Just a number

Chapter 2: Nikolas

"You have 3 months and 5 days until we have no choice but to choose you a bride." My mum's shrilly voice says.
"I'm well aware of when my birthday is, but thanks for the reminder," I say, bored.
"I'm serious, Nikolas. You'll have to marry Lydia. She's a 79, and beneficial unless you want our family to become a..." she gags, "Lower class."
"And what if I do marry a lower class?" I shout as I turn around to face her, but it's not like I actually will. Could you imagine? Me? Marrying a lower class?

She looks stunned before replying "Then, then you'll be shunned from the family." She smirks knowing it'll shut me up.
"It's only for the best, sweetie." Her smirk disappears replaced by a pout. "I'm sorry that I was such a bad mother that, I was unable to stop you being brainwashed by lower numbers." she starts tearing up. "I-I've failed you as a mother, I'm sorry my sweet baby boy." her shoulders and breaths start shaking and she silences her sobs.

"No Mother, it's my fault I shouldn't have brought the issue up, I know it makes you upset." Shit—she did it again. She made me apologise. I hate that she can do it so easily, and manipulate my feelings like they're nothing but child play. "I've got to go to work, Mother," I grumble shimmying out of the embrace I didn't realise I was in, in the first place. She instantly stops crying and her face is lit up with a smile. Her breathing evens out throughout the span of nought point five seconds. What a fucking actress. Someone give her an Oscar.

                                          ——————————————--------------------------

I need a drink. I tried to work the anger off and block everyone out like a fucking hermit but I've hit stone on this project. I can't figure out how to strike a deal with the McEnvoys without pissing off the Smiths. Fucking great. I try opening my whiskey cabinet but it's empty, apart from a lone spiderweb and the possible remains of said spider. Fuck. I guess I'll have to go to a bar.

I shove random pieces of paper into my briefcase and put my coat on. As I leave my personal office, a loud clacking sound fills my ears. I turned around to see my receptionist, Tina, running after me trying to tell me something about an important meeting I had to attend later but I couldn't care less. I think she realises that it's hopeless trying to get me to come back, because she stops running and turns herself (and her heels around, thank god for that) and goes back into the office.

After leaving my workplace, which will soon be passed down to me by my father, I walk around the corner. Around here, there are only higher numbers. The only lower numbers you'll see walking across the street, are trying to get to their jobs using the quickest route instead of taking the longer way through their side. Their kind is quite easy to spot, they tend to wear lower-quality clothes, most of which, are stained and also keep their heads down to not attract attention.

The only interactions I've had with lowers are from going to a supermarket to buy a bottle of whiskey(or five) when it's too late to send someone else. Also, most bartenders are lowers but we keep conversations to a minimum, in which, I state what I want to drink and they do their job and serve it.

I wouldn't say I despise lower numbers, I just don't like them. It's as simple as that. Nowadays, because of the system, there is no such thing as "pretty privilege" or, prejudice may I add. The whole system has made the world a better place, in my opinion. Although I haven't seen what it was like before the system, from what I've heard and read from books, people were melancholy and didn't believe in the prospect of love, which I'm not saying I do, but people seem to have more constructive lives.

I have 2 goals. 1, marry to improve my societal number and 2, reproduce to continue the family legacy. Neither of which includes myself falling in love. I wouldn't be opposed to it if it were to happen. But, as long as I achieve the aforementioned goals, anything goes.

I walk to the next block and a black, rustic building sits at the end of the street. Hidden away from society(or at least I like to think that way), lies the "Lonor's bar". Unlike what the name implies, I am not a loner, I simply like my own space. Somewhere where women won't just throw themselves at me if you know what I mean.

I know the owner, Edward Lonor, he is also not a loner. He's, well...not happily married but, not single if it makes it any better. But, most people aren't happy within their marriages, I only know about one couple who actually chose to be together.

Although I met them three years ago whilst I was trying to join the husband, Dean I think his name was, and my companies together. His wife, Angela, refused to leave his side, much to my annoyance, and kept trying to distract him by peppering kisses every few minutes or telling him sweet-nothings. Eww. Revolting. The deal, however, did not go through and the bastard was smiling as he walked out of the room as if he had not just lost $45 million.

A smile grows on my face as I'm hit with the smell of dust and beer inside the bar. There are only a few people around and I look for Edward hoping he can get my order down, since I'm already in a foul mood. But instead, I see a girl with long, wavy, honey-coloured hair reaching her round ass that's barely covered by a tight black dress that leaves almost nothing for the imagination. It's a little bit worn, seeing as there are a few holes peeking out along the sides of her curves, teasingly showing hints of silky-smooth skin. I'm surprised she's not on my side of the counter.

As she gets closer, I can see faint pieces of a burgundy solid stuck in her hair dangerously near the roots. Should this girl even be working? And why do I even care? She's a lower class, if she actually is a bartender, for god's sake. When have I ever cared about a lower class? I don't even know her. But, something in me wants to.