The kind you see in movies set back in the 1800s, when finding your future husband or wife depended on going to a ball. Three massive chandeliers dangle from the gold ceiling, arches of intricately carved wood between each fixture. The floor is a sparkling ivory, the little flecks glinting off of the chandeliers nearly blinding me. It’s like looking into the damn sun. “Fix your face,” Zade murmurs from beside me. It’s not until he speaks that I realize my face was screwed up into a look of disgust. Not because the place is ugly, but because it’s so damn... pretentious and flashy. I don’t need to see the rest of the house to know that the place screams look at me, I have a gazillion dollars and have no intention of sharing the wealth with the millions of starving families around the world. But what do I know? I’ve always wondered if the people who have the money to feed the entire world population are allowed to. All governments are corrupted. Maybe if you try to save the world and actively steal money from the rich’s pockets, you’ll wake up dead one day. I smooth out my face, donning a blank mask as I look around at the hundreds of people occupying the ballroom. Everyone is dressed to the nines, the guests ranging from young adults to people who look like they’re on their deathbed. Zade holds out his elbow to me, and every signal in my brain tells me to snub the request. But that’s pride speaking, and I’m not in a good position to let pride get the best of me. I loathe to admit it, but I’m safer attached to Zade. Stiffly, I grab onto his elbow and lean into his side. It feels like hands smoothing into wet clay. No matter the divots in our bodies, we mold together perfectly. Ugh. For the next hour, we mingle around the ballroom, talking to random people, many of them familiar faces I’ve seen on the news, arguing over bills and laws that usually do nothing but flatten Americans further under their thumbs. Zade is charming, his demeanor calm and slightly reserved, but still manages to draw people in until they’re hanging on every word he says. Most of their eyes linger on his scars. Questions on the tip of their tongues that never see the light. You’d think it’s because it’s a rude question to ask, but really, it’s because Zade carries intimidation around with him like a woman with a designer purse. Despite that, he’s a sight to behold as he works the room, gaining these people’s trust and interest in a matter of minutes. I’ve no idea who’s involved in Zade’s mission and who’s not, but he looks at each and every one of these people as if he knows exactly who they are and their