Why settle for some make believe prince?

Shirley couldn't believe the excess of it all. Opulence in every way, from the conceptual to the unimaginable. Servers walked with trays of champagne to pass out with every guest they passed, the liquid of the glasses glistening from the chandeliers above. The room carried the laughter and jovial attitude of its guests and she could feel herself wanting to laugh along, to join in the conversations although she’d have nothing to relate with. Though she may be dressed as well as any well-to-do-girl from a well-to-do-family would be she knows her place. She’s nothing but a mouse in a house full of cats

The partygoers didn’t seem to notice though, thank god. Lord knows what would happen if they sussed her out. Those unconcerned eyes would turn to judgmental glares in a heartbeat because these types don’t concern themselves with “lower class” like her.

“Manicured nails weren’t made for scratching, unless it’s down a rich man's back” Donnie always said. He’s way more right then she’d like to give him credit for.

The Adagio is truly gorgeous. If you choose not to look past its facade. The curtains are a golden satin draped to the floor like algae from the oceanic display tank in the center of the room, fish with stunning scales reflecting the light as they swim about. Her baby blue off shoulder dress seemed to both highlight and contrast against the floor, so polished it seems to mirror her. A group of elegant women shove past her with harped laughter and arrow collared men in tow holding they’re bags and chattering amongst themselves as they follow their partners. Whether their women are mistresses, wives or sisters is honestly anyone's guess but if it's immoral it doesn’t seem anyone here would mind.

She tries not to totter her way through the party, spotting the bar just a bit shy of the fish tank. Thinking no better way to calm her nerves amongst the unaccustomed luxury she makes her way. The promotions for the party Shirley recalls it being an “open bar” so might as well as indulge. Everyone else already is.

It’s nothing like she thought it would be, she thinks, the air breathes with a thick blanket of crushing capitalism and not the extravagant yet invigorating conversations she imagined Rome to have. The people around her are all of the highest rungs of society. Lawyers, surgeons, models, businessmen and so many more that they blend into the crowd.

“The members of tomorrow.”

“What’ll it be for you Miss?” She hears the bartender ask.

“What'd you recommend for a nervous girl?” She can’t help her fingers tapping on the mahogany. Some good ol’ fashioned liquid courage to keep cool she supposes.

“Your liquor of choice?”

She turns her gaze up to the truly incredible shelf. Stocked with anything you can dream of for every drink the bartenders make they’re way up and down the ladder as more patrons seem to flock to the bar, like a haven. The LED lights are a lovely touch in attracting attention to the top shelf with glowing golden flowers that let their vines drape down the sides.

“Uh” she wonders. “I want to say Gin.”

The man pulls out a bottle labeled “Adagio Gin” and starts pouring. Shirley turns her gaze back to the party. Far to her left she sees, to no one's surprise, Mr. Albert Booker standing in a circle alongside Dr. Turnbull, “The genius of Turnbull Trusthealth” and the women who hang off their arms. Turnbull always gave her the creeps. The way those eyes would squint and pry into anyone he found displeasing… like cockroaches dipped in vinegar. She’s no stranger to the rumors that surround his clinics and unlike her coworkers still felt the need to question his “intentions.” Seemed like Elation, the weird wonderdrug it was marketed as, seemed to be a complete farce. Confirmation for Shirley came when her coworker, Johnny, broke his leg while fixing the tension lines down in Leg 7 and was sent to the nearest Trusthealth. Everyone expected a cast and crutches but when he came back he seemed dazed. Wouldn’t pay attention for too long, mumbled to himself and began coughing up that awful smelling green bile. Died not long afterwards. Good people like Caz and Roy tried to report it, something obviously wasn’t adding up. No matter how hard they tried, nothing ever came of it. Since then, no one likes to talk about Johnny or even think about stepping foot in one of those clinics. In Shirley's opinion she can’t fathom why a woman would want to hang on to his arm.

“Here you are ma’am, a French 75.” The man slid the champagne glass to her.

With a thank you she took it in hand and sipped when someone, no, THE someone caught her attention. 

Mr. Albert Andrews himself.

The man, “the founding king of capitalistic paradise” himself was less than 20ft away walking up to his colleagues with one of his… paramours in tow. “Ava,” she remembers. Ava was the blonde and Elanor was the brunette, the only way she can keep up with it. It was no secret Mr. Andrews had his selection of women but the consensus was those two were his constants. Switched them out like a pair of shoes depending on what mood he was in and it was evident to anyone with eyes that the mistresses were always trying to become his “queen” so to speak. Protecting they’re mistress position fiercely and viciously from each other as well as anyone who thought to take it from them. In a way she felt they earned it. Being the arm candy to a man like him can’t be easy, so if anyone was to be his “queen” it seemed fair it’d be one of them.

If anyone asked her though, she’d place her bet on Elanor. Ava left her husband once her affair with Mr. Andrews was outed but Elanor was only financed to another when she started her “meetups' ' with the man, not to mention she came after Ava. So she poses as he becomes bored with the first beauty when he seduces the second. 

Ava was ravishing. Elanor was Elegant. It’s a tough call, honestly. Many ‘spose that he’ll never pick between them, keeping both women pitted for his endearment.

No surprise there.

The other part of her has to wonder. From what she’s seen and what she’s heard it sounds like Mr. Andrews isn’t even interested in either anymore. Barley goes out to events with them that makes it seem he couldn’t be bothered with either girl.

She felt her eyebrows raise a bit when she saw Ava lean closer into his touch, gripping onto his arm with fervor while batting her eyelashes, squeezing her forearms together to thrust her breasts up.

“Oh god.” she cringed inside, turning her back to the display. “Common, don’t be so obvious.”

Shirley decides to enjoy her evening, no need to continue watching the display. Truth is this night will fade as a unique memory before returning back to her life of labor, a story to tell of cocktails and drop waist dresses from men and women with more money then one can do with. Maybe she’d flirt with a guy or three and enjoy her night, who knows? Which luckily for her seemed to be the way the night was turning when a man made his way through the crowd towards her. She appreciates the way his blonde hair seems to compliment his tan skin, slightly broad shoulders sway with boastful confidence. The kind you’d see from the average American man but with his tailored double breasted suit it gave him a little something extra. As he strolled towards her her line of sight, for a blip, caught sight my Mr. Andrews. The blaze in his eyes was…searing. 

But just as soon as it happened her regard was returned to the blonde stranger.

“I came over here intending to say something sweet about you. But now that I’m here, I'm left speechless.” 

She couldn’t help but smile and roll her eyes. 

“Flattery will get you everywhere you know?” Shirley snickered, but she leaned in.

“Quite true my dear, quite true.” He leans on his against the bar. Cocktail in hand he leans in just enough, a breath away from each other.

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t throw it.” She smirks, earning a chuckle.

“Right you are. Then, may I know it?” The gentleman asks.

“Call me Shirley. And you are?”

“Russell Cobb. Please, the pleasure is all mine.” He lifts her hand to implant a kiss. Shirley would be lying if she said she wasn’t blushing like a catholic school girl.

“Is your dance card filled?” His velvet tone curious, flirtatious.

“Not at all Mr. Cobb. and yours?” Shirley crosses her legs, leaning her head on the palm of her hand. She wanted to flirt, didn’t she say? She likes a Casanova but not at the cost of homewrecking. She notes the way his eyes fidget, even for the briefest of glances and it’s all she needs to know. Any rational person can read between the lines.

“I keep myself available for when I meet lovely women just like-”

“Mr. Cobb, a pleasure to see you tonight. I have to wonder, where’s Martha?” 

His face is priceless. What was even more priceless? The lips it came from was none other than Mr. Andrews. The way his hand slid onto his shoulder must’ve felt like ice if his expression was anything to go off of. Cobb spun around so fast she’s surprised his Ol’ fashioned didn’t spill.

“Mr. Andrews! Always a pleasure to see you sir. And of course the lovely Miss Ava!” He shook Mr. Andrews hand with, in her opinion, a little too enthusiasm. 

“I believe you too will make wonderful conversation. I think I must be boring poor Ava.” He says, guiding Ava into the younger man's arms and much to her dismay seemed to regard her wants with little desire. She’s about to speak up but he gives her a look, a look so fast it felt like it didn’t happen, but her reaction is clear. She’d rather go off and play arm candy to a man she doesn’t know than dare upset Mr. Andrews. And off she goes, clutching Cobb like a kid with a balloon, listening to him with a faked absorption that feels too perfected it’s no wonder she’s stuck around so long.

And Shirley’s left sitting there. Watching them walk deeper into the party she can’t ignore the fake laugh that escape Ava’s lips, then the glance over her shoulder with

hopeful eyes. Then finally, finally the cruel scowl that's thrown her way. So much… vitriolic hatred in those hazel eyes.

“Needn’t mind him anymore my dear, roaches will always find comfort in honey.” 

She whipped back around to face Albert Andrew. His face was more relaxed than when he was with his own benefactors. Imagination from her end, couldn’t be anything else. Regardless, he leaned against the bar, akin to a languid cat but still remained those sharp eyes. Waiting to hear a response from her. Taking a sip from her glass she decides to give him a raised eyebrow.

“Within the city of Borealis people are drawn like moths to a flame, seeking to satisfy their sick sadistic vices.” He gestured with his glass to the room around them. The men and women of high society who seemed so in the element of enjoying in their own rapture.

“They yearn to set themselves apart from the slaves of parasitic society. These people are ones who seek objectivism rather than a path paved for by their not so gentle masters. Following every order and doing exactly as they say.” Mr. Andrew's eyes glide back to hers once he stops speaking.

She has a mind to leave the conversation as politely as possible. A man like him wouldn’t want to speak with someone like her if he knew where she’d come from. But, wouldn’t that mean…

“Very Ayn Rand of you sir. But I have to ask, who scrubs the toilets in a utopia?’ Shirley just can’t help but ask. An encounter like this will never happen again.

His gaze lights up with emotion she can’t quite place. And yet, she clocks him as intrigued.

“Within this city all good things flow, The sweat from our brows is what we reap and sow.” That's the way of the Great Motion. But I’ve noticed that those down below have no choice in the matter since the sweat from their brows is what those above will reap and sow. If someone’s born with no chance to fathom choice, does that make them parasitic?” 

She leans in close. So close she can smell that rich balsamic aftershave.

“If a man can never forge his own fortune from the soul and the sand because it’s owned by another who reaps from him, what kind of slave does that make him?”

Leaning back she shrugs. “Parasitic isn’t how I see it, at least.”

“Parasites don’t have a choice either my dear. Man. Man always has a choice.” Mr. Andrews Mid-Atlantic voice is low, smooth in confidence as he steps one bit closer into her space. The air is thick with tension. Eagerness? Fear? Intrigue? Who can say.

“And you pose that a man chooses to stay a quote “slave?” she whispers back, leaning in, damn the danger and damn the feeling in her gut.

“What I pose is that a man can always choose to be more.”

He doesn't dare take his off when he whispers back “Look around you my dear. Everyone here chose to adapt. To the market, to their own desires to manifest their futures and take what is theirs.”

Mr. Andrew is the first to break away, swirling his drink with disinterest while looking around the room. Party goes smile and chatter about, some even try to catch his attention that's so far away.

“Take the Beasley brothers. Both owned convenience stores but only one controlled the trash collecting in the area. So he charged his brother triple the price for collecting his garbage than he would others, as a way of putting him out of business. When he tried to complain he had to be reminded that this is the promise of a truly unregulated market, and this is the market taking its natural course. I may not like such business practices. I view it like a jungle, where some survive and some don’t. That is the way of a truly unregulated and free market. ” Once finished, he stood still. 

Waiting. 

Shirley takes a moment to think, before responding. “But isn’t that kind of practice against the very core of objectivism?”

She sets down her half drunk 75 and fully faces Albert Andrew, and even though she has no clue what could be crossing his mind she refuses to bow out, or back down. Tomorrow she’ll be down in The Bounty working and “slaving” away as she always does but tonight? Tonight she can say her piece. Even if no one cares.

“It’s true that a person's right to self determination shouldn’t be unhindered, but never once has it rejected morality in favor of it. Instead it’s the legal impositions put on a person's will to create that it does away with, doesn’t it? I can’t help but see a paradox. Completely unhindered markets lead to so much freedom it causes others to impose their will on others to where it can be considered tyranny, but isn’t this the very market that’s supposed to repel that sort of outcome…”

She gulps. “...Sir?”

Like a snake waiting to strike he turns his head, shoulders and body stiff and for a moment Shirley is terrified. If this is the way it ends then he truly has no one but her to blame. But there’s a thing, she notes. There’s something in his eyes, it’s more than interest now, because now it’s this barely masked impressed curiosity.

“...Call me Albert, my dear.” he flirts.

He outstretches his hand to reach hers. Shirley didn’t expect this turn, but how can she say no? But this is playing too close to the sun for even her taste.

‘I don’t know, Albert.” She slides off the stool, and even the bartender from earlier gives a curious yet cautious look. “Just like Cinderella I’ll be turning back into bland ol’ me when the clock strikes twelve.”

“Then it’s best to waltz onto the dance floor now, before you vanish into the night.”

Shirley glances at the entryway, even with a quick glance she sees countless eyes staring at her with things like disgust and ending in longing. Once her eyes come back too he’s taken another step towards her.

“Charming. But shouldn’t I wait for my prince?” she asks.

He finally hooks her arm around his with too much ease.

“Why settle for some make-believe prince when you can have a very real king?” and he glides her to the dance floor. Shirley hears the whispers as her and Albe- Mr. Andrew makes way as a pair, she assumes they must be thinking like her “why in Borealis would he want anything with a girl like her?”

They twirl, spin and press together. Low she feels his cool hand hold her waist so kindly licks of desire rush her spine.

“Tell me your name.” he murmurs. “So I may remember you.”

But she doesn’t say. Just smirks, replies as he dips her.

“Remember me? Guess you’ll be needing a statue then.”

What she couldn't predict that just a few days later the Adagio would display statues, ordered by a certain man, that had the whole of Borealis in an uproar. Everyone gossiped, searching desperately for the mysterious girl in question.

“I didn’t see that one coming.” Shirley thought warily.