L. Marie Adeline- S.E.C.R.E.T

Will turned to Pierre, who was still leaning arrogantly against the wall. “This isn’t a
strip club, Pierre.”
“I was just rewarding this beautiful dancer with the proper currency,” Pierre
responded, his hands raised in surrender.
“You grabbed her dress. That’s not allowed.”
“I didn’t know there were rules, Will.”
“That’s always been your problem, Pierre.”
Applause broke out in full now, and everyone around us took to their feet in a
standing ovation for the girls onstage.
Pierre brushed one sleeve and then the other, straightened his jacket, then oered me
his arm.
“This is over, clearly. Let’s get out of here, Cassie.”
At the sound of my name, Will turned to me, his mouth open. I couldn’t tell if he was
impressed or disappointed.
“Cassie?”
I pulled off my mask.
“Hi,” I said, hands on my bodice. “What can I say? Last-minute replacement.”
Will stammered, “I—I thought—I … Holy shit. You look incredible.”
Pierre’s patience was wearing thin. “Can we go now?”
“Yes,” I said. But at that moment, I saw Will’s shoulders drop, the same way they had
at the Ball after Pierre scored the winning bid. Turning to Pierre, I added, “You can go.
Anytime.”
I took a tentative step towards Will to punctuate the fact that I was making my choice.
“It’s you,” I whispered. “I pick you.”
I watched Will’s expression soften into a relaxed victory, made complete when he slid
his hand into mine and squeezed it, a gesture so intimate it made me feel faint. Will
wasn’t taking his eyes off mine. Winning became him, I decided.
Pierre laughed and shook his head, as though Will had greatly misunderstood
something important.
“Nice guys do finish last,” Will said, looking only at me.
“Who said we were finished?” Pierre replied.
After a lingering look at me, and a cocky smile, Pierre disappeared into the crowd, his
bodyguard trying to keep up with him. I was glad to see him go.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Will said, pulling me through the crowd.
As we passed Matilda and Kit’s table, they both shook their wrists at me. I shook back.
Then I spotted Angela, prancing back to the stage. She, too, turned and gave me a
shake, her charms dazzling in the spotlight.
“Hey, she has the same bracelet as you,” Will said.
“She does.”
A hand reached for my arm. It was that of a squat, middle-aged woman wearing an
oversize They Do Everything Better in New Orleans T-shirt. “Where can I buy a bracelet
like that?” she asked, or rather, demanded. Her accent was New England; Massachusetts
or Maine.