Chapter 8 No.8

Annette re-entered the ballroom. She had reapplied her lipstick and fixed her hair. She looked perfect.

Rumors were already circulating. People had seen Hank leave. They had seen the lawyer. The tension in the room was palpable.

Lucas signaled the band to stop. The music died away with a discordant screech.

Edward took the microphone on the stage. He was sweating slightly under the lights.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," he began, his voice booming. "A slight change in plans tonight."

The crowd murmured. Heads turned. Where was Hank?

"The Adams-Bolton alliance is stronger than ever," Edward declared. "I am proud to announce the engagement of Annette Adams to my eldest son..."

The double doors at the far end of the ballroom opened.

Dereck rolled in.

He was in a sleek, black motorized wheelchair. He was dressed in a sharp tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. His face was pale, his expression one of bored detachment.

The crowd gasped. Most of them hadn't seen him in years. They remembered the accident. They expected a monster. Instead, they saw a tragic, beautiful prince.

"...Dereck Bolton," Edward finished.

Silence. Then, polite, confused applause rippled through the room.

Annette walked towards him across the dance floor. It felt like a mile. She kept her eyes on him.

He was handsome. Devastatingly so. Better looking than Hank, with sharper features and an intensity that Hank lacked.

"Hello, fiancé," she whispered as she reached him, bending down to his level so she wouldn't tower over him.

Dereck looked at her. His eyes were dark, unreadable. He subtly shifted his weight, using the armrest of the chair to create a fraction of an inch more space between his torso and her approaching form. She didn't notice the maneuver, attributing his stiffness to discomfort with the public spectacle. "You have terrible taste," he murmured.

Annette laughed, a light, tinkling sound for the cameras. She placed her hand on his knee-the "paralyzed" one-to pose for a photo.

Under the expensive, thick wool of his trousers, she felt something.

Muscle. Unnaturally hard, rigid muscle, not the soft, wasted flesh she'd expected. It felt like stone beneath the fabric.

She frowned slightly. A paralyzed leg should be soft. Atrophied. This felt like a limb locked in a permanent, powerful spasm.

Spasms? she thought. Or severe spasticity? The medical reports mentioned it. This must be what it felt like.

Dereck flinched. It was microscopic, a tiny tightening of the jaw, but she saw it.

"Smile, Dereck. We're on camera," she hissed through her teeth, dismissing the anomaly.

Dereck offered a cynical, crooked smile. It didn't reach his eyes.

Cameras flashed. The image of the Beauty bending over the Beast was captured forever.

In the corner, Bernadine watched, gripping a champagne flute so hard the stem snapped in her hand.

"Shall we dance?" Annette asked, knowing he couldn't.

"Lead the way," Dereck said, tapping the joystick.

She walked beside him as he wheeled towards the center of the floor. They were a spectacle. A scandal. And they were united against the world.