flutes of champagne. “Here, drink up. Some liquid courage because we are going to introduce you to a lot of capable men,” She swirled the drinks. “and women.”

Handing one to me, she clinked our glasses and took a gulp of hers. I faked a grin and gulped down my champagne too, the warm, amber liquid soothing my dry mouth and filling it with the tangy taste of…well, champagne.

Erica's eyes brimmed with excitement, —lips curling up as she bounced on her feet— so much so that she hooked her arm in mine and led me around.

We walked and talked for almost five minutes. Then, a wave of dizziness washed over me, like a cold tide pulling me under. The music and laughter seemed to blur together, and I felt a prickling sensation on my skin, like pins and needles.

I tried to shake off the feeling, but my vision began to blur, and my legs felt like jelly beneath me. If I looked into a mirror, I was sure that my face would be red and blotchy from the exhaustion and the fuzziness I felt.

Just when I thought we had stopped, she pulled me again, gushing, “Oh, that's Priscilla Crane. Daughter of Thomas Crane and future wife to Elijah Ryker. Gosh, she's so stunning. Let's go say hi.”

*No!* I wanted to sit or better yet, sleep so I planted my feet to the ground, digging my heels to the floor.

“Aunt Erica, please.” I begged. “We've met a lot of prestigious people tonight, plus, I don't feel too good.” My voice sounded far away.

I unlinked our arms and took a step back from her. Far enough to prevent her from snatching me into her grip, but close enough to hear what she had to say.

Her lips gave a slight twitch, eyes calculating.

“Oh dear,” She clutched her pearls in theatrical horror, eyes widening with mock concern. “What's wrong?”

I wanted to scoff, because I knew my aunt. She had no sympathy for me, so her display of concern blared warning bells at the back of my mind.

But, I humoured her.

“I feel funny. A little dizzy, foggy. Sleepy.” I tried to blink away the haze and blur of my vision and my lips pulled down into a frown as the scenario settled in my mind.

It was not normal to feel this way and even when everything in me felt it was just the exhaustion, I knew better.

“You're definitely tired then,” She murmured, guiding me towards the elevator with a hand on my back. “Come on, let's take you to a suite so you can sleep it off.”

I narrowed my eyes at her, my lips pursed.

This hotel, amongst the other ‘Geraldine's Hotels’ across the country, was owned by Lady Ellen Wells, a 34-year-old widow. Her husband's death had caused a scandal and the media spun tales which pointed to her as the murderer.

If the rumours I heard were true, —that he was physically abusive— then, the man deserved to die.

The elevator doors opened on the 12th floor, to reveal a large expanse of hallway, with two large doors on each side, and our heels echoed with every step on the stylish herringbone floors.

Wooden abstract figurines and paintings decorated the walls. Large potted plants were placed at the corners of the hallways and beside each door.

Warm fluorescent light accentuated the flare, the vents released cool air that pricked at my exposed skin, causing goosebumps to erupt. The scent of lavender and freshness tickled my nostrils.

It was a beautiful hotel, at least from what my blurry eyes could make out.

We stopped at one of the doors, my head raising to find a ‘Suite 301’engraved on a wooden plaque, placed above it.

“You can rest here-” My aunt's words were interrupted by a shrill ringing of her phone which she quickly took out of her gold purse, her eyes scanning the caller ID.

She gave me a look, jaw clenching in irritation briefly, before she schooled her features and plastered a sickly sweet smile. “This is the key card. Rest up.”

I staggered on my feet when she shoved the key card into me, my mouth parting on a gasp.

“Hello, Greg,” She placed the phone to her ear, gave me a look and walked away.

My eyes flicked between her blurry retreating back and the key card with S.301 engraved into it in small font. I was coherent enough to know that this was not a coincidence.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips as I recalled that the only drink I had was the one she gave me and all of a sudden, I had a suite I could ‘rest up’ in.

I had no idea what they planned, but I did not want to find out. Also, I actually needed to lie down.

My eyes zoned in on a partially opened door opposite where I stood— Suite 304— and I stumbled the few distance across. My hands held on to the wall to support my frame and I pushed into the dark room.

Feeling along the walls, I turned on the lights and slammed the door shut, turning the lock. I knew sneaking into an empty suite, that I did not pay for, was the perfect scenario to cause the spread of gossip.

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💋 To be continued...

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