Page 27 of With This Mask
"Thanks," I mutter, forcing myself to put on a brave face. As I mingle with the guests, I can't help but feel like an imposter among them. Their conversations are filled with talk of yacht trips and vacation homes, topics I have no experience in.
"Ms. Winters?" A shiver works its way up my spine at the voice from behind me. I turn to see a handsome if not aging man walking up. His blond hair is graying at the temples, and there are crows feet sprouting from the corners of his eyes. But he’s still handsome. Yet it’s the cold look in his ice blue eyes that makes my skin crawl, that makes me feel like turning and walking away swiftly.
But there’s no denying who he is.
"Mr. Vanderholt," I reply, swallowing hard.
"You and my son’s project presentation was quite impressive," he says, though his tone is anything but warm. His eyes scrutinize me, as if looking for some flaw or sign of weakness. “Professor Harlow gave me the rundown.”
"Thank you, sir," I respond, doing my best to maintain my composure. "Alec and I worked hard on it."
"I’m sure you did,” he says, though it almost sounds like an accusation. "It's always interesting to see how... different backgrounds can come together."
"Everyone has something to contribute," I say, keeping my voice steady despite the ire boiling beneath the surface. "No matter their background."
"Indeed," Mr. Vanderholt replies, his words laced with a barely concealed sneer. "One must wonder, though, if some contributions are more valuable than others in certain contexts." His gaze pierces through me, as if he's trying to unravel my secrets with just a look. The subtle implication hangs heavy in the air, leaving me feeling exposed and vulnerable.
I muster a tight smile, refusing to let his condescension get the better of me. "Well, I believe diversity of perspectives is crucial for innovation and progress," I counter, my voice cool and measured.
Mr. Vanderholt's lips curl into a disdainful smirk. "Ah, the idealistic views of the underprivileged," he remarks, the underlying mockery unmistakable in his tone. "It's charming, in its own naive way."
My jaw clenches at his patronizing remark, but I bite back the retort that threatens to spill from my lips. Instead, I take a sip of champagne.
“To keep a scholarship at Westcroft in good standing, it’s wisest not to get distracted when so close to the finish line, wouldn’t you agree?” he asks. But he doesn’t wait for my reply to his out of left field comment. He strides off, putting on a fake smile and waving at his next victim.
"Fuck him," Jess mutters as she suddenly appears at my side, her eyes blazing with anger as she watches the interaction from afar. "I didn’t even hear a word he said, but from the look on your face… You're ten times the person he'll ever be."
"Thanks, Jess," I say, trying to shake off the encounter. But shit. Was that a threat against my scholarship? Was he… was he trying to warn me off of Alec?
"Hey, Salem!" A familiar voice calls out, and I turn to see Josh approaching with a smile. "Looking stunning tonight. Care for a dance?"
"Sure," I agree with the roll of my eyes. Josh has danced with a different girl for every song tonight. The boy is… desperate
"Alright," he grins, clearly pleased. It’s not the same flirtatious smile he gives every other girl. I’m not sure what it is, but things have never been that way between us. Some people are clearly only ever meant to be friends, and that’s me and Josh.
But something sinks in my stomach as we move onto the dance floor. This feels… wrong. These are the wrong hands settling onto my waist. These are the wrong shade of eyes looking into mine. It’s even the wrong smell.
“You seriously look amazing in that dress, Salem,” he says, looking down at it. He’s not being gross, he’s genuinely complimenting it.
“Thanks,” I say, blushing at the thought of where it came from. “You look nice too.”
“Got any big plans for Christmas break yet?” he asks, very good at the small talk.
“Um, no, actually,” I confess. “I can’t afford to fly home, so it’s going to be a quiet stay on campus for me.”
“That’s too ba?—”
"Get your fucking hands off her," someone growls from behind me. And I’m a wreck of reactions. Panic. Guilt. Relief.
Alec steps around me and shoves Josh.
"The fuck?" Josh raises his hands defensively, backing away. "We're just dancing."
"Not anymore." Alec takes a menacing step toward Josh, who takes a mirrored step away.
“Salem?” Josh calls, his brows furrowed with annoyance and worry.
“I’m sorry, Josh,” I say, because, fuck. “It’s fine. Just… I’ll talk to you later, ‘k?”