When Perfect Meets Crazy

Chapter 14: 14 - Cinderella and a missing prince

I knew I was signing up for a proper gala. I had been to a few of those thanks to my parents but I

wasn’t prepared for just how proper. There were no flashing cameras and pens with notepads poised to

take statements outside the hotel so I figured it would be a low key event where they’d rake in a

hundred thousand or so at the end of the night. I was off. Way off. The second I stepped into the suite

Ellie procured for dressing me up -a presidential suite- I knew I was having my very own debut as

Cinderella, a not so poor kid moonlighting as royalty for a night. Icing on the cake, this was all for a

dance and like the fairytale, I had to be home before midnight. All that was missing were blonde hair

and glass slippers. Ellie could probably arrange for glass slippers if I asked but as for the hair, I was too

attached to my nappy curls to consider anything else.

“Sit,” she ordered, delicately lowering herself into the plush leather chair opposite mine.

I obeyed. This was uncharted territory for me. Not ruffling her feathers was especially important since I

needed her willing and pliable for when I pumped her for information.

With a wave of her hand, the swarm of people standing to the side, armed with clothes, flat irons and

what I figured were boxes of makeup surrounded me. Damn. My jaw fell open, eyes widening with

surprise until my mom’s voice filled my head, reminding me to act dignified, to not slouch or stare too

long. To close my mouth and smile politely like it was no more than I expected. To not make mistakes.

I started to sit up straighter and smile before it registered that she wasn’t physically present to assess

my behaviour and hiss corrections as soon as the people she wanted me to impress turned away. I let

out a deep breath. Get it together. You have work to do.

“So,” I leaned forward as much as the man working on undoing my hairdo allowed and pasted a smile

on my face, “how do you know Mask... uhm...” I faltered, forcing a taut laugh as I tried to recall his real

name. “Bl... uh... Ian! Ian. How do you know Ian?”

I really needed to stop calling him Masked Idiot. That was fucking close.

A woman with a makeup brush and palette slid between us, obstructing my view of Ellie’s face and by

extension, her reaction. I flashed the woman a scowl she didn’t so much as bat a lash at as she

proceeded to wipe my face clean with a makeup wipe, then work her way up to powdering my face.

Reactions and body language were very important in reading people. In knowing what made them tick

and when you were getting warmer. Both my parents swore by it so clearly, it worked. My mom was

senior partner and my dad, the sheriff. Plus, it helped me to not be just another socially irrelevant nerd

at school. My people handling and troubleshooting skills were what made me, and I quote, ‘the fixer, a

real life HBIC.’

Unfortunately, with the unrepentant makeup artist obstructing my view of Ellie, I couldn’t read her to

know what was a lie, what wasn’t, when I was getting warmer or completely shooting a blank. Move,

damn it.

Despite my efforts to manoeuvre her to the side, the artist staunchly refused to budge. Asshole.

I knew how these galas went. There was a very high probability I wouldn’t see Ellie again for the rest of

the night if I didn’t ask her the questions now.

“Ellie, how long have you known Ian?” My tone was conversational, tentative and just in case she could

see me, I pasted a smile on my face.

“You know he has a girlfriend, right?” she countered in a tone that was just centimetres away from

hostile.

It took all my willpower to refrain from rolling my eyes.

“That’s nice,” I managed.

Information about a girlfriend was useless to me and if I was interpreting her tone correctly, Ellie had

me pegged for a boyfriend thief, never mind that she actually couldn’t pay me her entire net worth to

date Masked Idiot. His criminality aside on the list of reasons why I wouldn’t go near him with a six foot

pole, he wasn’t even that cute. He was normal white boy cute. I had dated guys like him before and it

was nothing particularly special.

“We aren’t... We are nothing like that. I would never,” I expanded, in a bid to get her on my side. Babe,

the only thing I want from Masked Idiot is his permanent disappearance from my life.

“He loves her just so you know,” she informed.

“That’s wonderful.” My tone was apathetic, dismissive. It said, I couldn’t care less and you’re boring me

to tears. “How long have you known him?”

“My whole life.” It sounded like she was smiling but with the makeup artist obstructing my field of vision,

I couldn’t confirm it.

“You must know him well,” I said. It was a sentence that usually got people talking. For some reason,

most people see it as an invitation to prove just how well they knew the subject.

“I do know him well.”

Her polite, almost curt reply threw me off. In a way, it reminded me of the day Masked Idiot started

officially stalking me, after I met with Martha and Emily, when I failed at using one of my tricks on him.

Was someone teaching rich people how to sidestep these tricks?

The makeup artist moved away to the table where her equipment was and I finally had an unhindered Material © NôvelDrama.Org.

view of the girl who was rapidly proving to be as helpful as a dead possum. As soon as I met her gaze,

she turned her head to side, nodding to one of the seemingly endless army of helpers. Where

Cinderella needed mice, lizards and a pumpkin, I apparently needed a small army of makeup artists,

hair stylists and everything in between.

The group of three Ellie nodded at stepped forward, rolling a clothes rack with them. Some of the

clothes on it were still in their garment bags. Their designer labelled garment bags. My brows furrowed

as my gaze involuntarily shot to the girl who brought me into this dimension. ‘Are the clothes for me?’

my eyes asked.

“I narrowed it down to a top three,” she revealed.

The cloth bearers proceeded to hold out the top three for my inspection. The makeup artist returned at

that moment but while I hadn’t been able to so much as get her to budge an inch, a flickered glance

from Ellie had her standing to the side as she continued her work on my face.

In other words, I had no power here.

With a flick of Ellie’s wrist, the cloth bearers presented the dresses to me. She had great taste. I knew

that the second I laid eyes on her. Her silvery obviously couture satin suit practically screamed it but as

I laid eyes on the dresses, I found myself being impressed all over again.

An inaudible gasp escaped my lips. I instantly regretted it because my mom’s disapproving frown

immediately followed in my mind’s eye, berating the uncouth act. In most aspects of my life like school,

my jobs and my social life, I succeeded in separating my parents and their preferences from my actions

but in these parts of my life, the parts that were more theirs than mine, parts where I was hardly ever

without them because how else would a teenager get invited to such an event, I couldn’t control the

switch from normal me to perfect daughter mode.

I sighed heavily. The dresses didn’t seem all that spectacular anymore.

The first one was a beautiful red satin number that changed shade as light played on it. It boasted a

plunging neckline that ended at a clinched waist. Upon closer inspection, I discovered a flowery pattern

on the dress that had me questioning whether it really was satin or some expensive new material that

wasn’t commonplace yet. The front fell in three transverse folds, the first mid-thigh, the second just

below the knee and the last formed the end of the gown. The back on the other hand was a completely

different design. It fell in overlapping longitudinal folds, like a curtain. I was almost certain I had seen

this gown on the Golden Globes’ red carpet.

The second dress was simpler. It was a nude floor length gown with a low neckline and tiny fluffy

sleeves. It accented a tiny waist with thin gold embellishments and fell in graceful folds to the ground.

The net-like material boasted glittering sea green embroidery that my practical mind discerned must

have catapulted the cost from fancy to one percentile. I could already imagine the saleswoman

snobbishly boasting, “It’s all hand stitched with the rarest materials shipped in from Egypt” or some

other fancy traditional country. The dress, despite its simplicity, was undeniably beautiful.

The third and most sophisticated of the three was a heavily studded black dress. The neckline was

crafted singularly of black precious stones that sparkled with all the colours of the rainbow when light

hit it just right. The rest of the dress, with the exception of the sleeves -which like the neckline was also

made solely of small precious stones that probably cost more than my tuition- was covered with

glittering rhomboid shaped stones. It looked like something you’d need a bodyguard to be able to wear.

“That one,” I decided.

“You sure?” Ellie questioned.

“Yes.” I nodded firmly with my finger pointed at the nude gown.

It was more my style.

“Alright, we’ll get you into it soon enough,” she acquiesced, rising to her feet.

And with her went my chance to probe for answers to the endless list of questions I had about Masked

Idiot.

For the record, I think the tradition of auctioning dances, dates and whatnot is entirely sexist. More

often than not, it’s females being paraded for the viewing pleasure of the males and whenever the

cases were reversed, as opposed to several males being paraded, it would be just one. One self-

assured handsome guy that we were all expected to fall in love it. To top it off, I hated being judged. If it

were a debate, an assignment, a quiz, a job I had done or anything along those lines, I could stand it.

That, I thrived on. Being judged on my appearance, my makeup, a dress that wasn’t even mine, not so

much. It was nerve racking. I had no idea how models withstood it. Seriously, they deserved awards.

Unfortunately, not only did I have to stand it, I actually had to entice some bigwig to ‘buy me’. I could

only imagine how embarrassing it would be if no one donated money when my turn came around. It

would be mortifying.

I drew in a fortifying breath. I knew what my mom would say if she was present. She’d berate me for

dwelling on the problems like a loser and hiss through a smile that I should find a solution already. So

that’s what I did.

I let my eyes roam across tables of well-dressed men, scanning for one I could entice into getting out

his chequebook when I was called under the spotlight because judging from the girls who had been

auctioned so far, it was family members, close friends and significant others forking out money. None of

which I had in this crowd. It didn’t help that Masked Idiot who had promised to buy my dance was

nowhere to be seen.

My breathing picked up speed as my selection of men grew smaller and smaller. Too old to actually do

it. Married. Girlfriend sitting next to him. Engagement ring. Too old. Definitely racist. Too old. Came with

a date. The contents of my stomach sank with every discarded option and that was before my eyes

landed on this one guy. He looked up just as my eyes reached him and our gazes met. His lips spread

into a leery grin that had goose bumps sprouting all over my skin. I knew his type. I could read him at

glance. He was a spoiled self-absorbed brat used to getting what he wanted and was born into the

wrong generation for the condescending ‘they are play things’ view he had on women. He was the kind

you instantly knew would treat everyone who wasn’t as rich as him like trash. The kind who probably

had a round-the-clock attorney to clean up his messes. The kind that used daddy’s money to cover his

crimes and claimed it was other people’s fault they weren’t rich enough to deserve better than the way

he treated them. I was definitely not that desperate. Even my mother’s voice telling me to use what I

had to get what I wanted couldn’t sway me.

I averted my gaze hurriedly and hoped to God it was fast enough to not draw Bratty Man-child in.

“Now, we have the stunning Es-tel-laaaa Flo-resss.” With the way he drawled the name, it took me a

second to realize he was saying Estella Flores. “You will want to get your chequebooks out for this one,

ladies and gentlemen. So many modelling agencies had tried to recruit her and failed. Her beauty is not

the mundane everyday kind. She is the kind men travel miles to behold. A one-in-a-generation kind of

beautiful. And Estella is not only beautiful but also multi-talented. She is fluent in Spanish, French and

German along with English. She excels at pianoforte and sings well enough to make a nightingale

jealous,” the auctioneer cooed, his voice undulating every two syllables.

Cue my infamous eye roll. Exaggerate much? Yes, the girl was pretty, intimidatingly so in her

translucent ivory gown and I was starting to resent that I was to go after her because thanks to her

dazzle, I would come off as bland and anticlimactic but singing well enough to make a nightingale

jealous was just too much cream. He had better not go that far when it was my turn. I tried to recall

what I had written on the little note about my talents. Nothing particularly cringe worthy jumped out at

me but I was almost sure he’d find a way to spin it regardless.

I watched, dread mounting as the bidding for her first dance began at the highest for the night. A

whooping twenty thousand dollars. My heart sank. There was no topping that. I still hadn’t even found

someone in the crowd I could count on to bid on me. It was going to be the embarrassment of the

century when my turn came around. I could feel it.

Estella eventually went for a hundred and fifteen thousand. In case I was holding out any hope of not

being a total flop, this cemented the dread that no matter what, going right after her would paint me as

less. Way less. I suddenly really hated the organizers and the people in charge of our line-up. They

should’ve let me go after the first girl who went for thirty-eight thousand. Unfortunately, as a last minute

addition, I was stuck as the last on the list. The closer.

I was not a fan. Everybody knew firsts and lasts were always a big deal. There was a level of

importance attached to it. They’re supposed to be more impressive and whatnot. Yet, here I was, in

borrowed clothes, makeup and shoes. That was decidedly not the least bit impressive. Sure, the

stylists had done a great job and I looked amazing but the other girls were also equally, and in Estella’s

case, more beautiful.

I should never have agreed to this. Not only had I not gotten a single tidbit of useful information, I was

about to royally embarrass myself. This was all a very very bad idea. I could kill Masked Idiot.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer crooned, an excited flush colouring his cheeks, a result of how

high his last sale was, “the last auction of the night! Your absolute last chance to win a dance from a

spectacular beauty!”

A drum roll followed.

I did not want a drum roll. Spectacular beauty? Really? I was pretty. Very pretty but a spectacular

beauty, I was not. I immediately wished instant death on the drummer and auctioneer. Where was

Masked Idiot anyway? Ellie I had spotted ages ago seated at the centre table in the front row with a

young couple and an older woman who was most likely her mother. They had similar colouring and

features. That was not of any importance at the moment though. The most important thing was the

chair to Ellie’s right. It was still empty. Masked Idiot’s chair.

Involuntarily, my gaze flickered to Bratty Man-child. He had on a lascivious grin as he looked me over,

his gaze lingering a little too long on my cleavage. He raised his gaze back to my face finally only to

shoot me a wink. God, no.

I shuddered.

“Finally,” the auctioneer’s voice rang with glee, “we have the enthralling, the breathtaking,” an unseen

hand shoved my frozen body in the right direction, “the exquisite, the mysterious,” he paused for effect,

flashing the crowd a winsome smile, “A-vee-yannaaaa!”

I wasn’t quite sure how I managed it but I was suddenly under the spotlight. A distant part of my brain

was glad I had wisely chosen to withhold my last name. The last thing I needed was for someone to

make the connection and casually mention it in a conversation to my mom.

“She is brilliant, talented and absolutely skilled! She fluently speaks English, French, German, Spanish,

Mandarin, and a shocking Arabic. Not only can she converse her way through a room of foreign

diplomats, she plays the piano, the cello...” As he went on listing my fine points, I mentally thanked my

mom for making me learn all those rarely useful things that were now making me sound quite

accomplished. Even if I sold for a much lower price than Estella, I at least did not sound any less

accomplished.

I was so engrossed in my gratitude that I missed the opening bid from a lone man sitting at the edge of

the room. Man-child was quick to chip in after him. If I weren’t under the spotlight and hadn’t been

brought up to be poised and in control at all times, I would’ve scowled.

The guy seated next to Man-child, a friend I presumed, drove the bid up good naturedly though it was

clear he wasn’t particularly invested in buying a dance from me. Man-child, being the entitled brat that

he was, refused to be one-upped and kept rising to the challenge despite my fervent prayers.

After four excruciating minutes of back and forth bidding and bantering, and fervent prayers that

Masked Idiot would show up or someone else would out bid Man-child, his friend finally conceded,

shaking his head laughingly as the auctioneer tried to cajole him into another bid.

I winced.

It wasn’t as high as Estella’s but at least I hadn’t royally embarrassed myself. I must have looked better

than I thought because I was the third most expensive bid of the night. That was good enough for me.

The only problem was the bidder, Man-child, who was now openly leering, mentally undressing and

raping me because I couldn’t imagine being willing to go along with it even in his imagination.

“Last chance, ladies and gentlemen. Go-innnng,” the auctioneer drawled gleefully. His voice was really

starting to get on my nerves. “Go-innnng...” he warned again.

It seemed I was the only one desperate to not hear the ‘gone.’ Masked Idiot, where are you? I really

was going to kill him if I had to dance with Bratty Man-child.

Never, in as long as I had known of his existence had I wished more fervently for Masked Idiot to

appear.