Chapter Text
THE FIRST
thing I can recall was the flash of the cameras.
I groaned, stretching my arms, my back sore from the leather car seats. These damned windows. They were never tinted enough to block the light of rapidly moving photographers. Or the sun, for that matter. Carefully, I squinted my eyes open, peeking out from the tiny crevice before retreating to the safe zones that were my lids.
The driver looked at me through the rear-view mirror. He was old, the driver. Balding, with a beard that had silver streaks.
And yet it didn't stop him from looking so contemptuous.
"Miss Williams, we have arrived at your desired destination."
"I know." was my last reply.
Grabbing the handle of my suitcase, I mumbled a sleepy goodbye and opened the car door, preparing for the headache that would wrack my body as soon as I heard the burden that was paparazzi.
"Look over here!"
"Miss Williams!"
"How does it feel to be sought-out by the prestigious Angelix Awards?"
Great. Just not with you here.
Perks of my media training: it taught me just a little on not retorting everytime I was on-cam. 'Ignore the questions you can't answer' this, 'only answer the acceptable ones' that, whatever celebrities did to not get cancelled on social media. But hearing that I was a celebrity, even from my own thoughts, also made me giddy out of my mind.
I didn't answer, just stared down the red carpet that was thoughtfully laid out in front of me. And started brisk-walking toward the huge glass doors. But who could blame me for not wanting to be the center of attention?
Yourself, my mind supplied unhelpfully. I shook my head. Really, sometimes having a brain is just too much work.
Reaching out, I exerted some of my strength into my right hand and pushed at the. . . automatic doors.
Wow, thanks, me.
That was so embarrassing. I hope nobody saw that. Who am I kidding? There were hundreds of stupid paparazzi behind me. I can already imagine the headlines.
"Author of the Year Awardee tries Pushing Doors That Are Meant To Open By Themselves! Are we sure she's qualified enough to be a candidate?!"
Yeah, yeah, I know. It's egoistic that I already put myself as the awardee, but that's obviously to be expected. After hours of deplorable research I found out that my novel Pour the Potion was more popular and praised than the others'. I hope nobody can read my mind.
I hope - that's what I always do. Hope, hope, hope. Because what else can I do as a human, living in such an ugly world, other than hope? I don't dream for a good beginning. I strive for a better ending.
Standing there in awkward silence, waiting for the automatic doors to open in seconds; well, it felt like a million years. I blocked all the noise from my poor ears, and when that aggravating entrance finally permitted me inside, I was thoughtlessly greeted with a breeze of freezing cold to the face, coming directly from the air conditioner.
Making up my mind to complain about it later, I head over to the hotel secretary. The popular thing about Angelix Awards is that it has its very own luxurious hotel for the participants to be placed in. Otherwise, it is closed off to outsiders, other than the lobbies or the ready-to-be-rented conference rooms. There's a contract to be signed that no one who goes in and out of the headquarters can reveal said "classified" information to the media. I say it's a bunch of bullshit. It's just a venue, a secretive hotel - unless, there's something wrong about it?
I store that thought in my head for later discussion, and tap the bell, successfully making the zoned-out woman at the desk flinch in shock. "Ah! Oh - it's you, Miss Williams. . . I- I apologize for the inconvenience."
I tilt my head in faúx confusion, and settle with an answer. "No, really, it's alright," And paused. "Do you have the key to my room? I kind of need to, y'know, put my baggage down, since it's getting pretty heavy and my arms hurt -"
Her eyes widened in concern, or maybe fear. For herself. I'm known for having a wicked temper, even though those were rumors because a rivaling novelist got a little too jealous. I just have that effect on everyone.
The secretary stammered for a reply. "Oh, yes! The key card for your suite is right over here." A slim, smooth black card slid over the table. Jackpot. A suite! I didn't think I could be happier. Still, I couldn't break my carefully curated mask of calm. I needed to calm down, or this lady might express to the public that I was an energetic little thing. I despise when people baby or romanticize me.
Grabbing the card in front of me and murmuring a silent goodbye, I let my things be handed over to the bellhop, my wrist already sore from the weight. I sighed internally.
The morning had just started. And today was going to be a long day.
-
The ride up to the 80th floor felt like a million years.
Yes, the 80th floor - with a suite too! - even I, of all people, didn't think I was that respectable. Or maybe they were just doing this for every possible awardee. Alas, at least I have the luxury to be here at all. I glanced towards the red, lit-up numbers on the top.
77th. 78th. 79th. 80th.
The bell rang. It was the floor of my hotel room, as well as the floor of all the other suites beside mine, likely occupied by contestants. I thanked the bellhop and offered to carry my luggage myself, which I didn't expect the guy to actually hand it over. Like a puppet. I was just saying it out of courtesy. My smile tightened as I felt the familiar metal handle of my suit case. Oh, damn it, Gazelle, what is wrong with you? You offered to take it, and now you're complaining because you did.
I turned around without an extra look at the man, and walked around to find the gold-plated number of my room. I didn't get the chance to look at the key card properly when I was in the elevator. Grabbing the slim card in the pocket of my jeans, there were only a few characters written on it :
ROOM 888.
THE ROSE LUXURY
As soon as my eyes focused on the word "rose," a sharp pain rammed into my skull. I gasped, doubling over and leaning onto my baggage, which fell down because of the extra weight and somehow dragged me along with it. A loud noise erupted as my body slammed against the floor. The agony was intense. Not the way I probably sprained my entire body while falling down, but instead it felt like my head was being crushed. It was like getting brain surgery without the anesthesia. Not like I knew what it felt like, though. I barely managed not to let out a scream. It felt like I was dying, like I was being trapped, or choked or mushed or maybe all of the above. I couldn't bear to describe it. My palms were shaking and sweat beaded on my forehead. If I didn't know better, I'd think I was dying. . . which, that was what I was thinking.
A cold hand rested against my shoulder, and the pain abruptly stopped.
"Are you okay, Madame?"
The voice was smooth and romantic, and, frankly, unconcerned. I slowly turned to look at the words' owner and almost grimaced when I saw a golden-curled young man around my age towering over me, those stupid green eyes of his looking at my hands wrapped around my head in amusement. My face flushed in embarrassment.
I quickly stood up, and it bothered me to see that he was a head taller. My gaze involuntarily sharpened. I did not think this man was good news. At all. But my body seemed to beckon me to think the opposite. What the hell was wrong with me today?
"Good morning," I said a little awkwardly, hurriedly grabbing my things, and tried to give him a light smile as a thanks. I mean, he somehow served as a painkiller, though I wouldn't mention it. He did seem a little handsome, too. With his well-taken care of hair, his magnetizing, alluring emerald coloured eyes, the rosiness of his lips. . .
No. No way, Gazelle. You will not think a man who looks like a flirt is "handsome." You've been through this before. The main character of your story has also been through this before. Plenty of reasons not to think of random men as hot, actually.
"Now, what was a beauty like you doing on the ground like that?" A flash of calculation passed through his eyes, quick as light. Thankfully, I was so interested in those eyes that I caught it. That sounded weird. Can my brain just shut up? I did not like this man at all, my brain just appreciates good looks, okay? Also, did he just call me a -
"I, uh. . . my chronic migraines just started acting up. That's all."
I lied. I don't have migraines, much less chronic ones. But I do have asthma. Wow. Maybe I should just stop randomly commentating on things that don't matter. The green-eyed boy raised an eyebrow, doubtful, and while staring at his lips, I realized a lollipop was in his mouth. He smirked a little, realizing where I was gazing dreamily at.
I wasn't staring at his lips for weird purposes. Believe me! I was staring at them because they looked so shiny, so glossy, and I was tempted to ask for his lip routine.
"At least buy me dinner first." He said smugly, taking the pink lollipop from his mouth and into his hands, shaking his head in mock-disappointment. This guy! I wanted to punch that smirk off of his face. Who does he think he is?
"Excuse me?" I replied, the color in my face draining. I was probably as pale as a sheet. My features contorted into frustration. I wanted my melanin back, and I wanted this bastard away.
He swatted me away. The idiot. "Said what I said, ma'am."
We exchanged a few more angry retorts. Well. . . It was more one-sided, actually. He was probably flirting with me, and I was insulting him. Huffing, I felt kind of bad when I started to walk away in irritation, only to feel that cold hand clasp around my wrist. I immediately turned around, starting to open my mouth in protest.
"Wait! What's your name?" He asked, a little desperately. What a dog.
I hesitated, but when I looked back into those magnetizing eyes, my hesitance faded away. "Gazelle. Gazelle Williams."
I walked away and didn't look back, pushing away his fingers off my arm. It took me a short time to get to my room, partly because of my fear that someone would try talking to me again.
Only when I finally found my suite - which was, as I guessed, filled to the brim with roses, but this time I didn't get some agonizing pain - and collapsed onto the large king-sized bed did I realize that I didn't get his name aswell.