Freddie Bianchi and Juliette Dupont are polar opposites.
She's hot, he's cold. She makes jokes, he takes them to heart. He's only an inch taller than her, and she makes fun of him ever chance she gets.
He calls her a dumb blonde, and albeit she's he...
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I could feel the uncomfortable sensation of being watched as I walked down the wide, red carpet covered stairs. I kept my hands in front of me, discreetly checking the dagger in my sleeve. There was a soft melody that accompanied the prestigious dance room, and people were floating about as if they owned the place and everyone in it.
They did, probably.
People in feathers and golden dresses and real diamonds stood and spoke in the wide room, the walls a cliché cream colour with shiny gold details. Champagne was delivered from person to person by waiters with covered faces and neutral black and white uniforms.
One passed me, and I took a tall glass from the gold serving plate and brought it to my mouth. But I was halted by the soft, smokey voice that filled my right ear through the earpiece.
"Drinking on the job, Fredrico?"
I covered my mouth with the glass, "Oh, how I do love the sound of my full name on your tongue. Where are you, roohi?"
She hummed gently, melodically, "Surveying. By the way, that tux is..."
I wasn't a man that blushed frequently. But at the hands of Juliette Dupont, I was nothing but a blushing, hormonal teenager. I smoothed my hands down the front of the old fashioned, black tux before putting a hand in the pocket, and taking a sip of the shitty sparkly champagne.
"You like it? It's one of mine from Italy,"
"Really makes you look like a snobby investor,"
My laugh was soft, and I said, "Good. Say, it's quite unfair you can see me and I can't see you, isn't it?"
She said something, yet I didn't hear it because an American fascist filled my view, and smiled triumphantly, "Pardon me, I must say, your suit is fine," he said, and held out his hand, "Marcus Solitaire, I'm with America,"
I took his hand, "Giovanni Ricci, Italy. Thank you, Marcus. The finest Italian fabric," the man had blue eyes, and that was all I could see. The rest of his face was covered by a masquerade mask, black with diamond details.
"I'll be sure to invest in those fabrics," he said with a smile, or so I could only assume, "Beautiful ball, is it not? I hear there are some wonderful items up for auction tonight. Something from Royal House,"
I observed the ball as he side stepped me, "Very beautiful. I'm more interested in East Euro items, though. Not so much the Royal Family. Say, did you hear they have the egg of Cleopatra?" I watched from the corner of my eye how he turned to face me, his eyes wide with astonishment.
"No! God, that'll cost a fortune. But, let the best man win, what do you say, Giovanni?"
I nodded, "Absolutely. Please, excuse me, I have to make my rounds. Enjoy your evening, Marcus,"
He bid me farewell and when I was out of ear shot from him, I heaved a heavy sigh. "God damn fascist." I grumbled, and was rewarded with a gentle, perfect laugh from the woman in my ear. I took stand further from the heat of the ball, yet still made sure I could see the stairs.
