Complicity [h.s]

42

PART 1 OF THE DOUBLE UPDATE.

Aven Brooks

Masquerade.

The most overused theme of wealthy events since the beginning of time. To be hidden, to wear a disguise. It feels like themes like this appeal to my family because hiding is what we all do best. We conceal our truths and bury our secrets. I've never attended one until tonight, but a team has critiqued my appearance to a very specific standard. According to my mother, it's the event of all events. Which I doubt, considering she says this to me a lot.

But tonight isn't just a regular night in the city. It's a date.

It's a date with Ambrose.

My parents are here tonight, but I came with Ambrose. It isn't often I'm going anywhere without Zayn. It feels strange. Ambrose and a driver picked me up in a Range Rover with his name on the licence plate; he was a gentleman like I expected. He held the door, told me I looked beautiful and spent the majority of the ride asking me about myself. The questions were surface level: where I dream of travelling or what I dream of accomplishing with my legacy one day. Everything feels so business-oriented. After all, we both know business is the foundation of this marriage.

Since I arrived, I have been nothing more than an accessory to Ambrose as he socializes with his acquaintances. I sip my champagne and stick to him like glue, quiet as a mouse. Many men have looked at me admiringly, complimenting Ambrose on my beauty, as if I am not my own person. It's a strange idea to accept that I will always be this man's addition—his property. It's difficult not to overthink.

My gown is red, fiery red. It meets the floor. Thin straps, sweetheart neckline. It's an elegant dress meant to match my lacy red mask that goes over my eyes. Not only is the theme a masquerade, but it's taking place at an art museum. It's a charity event, a place of poise and image disguised as appreciating timeless art. I'm actually pleased we're at an art museum; it's refreshing from the usual banquet halls. A lot of pieces here tonight are imported straight from Italy.

It seems that many people around Ambrose respect him for his sophistication and balance. He's a skilled conversationalist and exudes confidence, making him someone my father would approve of. I understand why he is the ideal man to marry into our family, honestly, I'm surprised I wasn't introduced to him earlier. My mother is very fond of him.

I managed to slip away by telling him I was going to visit my parents. He was deeply engrossed in his conversation anyway. In reality, I'm not actually going to see my anyone; I just need some time to admire the art. I need a break from everything. The museum is enormous; the exhibit comprises mixed media of sculptures and paintings. Everyone is dressed in expensive attire and wearing masks of some sort. An orchestra is playing softly somewhere in the building.

I wander with my glass gripped in my right hand, strolling through the museum full of people. The oil paintings catch my eye as I enter another room, wall to wall. I start with the first piece of art. It's dated from the 18th century, and you can tell by the varnish despite its pristine condition. It's of a woman in a corseted dress looking in her standing mirror, her dress a train behind her. She looks sad, but I find no one looks very happy in art dated this far back. The detail is beyond my imagination: every corner of the room, every feature of her dress, even the glaze in her eyes. I could stare at this for hours. If I look close enough, I can see a tear down her face.

My chest goes tight.

In the next painting, there is a man and a woman separated by a gate. However, the man's arms hold the woman through the bars as they share a kiss. She is dressed in rich clothing, similar to the woman in the last painting. They are forbidden to be together, and it's hard to tell whether the man is stuck outside or the woman is stuck inside. Regardless, they both desire each other but cannot be together. It's tragic.