The Glass Ballerina Who Danced On Knives

Gutter

A.N.: Sorry I'm a little late :( tons of avery pov here, and lot of og book stuff
ily all sm and hope you have the best week ahead of you :)
<3!
Skylar

For Trinity, driving to school meant arriving in a ten million dollar car, four body guards on motorcycles, and causing a crowd of paparazzi that rivalled my own. While it seemed totally unnecessary, I was grateful that it took the attention of my inconspicuous black sedan that had been sprawled all over the world in the past two weeks.

Once I made it into the building, Trinity came over, "Still on for later, right? I'll see you at the foundation after school?"

"Avery." Oren spoke from the front seat. "We're here."

Here was the Hawthorne Foundation. It felt like it had been an eternity since Zara had offered to show me the ropes. As Oren exited the car and opened my door, I registered the fact that, for once, there wasn't a reporter or photographer in sight.

Maybe it's dying down, I thought as I stepped into the lobby of the Hawthorne Foundation. The walls were a light silvery-grey, and dozens of massive black-and-white photographs hung on them, seemingly suspended midair. Hundreds of smaller prints surrounded the larger ones. People. From all over the world, captured in motion and moments, from all angles, all perspectives, diverse along every dimension imaginable—age and gender and race and culture. People. Laughing, crying, praying, playing, eating, dancing, sleeping, sweeping, embracing—everything.

I thought about Dr. Mac asking me why I wanted to travel. This. This is why. "Ms. Grambs."

I looked up to see Grayson and Trinity, who had somehow managed to change out of her uniform into a silky black pant suit. I wondered how long they'd watched me taking in this room. I wondered what they'd seen on my face.

"I'm supposed to meet Zara," I said, fending off Grayson's inevitable attack.

"Zara isn't coming." Trinity descended down the staircase gracefully,  "She's convinced that you are in need of... guidance."

There was something about the way she said that word that slid past every defence mechanism I had and straight under my skin. "For some reason, my aunt seems to believe that guidance would be best received coming from my brother and I."

Grayson looked exactly as he had the day I'd met him, down to the color of his Armani suit. It was the same light, liquid gray as his eyes—the same color as this room. Suddenly, I remembered the coffee table book I'd seen in Tobias Hawthorne's study—a book of photographs, with Grayson's name on the side.

"You took these?" I breathed, staring at the photos all around me. It was a guess—but I'd always been a good guesser.

"My grandfather believed that you have to see the world to change it." Grayson looked at me, then caught himself staring.

"He always said that Grayson was the one with the eye." chimed in Trinity.

"And Trinity had the hands to bend the world." Grayson said, his voice sounding almost... pained?

Invest. Create. Cultivate. Nash's explanation of their childhood came back to me, and I wondered how old Grayson was the first time he held a camera, how old he was when he started traveling the world, seeing it, capturing it on film. I wondered how old Trinity was when she was hurt by the world, how old she was when her grandfather started teaching her about money, how old she was when she started to control millions.

I wouldn't have pegged Grayson as the artist.

Irritated that I'd been tricked into thinking about him at all, I narrowed my eyes. "Your aunt must not have noticed your tendency to make threats. I'm betting she also didn't know about the background check on my dead mother. Otherwise, there is no way she could have come to the conclusion that I'd prefer working with you."