Kiara absolutely hated it here.
She had been forced to attend the annual Midsummers event by her parents, who vetoed her petition at free will, all for the sake of contributing to economic oppression—widen the gap, she had said sardonically, because that would leave a positive mark on society. Her parents had exchange a look, one that read as "please don't do this tonight, we're exhausted enough," to which she had mutely returned to her room to begrudgingly get dressed.
It would be different, surmises the brunette, if it were a reputable charity hosting the event and went around taking donations, but that was unfortunately not the case. As a self-proclaimed Pogue, she didn't take kindly to celebrating wealth and surrounding herself with the vapid, prominent families of Figure Eight.
She was standing there between her mother and father being introduced yet again to another family, the one that lived down the street and in the cul-de-sac. Kiara tries her best to feign the uppity air that surrounds her, but it falls flat and, as she excuses herself for refreshments, she finds herself darting toward the bar for a much-needed drink.
Once she gets there, however, the bartender requests ID and she silently curses, offering an apologetic smile as she turns on her narrow heel to wallow elsewhere. She starts to walk away when someone calls her name and it's the last person she wanted to see—ever.
Rafe is coming toward her with a crystalline glass of his whiskey in his hand, expression even and lacking malice as he offers it to her. "Finally embracing Kook life?" he queries with a quirk of the brow. She reluctantly accepts the drink, downing the small shot with practiced ease.
"I don't want to be here," Kiara admits with a purse of the lips as he shoves the glass back to him: "and I especially don't want to talk to you."
As she walks, she hears audible footsteps behind her and she freezes, almost makes the brunet crash into her. Rafe had shoved the glass off to one of the waitstaff and is appraising her with a quirk of the lips: "You Pogues never know how to say thank you," quips the brunet with a condescending click of the tongue: "you could use some etiquette, Kiara, that was rude."
There was something taunting in the way he addresses her, and she wonders if it's because there are an onslaught of people around and he doesn't want to disturb his family's reputation. "Fuck off, Rafe."
An audible whistle drones from the boy as he follows her inside and away from the crowd of the main event. "Sometimes I forget you're a Pogue until you open your mouth."
Once more she finds herself halting in her tracks as she slowly turns to face him directly. Her arms are crossing over her chest and her eyes harden. "Sometimes I forget you're an asshole until—oh, wait—you're always an asshole."
Rafe is tensing his jaw now and towering above her with a narrowed gaze. "You wanna say that again, Kiara?" He utters a humorless snort: "I don't think I heard you."
Kiara doesn't waver under his intimidation tactics and just takes a step closer, looking him evenly in the eyes, as she repeats the words. "You're an asshole."
"Yeah, yeah that's what I thought you said." Rafe is pursing his lips into a thin line as he grasps her wrists less than delicately, directing her to the staircase.
"—Let me go—"
Rafe is ignoring her pleas, however, and she clamors over each step behind him. Instead of making a scene, she manages a feigned smile as she tows her away from the cacophony of downstairs, easily finding a room tucked far in the back of the country club. It was a lounge area, one that was shielded by two French doors, namely for the purpose of cigar smoke and glasses of Whiskey.
