The Revealed Page 4

  My father checks his watch, then turns back to me.

  “Keeping me in here isn’t going to stop them,” I add before I lose him to the party. “You want to see all the letters I’ve gotten? And most of them have been taped to my bedroom window.”

  My father’s shoulders tighten in discomfort. “Unfortunately, right now I need to please your mother. We’ll talk more later. Enjoy yourself tonight, okay kiddo?” My father doesn’t like discussing the letters. Avoidance seems to be my parents’ favorite tactic whenever I bring up The Revealed. They just want me to stay inside and not argue about it. That’s what other rich eighteen-year-olds do, after all.

  “I’ll try,” I say grudgingly.

  He leaves with his entourage close at his heels, and I turn back to getting ready. I slip off my robe, grab my dress off the hanger, and pull it on. I trace my hand over the shimmery material as I zip up the back. I glance at myself for a long while in the full-length mirror, trying to make the look feel right on me. I turn to the side, then the other side, then face front.

  I look like a doll. A pretty doll, but a doll nonetheless.

  I pout my lips and lean toward the mirror like it’s a camera. I furl my hair and twirl around. Still, I look breakable. I wish I were fierce and powerful. When people saw me they would know I was someone important.

  But that isn’t real.

  I’m a snob, I remind myself. The sting of the words makes my throat constrict. I bite my lip against the memory, but other unpleasant thoughts invade my mind. I’m eighteen years old and stuck inside a house twenty-four hours a day. Not very glamorous. The media tries to paint my life that way. They will all be here tonight, showering me with questions about where my dress is from and what I plan on doing when I turn nineteen and how I’ll feel if my father wins the presidency.

  I walk onto the balcony outside my room, watching people stream in through the doors below.

  Rows of limos stretch down the road. The valets work quickly to make sure none of these people wait. They are the most-powerful people in the world. They wait for no one.

  A red carpet is unrolled down the walkway, and soft light keeps the setting intimate and alluring. Inside, guests are led through the foyer, pausing for the photographers and reporters, and into the ballroom, which is lined with round tables and red-and-gold accents. A live orchestra plays soothing music, and I can hear laughter and the hum of conversation from my balcony.

  No doubt my father will make his appearance in a matter of minutes.

  I smooth out my dress, not ready to become a spectacle yet. Ever since turning eighteen, I am somewhat of a focal point during conversations. It’s hardly a secret that I’ve become a big target for The Revealed. People are even betting on the Internet, guessing the date I’ll be taken.

  Two hundred and fifty days until I’m nineteen.

  “Lily?”

  I jump. Rory stands in the doorway.

  “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.” I smile sheepishly at her.

  “I’m supposed to be working but had to see your dress.” She runs toward me and grazes her hands over the material. “Oh my God, you look like something out of Vogue! Too bad it isn’t still around or they would have died over your dress. They would have wanted you on the front cover.” Rory is always too complimentary of me. It’s embarrassing and only makes me turn crimson. Not a flattering color against the gold.

  I shake my head, “It looks ridiculous. I look ridiculous.”

  “Shut up, babe.” She rolls her eyes. “You’re perfect. And get downstairs. You’re missing the biggest party of the year.”

  “So are you,” I remind her.

  “Yeah, but no one cares about me.” She shoos me out the door with a light smack on my rear to get me going. I squeal and head into the hallway. She scampers past me with a wink, and starts off for the back stairs that lead to the kitchen and servants’ quarters.

  As I make my way down the hall to the main stairway, I can hear the ballroom music, and a muffled undertone of voices and movement.

  There are a lot of people here.

  I remind myself to take deep breaths and move slowly as I walk down the sweeping staircase into the grand foyer.

  As if on cue, all the cameras turn in my direction.

  “Lily!” they yell, “Lily, look here!”

  I keep a smile plastered to my face. Even the guests’ heads turn. I’m the center of attention. It’s a rare opportunity for people to look at me since I never leave the property. I glance toward the doors, wondering if I can make a break for it if need be.

  “Lily, have you received any more messages from The Revealed?”

  “Lily, do you think your father will be able to save you?”

  “Lily, how much time do you think you have left?”

  Jeremy comes up beside me and takes my arm. He steadily leads me through the line of press, recorders, and television cameras shoved in my face. I don’t answer any of their questions. My goal is to simply make it through the night gracefully. But the media are like bloodhounds on the trail. They follow me, while Jeremy attempts to block their path. “Give her some space folks,” he says, holding out a protective hand. “Back behind the media line, please.”

  One good thing about staying inside is it keeps me away from the cameras. They can’t get inside the fence surrounding the house, though a few certainly try. To them, I’m just another sideshow to boost ratings. Not a real person with feelings.

  “Thanks Jeremy,” I mumble.

  My mother floats over and kisses my cheek and then goes about tucking my hair behind my ears. “There,” she says with this warm, motherly smile I only see when we’re in front of the cameras. She holds out my hand, being sure to tilt our faces toward the lenses. She loves the attention. A few flashes of light, then she shifts her attention to Marg Lancing, a congresswoman from Pennsylvania. She and Marg have been friends for years; they’re both social climbers, obsessed with their appearance and social standing.

  I move through the crowd toward an empty table.

  “Watch out!” Rory shuffles by in her pressed black trousers and white blouse, holding a plate of hors d’oeuvres. I see the neatly arranged salmon with lemon-pepper mousse dotted on top. If only I could be helping Ilan now instead of standing in this ballroom.

  “Rory,” I say, standing to talk to her, “need some help?”

  I wouldn’t mind sneaking back to the kitchen.

  She keeps walking. “Of course not!” She flaps the end of her dishtowel to keep me away. “You’re supposed to be having fun. But I gotta go serve these! See ya later.” She grins, and I lose her in the swarm.

  I sit back down at the table and stare at the guests around me.

  Fun. Right.

  Really, my presence here is just for show. This is how the Atwood family proves to the outside world we love each other. We make appearances together and support my father’s campaigning efforts on his political bulldozer to the presidency.

  “You look like you could use a dance.”

  I turn around in my chair. Instantly, my expression melts into shock, and I feel the danger of the situation creep into my spine. I glance around the room to see if any cameras are pointing my way. “Mr. Westerfield.” I stand up, trying to remain pleasant and polite.

  The man in front of me looks carved from stone. Everything about his features is sharp, from the cut of his jaw to his dark brow. One eyebrow is raised just slightly, as if he’s amused. He is always playing a game. Each conversation is a test to concoct ways to manipulate.

  Roderick Westerfield is not a friend. He’s the competition. But it isn’t polls I’m concerned with. That isn’t my problem with this man. Westerfield has always made me uncomfortable. Since his wife’s death, Westerfield’s sole purpose has been to win the presidency. This man doesn’t fool anyone, either. His radical policies aren’t a secret. He wants to renegotiate the border lines and isolate the North American Sector from any country that doesn’t agree with our tra
de standards. Doesn’t he realize that’s what got us in to this mess in the first place? But in a time where people are paranoid about their own neighbor, they seem to want a leader who will fight if need be. The war brought out the fear and violence in a lot of people.

  If Westerfield is elected president of the North American Sector, who knows what the new nation will get itself into in the name of security.

  Westerfield’s gray eyes sparkle, but with cunning, not good spirit.

  “Ms. Atwood,” he extends his hand, “you look as beautiful as ever.”

  I don’t take it, glancing nervously at the crowd, ready to get out of the situation at the first opportunity.

  “What are you doing here?” My eyes narrow.

  “I was invited, naturally.” He’s playing with me.

  Westerfield seems to be enjoying my discomfort. For appearance’s sake, I can’t be bluntly rude, but all I want to do is run. Westerfield still holds out his hand. He’s taunting me, but I don’t know what the game is yet. There must be something he’s playing at.

  “I’m sorry.” I take a step back.

  He laughs, loudly enough that it catches the attention of those around us. “I insist.”

  What does he want? A dance? He must be drunk. I stare at the thick golden drink in his hand.

  “I said no. If you are trying to cause a press scandal, I’m not buying,” I say in a low voice. “Save it for my father. Your competition is with him.”

  “Who says I’m competing tonight?” he responds, louder than I’m comfortable with, putting a hand on my shoulder.

  I cringe from his touch. His skin is just as slimy as his words. How this man can deceive the public into thinking he is a level choice for president is beyond me. I’m seriously considering making a run for it. The exit doors aren’t far. I pull up my dress so that he can’t touch me again, but by now people are beginning to look at us. Presidential candidates are never in the shadows at functions like this, especially when they are talking to the opposition’s daughter.

  “I heard a rumor from a journalist friend that you were recently spotted out for an afternoon on the town, making quite the scene.” Westerfield leans comfortably on the back of a chair.

  The color drains from my face as I remember stealing my father’s car.

  “Your father’s Aston Martin, huh?” He smirks, knowing he’s got me pinned under his thumb. “Good choice.”

  There’s his punch line.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell him tensely. “I don’t think you have your facts straight.”

  He continues with his devious grin, “No? But I do have pictures.”

  This is a new low. My heartbeat quickens at the thought of my picture—probably standing by the door of the car and staring defiantly at Jeremy—splashed across the home page of every major Internet site. My father will be horrified and my mother … oh God, my mother will kill me!

  I have to get away from him. “Are you trying to blackmail me? I’m sorry. Excuse me.”

  I turn from Westerfield, but he grabs my upper arm. “Do not underestimate what I am capable of Ms. Atwood.” His words slither across my cheek. “I am intent on winning this election.” A camera flashes. “And I think that you are the catalyst to get me there.” He drops his hand and holds up his drink. The ice clanks against the glass. “Cheers, to Daddy’s Little Girl.”

  I am frozen, watching as Westerfield slurps down his drink with such smug satisfaction. I raise my hand, wanting to knock the glass from his mouth. I want to tear that smug expression from his face, prove to him that he can’t hurt me.

  “That’s enough.” A hand wraps firmly around my arm and leads me to the middle of the dance floor. I yank my arms away from whatever security has been sent to collect me. Clearly, Jeremy’s decided it’s time to intervene.

  “Take my hand.”

  Another camera flash snaps me back to reality.

  I look at the person I’m now dancing with for the first time. He’s wearing a military outfit, decorated with a splendor of pins and medals, some to show his rank, others recognize his achievements and awards. He doesn’t even pause as he begins gliding across the floor with me. It’s the sharp cut of his features that takes me off guard. The childish lines have faded, replaced by striking cheekbones and a firm jaw. But his dark hair falls across his forehead in that way it has since we were children, and that mischievous look in his green-gold eyes still spells trouble.

  “Kai!” I try to pull away, but he holds my hand tighter, keeping our steps perfectly in time. “Why are you doing this?” I keep my voice low through clenched teeth, even though I want to scream at him.

  Another flash.

  We’re in the middle of the dance floor. There is no way I can hide my face from photographers.

  Kai holds my hand tightly. “Relax.”

  “Relax? You and your father are trying to ruin everything!”

  Kai Westerfield is trouble. The kind of trouble I’ve always tried to avoid. I haven’t said a word to him since we were children. The last time I was near him, it was the day I was hiding under the bleachers, and he was telling his best friend what an ugly snob I was. I’m not the least bit interested in the way he goes through women or his affinity for partying. I know it, even if the rest of the country wants to paint him as the military hero. He’s just like his father.

  “Lily,” he snaps, “if I wanted to ruin you, I would have left you with my father.”

  “Oh, like this is any better!”

  “The press is much more interested in you and me dancing than in my father having a five-second discussion with you. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that paparazzi aren’t hard to please. Better pictures of you and me on the cover than you and my father.”

  “What about the other pictures your father has?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” he says.

  “You’ll take care of it?” my voice rises skeptically.

  He purses his lips, amused, like he’s watching a two-year-old throw a tantrum and knows that intervening is not worth the energy. “Yes. And your father should be able to as well. He’s the one who reinstated all these journalists, right?”

  My stomach sinks to my feet. Though my father is the last person I want to share those photos with, I don’t have a choice. I haven’t even been at this party for fifteen minutes and already I’ve ruined the night and possibly the election. Imagine the headlines, “Atwood can’t even control daughter, how will he handle the country?” Then a nice shot of me handing over the keys.

  “If you had simply left,” Kai continues, pausing for a moment to spin me in a circle, then pulling me close again, “the media would have immediately picked up that something was wrong. But now it looks like we’re friends. Now the press can write about how great the Westerfield and Atwood families get along. It might even be wise for your father to slip in a couple words about how he and my father go way back. We both look good.”

  Slowly, I nod my head. His words are beginning to make sense. It still doesn’t change the fact that his father is now out to make my life a living hell. Leave it to Kai to know how to manipulate the press.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be on some military mission or something?” I demand.

  “I’m on leave right now.”

  “So you decided to come crash our party?”

  “Actually,” Kai twirls me around again and this time when he pulls me back I worry for a moment that our heads will collide. But he’s in control, stopping me just before we hit. Enough to both shock me and make me realize how close we’re dancing. “I was invited.” His eyes don’t waver from mine, and I suddenly feel like we’re the only two people left in this ballroom. “Despite what you think, our fathers are actually more alike than different. They are both masters of PR.”

  The song ends, and there is light applause as I realize that most of the guests are watching us on the dance floor. My cheeks are deep red by now, I’m sure.

  I catch
sight of my mother in the crowd; she looks like she’s waiting for the perfect moment to give me a good lecture. Thankfully, the guests begin to mumble and the crowd begins to shift.

  Rory comes up to my side, and I’m glad for her company. She’s holding a plate. It’s filled with the rillettetes amuse-bouche she was plating yesterday. “Lily, your mother—”

  Kai raises an eyebrow. “Rory?”

  Rory lowers the tray while she takes him in. Recognition filters through her eyes. “Kai? I can’t believe they invited you and your father here!”

  “You two know each other?” I can’t help but sharply add my two cents. This night is getting weirder by the second.

  “We met last weekend,” Kai says smoothly.

  “At that new club that I was telling you about,” Rory says, “called Frost.” She turns back to Kai. “I didn’t think you’d remember me.”

  “Of course. How could anyone forget that argument?” Kai laughs.

  “Argument? You got into an argument?” I’m glancing between the two of them. “Why didn’t you tell me about this? About him?” I sound more accusatory than I should.

  “Well, I wanted to, but your mom dragged you out of the kitchen before I had the chance,” Rory explains. “Anyways,” she says, turning to Kai, “Thanks again for covering that tab. I kept trying to explain to that guy that I had cash out in my car but he just wouldn’t let me leave to get it.” Rory turns back to me. “I even told him he could walk out there with me, but because I hadn’t paid my bill they wouldn’t let me out the door. They said I should call someone or something. I don’t know what I would have done if Kai hadn’t covered for me.” She glances back at Kai and adds, “By the way, I owe you nine dollars.”

  “No,” Kai says, waving her off, “no, you don’t. I told you that already the other day.”

  She shrugs. “Well, I really appreciate it. Kai Westerfield of all people, coming to my rescue. Who would have thought?”

  I know my face is twisted into a mix of shock and disapproval. Not a flattering expression, but I can’t wipe it away. Kai and Rory? And Rory is actually acting like she likes this dude. No way. No way! Sure Kai Westerfield is charming, but I can’t believe that Rory of all people is buying it. Everyone knows he’s a playboy. And Rory knows the history between Kai and me.