Provisions of Hell

.2.

Two

'' It's really pathetic,

how much I hope

it's you and me

at the end.''

-

Sylvia Harrington didn't care much for anyone else other than her own. But she did care too much about what others thought of her. That was exactly why she was here tonight to make a statement. And a statement she did make.

As she strutted up along the polished floor of the extravagant ballroom, she ignored the feeling of betrayal spewing in her heart and instead focused on the suited arm she was delicately holding on to. The fabric of the custom made grey suit was smooth yet rough and so she grazed her pretty manicured nails along the sleeve of the coat until she reached the warm hand of the man she was accompanying tonight. She hated being here; in the sure company of everyone she disliked but still had to fake a liking for though she did take pride in it, in the fact that everyone seemed to adore her for how she seemed to adore them back even if she obviously didn't.

Sylvia was made for this. She was made for this life of abundant money, the type where one didn't know what to do with it. But she knew that it wasn't just money that mattered; for her, it was the image of everything that surrounded it. Her lying asshole of a husband and their status of being perfect equals from a generation of old money was what made the Harrington's different from everyone else present here. It seemed to be so comfortable and a thing of fate for how everything turned out for them but maybe everything seemed so perfect because it was a one-way ticket towards doom anyway. Everything leading to this moment tied Charles to Sylvia in a way that was similar to a hefty will craved in stone, from their childhood days when she was surprisingly betrothed to him and the years following after when they half willingly and unwillingly fell deeply and irrevocably in love. But with people like themselves, love wasn't enough.

People talked. A marriage like this was too good to be true and was even more so if it lasted for long. And as of the present, people would still talk. Sylvia made sure of it by tightening her hold onto the hand of a man who wasn't her husband. People would talk alright and Sylvia didn't mind because they had anyway started to do so three months ago when Charles Harrington started showing up at formal events as such without the enthralling company of his radiant wife. Today, Sylvia was hoping for more than talks, even a taunt would suffice.

With a million unwanted thoughts swirling her head she almost didn't feel the slight touch on her lower back. Luke Black only had two hands and one was presently holding a flute of Champagne while the other was curled around her dainty one. That's when she understood that it may have been her husband, his tempting cologne already taking sharp control of her senses and drowning her with thoughts of humiliation, not the needed feeling of revenge, so she didn't turn.

"Luke." She heard Charles speak and the feel of his fingertips danced very so slightly on her back. The name clipped and spat out with a distaste. And that's when she turned along with Luke to see if the distaste was present on his face. And it was. His face appeared stressed and confused, with his brows drawn in a frown and his jaw tightly clenched, he was still so very gorgeous it hurt that she wouldn't allow her heart to skip a beat when it wanted to. She couldn't.

"Hey, Harrington. How's everything going?" Luke dared to speak in a calm and collected tone. She knew he was enjoying this, trying to get a rise from her husband. Luke had promised her his presence for the entirety of this evening in exchange of Elle's country of residence; someone who he was heartbroken over for six months and someone who was apparently living it up in Paris.