✓ | Curse Breaker ⋆ Julian Blackthorn [1]

xx. MIDNIGHT LOTTERY

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CHAPTER TWENTY: MIDNIGHT LOTTERY

❛someday we will reunite.❜

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For what seemed like an eternity, Zoya Caldwell had stood frozen. In a room filled with lavishing melodies and a crowd larger than her mind could ever possibly comprehend, the raven-haired girl felt completely star-struck and out of breath. Her feet were glued to the floor beneath, arms stiff beside her body as she kept on observing the boy in front of her.

She would have loved to be able to say that it was because of the shock of seeing all the handsome gentlemen and more than just beautiful ladies, but unfortunately - that would have been a lie. A blatant lie she wasn't capable of allowing to pass her lips, simply because Zoya had wholeheartedly believed her eyes were playing tricks on her.

She tried blinking multiple times, just so she could be sure that she wasn't hallucinating, but the tall silhouette of the boy she had once known was ever present before her aquamarine orbs. Despite not seeing him for nearly five long years, Theodore Alette hadn't changed one bit.

And yet again, that would have been a lie.

Theodore had changed. A lot. It was only Zoya's mind that was capable of noticing the similarity between the person who stood in front of her and the boy who had both protected her and abandoned her when she needed him the most.

Theodore's eyes were the same; a rich, exquisite chocolate brown shade that resembled the color of fresh grounds after the heavy rain. They were a beautiful compliment to Theodore's bronze complexion. The boy's hair was freshly cut, meant to look proper with the midnight-blue suit he was wearing.

"Miss Caldwell," Theodore extended his hand toward Zoya, a playful smile dancing on his lips. He had recognized her, too. "Would you do me the honors?"

Swallowing a bitter lump that rested in her throat and trying not to push her luck under the watchful gaze of the clarinetist who had dragged her into problems in the first place, Zoya allowed her hand to slide into Theodore's. His palm was warm to the touch, pulling Zoya closer into him.

The girl said nothing, attempting to silence her racing heart as she put her other hand on Theodore's broad shoulder. He smelt different; the scent she had known her whole childhood - one of parchments of paper and fresh fields of grass - was gone and replaced by a thick, wooden aroma.

"Zoya," he whispered into her ear. His voice was deeper, more hoarse. "Try to at least look happy and like you are having fun or these bastards are going to notice just how much we don't belong with these crowds."