Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1: An Enemy Of The Envied
“Mr Myers, after some thorough research on your company name, what’s the next step of your reign when your father, The William Myers, decides to hand it over to you?” The reporter, Kelsey something, the audience in front of us is set in a way that makes me feel like I’m the next contestant in the seventy-seventh Hunger Games.
Yes, I watched the film and even got to see the premiere, but no, no, no, I haven’t read the books. I leave that up to Everdeen to read. I catch a confused stare at the near front. Ivan shrugs his shoulders and points at the now stuttering interviewee.
I sigh, “I have yet to convince my father of my reign, and I have yet to bestow my ideas on the company’s success and remain in front of our opposition. I cannot say too much on that matter, but the company is thriving. Currently, that’s all that matters at the moment.” The last bit prickles on the top of my tongue, it really is all that matters to that bloody father of mine.
The woman next to me, sighs in content, “Lovely, it’s good to hear the Myers Accounting agency is still of a top quality enterprise in both London and here in France. Now, on a personal note, Mr Myers, many of your fans are dying to know if there has ever been or is a love in your life?” She asks, not seductive, just descriptive, the girls in the crowd take their time to squeal in delight before the silence in the room grows deafening.
I keep my face secure of all emotion, any kind of identification on how I feel on the matter yet.” That's all I have to say and she smiles, “Well, I hope one day that you do, Mr Myers and thank you for your time. Maximus Myers, everybody!” She stands clapping with the rest of the screaming crowd as many squeak and squeal my way.
I merely nod, shake hands with the woman who tried to go for a hug, before I’m walking off the stage after the two-hour-long interview. My make-up artist rushes towards me with a bottle of recently refrigerated water while I walk towards my long-time best friend at the end of the hall.
Ivan smirks and pats me on the back, “Of course, the love of my life million dollar question had to probably dampen your ever so pissed off mood!” He comments as I grumble at his side, shoving him away and righting my suit jacket with the striped lavender tie. Everdeen said it brought out my eyes...I said, it’s a cliche, cheap and ridiculous way to look like a charmer.
Ryan and Andrew scoff behind me as we make our way outside, I cringe at the continuous screams of girls yelling my name and wanting an autograph. My guards hold the Press at bay as we’re gently moved to the limousine.
I unbutton the jacket the second the door is closed as Ivan, Everdeen, and Ryan sit on the three-seater to the side of me and Andrew is opposite me. I merely lean forward, my hands on my knees as we head to Lord knows where, the second my personal driver steps on the accelerator.
Ivan sighs as silence collects in the air, though not as uncomfortable as it was in the stadium-filled interview, I can’t even remember what bloody company it was for.
Breaking the silence, Andrew seems to speak Ivan’s thoughts, “We’re heading back to London, early. I think spending a good three weeks here has us missing our British peers, don’t you think?” He strengthens our accent at the end and it has the rest of them piping up in laughter. I close my eyes, face in a relaxing scowl as I wait for the journey back.
The others chat small talk, deciding to take the first class back to London, and instead of going straight home, the second my door is open, I’m met with the bloody front entrance of Queen City High, quiet with a cloudy breeze.
I roll my eyes as Ryan leads towards the gates, with Everdeen by his side. Ivan and Andrew flank me as the dead set grass shuffles with the wind and the doors to the closest entrance of the cafeteria open.
Everdeen stops and glances at all of us as we’re forced to stop in front of us, just a few metres from our podium standing table, reserved only for us. Glancing around with a puzzled expression, I’m about to ask what the hell is going through her thick red head before she sighs,
“Can we sit on our sofas instead? I need to relax my feet.” She sputters, before walking towards the red couches in the corner, I roll my eyes when Ryan flanks her with a hand on the small of her back, Andrew not far behind, while Ivan points to their table,
“C’mon, really?!” He sighs in annoyance, before following after them. I close my eyes tightly, before following after them like a freaking pit bull. Sitting down on the seat closest to the table and flicking the stuttering waiter over.
“Get us all glasses of lemon water and quickly, I’m not waiting all day,” I order him, he furrows his eyebrows before turning and walking away.
“You’re still mad about the interview, aren’t you?” Everdeen sighs, raking her fingers through her rose curls as she places her glass down once the waiter returns swiftly with what I’ve asked for.
Ivan huffs beside me, “This is normal, we’re used to this and you’ve been asked the question a billion times. It’s nothing new.”
My eyes narrow involuntarily as I lean back, “Haven’t you ever thought, I’m sick of saying ‘No’? I am sick and tired of being asked repetitively, have you found the love of your life? Perhaps, someone may have sparked something into you, son? You know, if you’re single, why not go to the next girl you see on the sidewalk? Make yourself find that love, you cold-hearted bachelor? I’m fucking sick of it, Ivan.” I bite at him, a trait my father had me master at the age of three. Considering Ivan’s use to it, he slams his book on the table in annoyance.
“You don’t think we see that?” He asks incredulously, easily rhetorical as I lean back and watch his scowl match mine in a matter of a few seconds. He tightens his hand on the arm rest of the plush sofa.
“Yes, you’re a romancer. You don’t want to move from one girl to the next, which is why a man your age and of your title is still single. We don’t like that the Press think each guy in this group is the same as the rest, domineering playboys of London’s latest. They can think that, I really don’t care. We’re not and that’s all that matters. Be glad they don’t think you’re an addict, alright? The interview cleared that up.” He snaps at me, not caring for my tone or my sheer annoyance that embraces our atmosphere as if death himself decided to visit us.
The second the bell rings, the place swarms with crawlies as more and more students walk through those entry doors with the expressions of drowned rats, school probably tends to do that when all we’ve got is work, work and more work.
Andrew nods in agreement to Ivan, who’s not usually so civilised.
I wipe a hand over my mouth, chapped as it is, “Yes, it’s for money, it’s for entertainment, publicity and popularity. Let me know in ten years if your happy with the fact our city and everyone in it thinks we’re man whores.”
He stares at me in anger, antagonised and surely irritated, “Every time you have a bloody interview, remind me to get you the strongest chill pill this world has made because, you’re an infuriating imbecile afterwards!” He spits out, skulling on his lemon water with an exasperation before he slams it on the table, opening up his book and gets back to reading with scorned eyes.
Even Andrew holds a glare to my profile, they all know I’m right. Everdeen sighs and happens to glance up at the moment the strangest, most sceptical trick showed us a whole new view at certain students in our school. Two dark-haired girls, perhaps the lead one had dark blonde curls, I couldn’t tell from here, my eyes were blurred from the disgust of mangy journalists looking for squeaky promotions and will do anything to get it.
We grow quiet and watch with scrutinising gazes, Everdeen even straightens in amazement when the dark blonde, her dark stranded bodyguard next to her as they shove away our stumbling guard at the table. The podium clicks with her shoes as my eyebrows furrow and like everyone else, we watch.
Ivan turns towards our direction of interest, his own eyebrows furrowed as he looks over and purses his lips, turning the chair slightly to the crowd’s view of suspicious treachery.
The daring two girls sit at our chairs, just as two other boys join them and quietness lingers in the air like a poisonous spider, watching its unorthodox prey with newfound consideration on how to play with it.
“Where is she?! I thought she was just behind you, Carter?” The dark blonde asks the male on her friend’s side, Carter, I believe.
The blonde on the side shrugs in boredom, smirking at a few cheerleaders on the side, I roll my tongue in disgust, the playboy, I assume. The other girl next to her, chats with the other gentleman quietly, I’m unable to hear from our current location as the students order from our waiters.
Who stands confused, as does the guard.
I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at such a turn of events, exactly how long have they been sitting and using our table for...for, what? Attention? Is that truly all they seek? I think to myself, incredulously. The dark blonde snaps her fingers loudly, capturing our attention once more. I smirk at the confusion on everyone else’s expressions, they know not to sit at our table, might as well tame it as a forbidden crime.
The two males, lean back and wait. All before a blonde, not a girl, but a real woman, has shadowed her way into the cafeteria without a notice or a glimpse from anyone in the enlarged room.
Her blonde locks are what caught me unaware of the need for oxygen in my very lungs, I swallow with ridiculous thought. Tearing my gaze in urgent need, only to see the rest of my group sit up in amusement, mirth-filled eyes would be an understatement.
I breathe in deeply, turning back to the table, attempting to ignore where my eyes beg to be directed. Her heels, feistier than her stance haunt their wake, as they smoothly, with an agile twist, slice the ridiculed tiles of the cafeteria. I can feel her chilling delight drown us all in quaked grace, it’s difficult to imagine her as a mere student.
She doesn’t sashay through the crowd like a flocking little princess, her expression is so irresistibly unreadable that I find my own thoughts wish to connect with hers, only to know what’s behind the tightness hollow in her cheeks, the thin plum redness at the captivating insolence of her lips-
Lord! Bloody freaking hell!
I shake my head and turn away, dropping into my seat like a sluggish rogue on high, I hate this. My mind’s already consumed with wanting to touch those spike worthy curls that could cut a full grown pine tree with a mere swish of them in the wind.
I spout curses in my mind like a mentally disordered dead man with no clue as to who he is and why the hell I haven’t seen her before. I could have sworn she’d catch my eye in a London minute with just the mere sight of her. Those bloody gorgeous locks have my mind in a whirlwind, wishing...just wishing my memory would search for her porcelain face and yet I’ve got nothing.
Not even the honour of knowing her very name, all until my prayers are thankfully answered, “POPPY PARKER, WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?” Her lead friend, screams over the flock, her voice, not irritating, but surely demanding as I watch the alluring blonde’s face wince.
Her slow steps towards our table, well, our previous table, have my heart running for miles in speed so unknown to me, I almost feel like a puppet wanting its master's projected gifts of attention...and perhaps something more.
The blonde doesn’t blush. At first, I thought she was just wearing foundation, make-up of some sort, but nothing looks fabricated, it’s all real and it’s all her. No make up needed anyway.
I could have sworn her deadly gaze had caught us in the corner as I watched her walk to our guard and whisper something to him, I gulp. For some bloody unknown reason, why do I feel as though I haven’t a clue as to who I am anymore.
Unconsciously, a numbness in my hand has me glancing down at my newly made...fist. Puppet. I’m most certainly the puppet. Taking control, I shake out my hand in disgust and grab a hold of my glass in hopes it diverts my concentration from wanting to remove my guard from her fatal eyes. Only so they’re back on me.
She walks up the red carpet when that sassy dark blonde, almost brunette calls our guard, wrong name, of course, “Help her up, Harold. Boy, you’re one sorry excuse of a guard.” Like an order, the guard doesn’t follow through, not by her words but, on his own.
Are the blonde’s strings attached to him, too? I wonder, when he boldly holds her delicately small hand in his starkly contrasted one. Even from here, the light glares at the sweat on the guard's forehead. She even has the power to do that. Looking as though he’s stuttering, he murmurs a couple words to her. I grow annoyed when I can’t seem to hear what.
The light blonde, Poppy, I think it was. The numbness flows through the muscles in my legs now, just as my mind studies, caresses and cherishes her name on my unconsciously moving lips, I roll the name on them, not being able to help it.
I glance back up as the woman gives him her handkerchief and Everdeen giggles in the corner, “I’ve never seen poor Brennus with a stutter in him. I don’t recognise the blonde though, did they say her name was Poppy?” She whispers in wonder.
Andrew nods, “Poppy Parker, right? Does she have a Facebook, Instagram, Twitter?” He asks, a twinge in his voice, but I catch him staring at the dark brunette in the corner, next to the other who already sits at the table. I’m surprised when he scrutinises her even.
Forgetting about him, Ivan looks through his phone, shaking his head in pure confusion, “No, there’s nothing. Perhaps, she goes by another name?” He asks, but we’re all too preoccupied by the scene in front of us. It feels good, not being the centre of attention, but I can’t tell if the light blonde likes it as much as the others, or not.
She’s unreadable.
And, that already pisses me off.
The dark blonde gives the light one a look, I can’t bear to say her name or else my uncontrollable body will fly to hers in hopes she’d finally see me. The wiggling of eyebrows towards the light blonde has my eyebrows furrowed in concentration, trying to anticipate what will happen next, but if her highest trait is to master the unreadable expression of all time, and maintain it for days. I’d say everything with her, everything that is her is unexpected and completely unpredictable.
Yes, that pisses me off too.
The light blonde sits at the head, a proud feeling grows in my chest when I see she’s sitting in my usual seat, it has me wanting to move to her side, reserve the head seat only for her.
She glares at the dark blonde and I even shiver, goosebumps graze my back in annoyance, her glare is great. Could move mountains at full power, and that has me thankful I’m sitting in a bloody chair, my legs remain numb as if there’s no bloody bones underneath. That has me slightly worried.
As if my selective hearing kicks in, I brace for the very edge of the chair when, for the first time, I hear the beauty’s voice and now, I’m assured there are no bones in my legs and my heart has already shoved itself from my chest, bleeding along the floor as it attempts to reach the light blonde in hopes to be held in her fragile porcelain hands.
“Any suggestions?” Two bloody words and I’m breathing like an asthmatic patient with a stroke and a numb tongue. I blink multiple times in hope to clear the bizarre sensations all across my body, all by the mere sound of her voice, and I glare into oblivion, a small crack in my glass has my eyes trembling. I refuse to look away when all I see is only the delicate glow of her jaw, her curls blinding me of her ethereal beauty and those eyes that make me plead to the lord.
Make her turn to me and I’ll die a happy sin in your arms. I plead, beg to him. It doesn’t work and my mind dulls a little when it doesn’t work.
What a nuisance? I want someone to pinch me from this dream, smash the glass into my head or throw me against the wall, I want out of her charm because I no longer like the air I breathe next to me, I want hers.
“Hmm, gosh so many to choose-” The dark blonde raises a finger to her lips, only from the corner of my eye as the cardiac arresting light blonde steals me with the shake of her head. I huff, breathe in-fuck sake-breathe out. Just pass out already, this air isn’t good enough for me anymore.
She speaks once more and I thank the lord that it’s more than two measly words, “We’re likely to get in trouble for this, you know that right?” Her want to see reason has me gloating at the eternal eden before me, she’s sensible, responsible, beautiful. Heck, she’s uniformed, she’s sophisticated, she has me close to a freaking stroke and I’ve only had the privilege of gazing upon her for fifteen minutes.
Only fifteen minutes.
This is ridiculous and this is bad and this has me so very terrified that my breathing problem came back. Where the fuck is that manual for breathing? I can’t remember how to do it. I can’t remember anything. Her treacherous chants have me blindsided and walking in alone in the desert with no clue how to find home, let alone remember what the hell it is. I remember blonde, sunshine blonde and green, all I’m working with here is two colours. Two freaking colours.
I need someone to bang me against a wall, concrete, glass, just something. I want my head back, I want my heart back in my chest, I don’t care if it keeps reminding me it doesn’t belong there but only in her hands.
It’s fruitfully hopeless now.
“Just work your magic.” The dark blonde demands my light blonde.
Oh, for fuck sake! Not mine, where the hell did that come from? Not mine, not mine, not mine, NOT MINE!
I blink more.
I breathe more.
I look around more.
Blind. Blonde. Sunshine. Forest. Green. Mental. I’m completely mental. Loco, absolutely bloody crazy. I’ve lost all reason. It’s gone. Out of here. For good. I forgot to say ‘goodbye’, oh, wait-sorry - she’s bloody holding it in her hands.
They’re all smirking, just not her. No, she doesn’t smirk, I twist in my chair. I need a better view, a way better view, I can barely see her face and that makes another crack sound.
Three minutes. Three minutes of silence. Deafening silence. Can she hear me breathing? Can they all hear me breathing because it’s busy torturing and terminating my hearing with the whacking of a bat.
I jump in my seat and so does everyone else in this room, when something no one knew was there, switches itself to life and I bet all my money, she holds the button, the trigger, the control in her hands. Just by the touch of a finger, on a screen, on a phone.
Lights blare as unknown speakers scream to life in the room and have many gasping in shock, shrieking as if it were Halloween, a song, a melody, a beat. A booming beat shutters against my chest. I close up like a tense snail in hiding, ‘Diamond Heart’ by Alan Walker, I believe, hits the crowd with waves of dangerous waters and astonishing skies.
I couldn’t believe it when the girl, No-the woman, slowly, so slowly places the phone down on the table when the sudden noise, the life of a speaker, unknown as it was, has her friends clapping her, rather roughly on the back and screaming with the lyrics as the cheerleaders join in on their dancing.
None of my friends ever once connected their eyes, golden as they were, to the rest of the group, but the light blonde sitting stoically in her seat. Another crack, before the glass in my hands is now a pile of nothing on the floor, I only looked down at it for a moment, before my eyes connected with...
Green. Golden. Sharp and positively magnificent she was. I'm glaring, I don’t know why, but my drink goes in a matter of seconds. The glass shatters in my hand and my life feels like a complete mess.
She was brilliant, quick-witted and so very sharp, her eyes cut through me like a drill of the highest penetration sequence and my body boils, heats with steam and cackles with sparks, I was a complete goner. So very painful, it was.
I felt like a pile of limbs and nothing else when her scrutinising gaze finally settles on me and I wonder why I wanted her attention on me when my cheeks are positively burning with heat, I want so desperately to mask. I’m sweating like a complete lunatic and all she does is tilt her head and place that porcelain hand that I so want to hold under her chin.
She was not at all daunted, she was practiced and beautiful and lord, I’m...
Speechless.
Screwed.
I’m an enemy of the Envied.
