Cynthia Raelynn Fitzgerald-Moore has enough on her plate as it was. Between fending off suitors who chased her family's prestige and centuries-old inheritance, and managing a multinational cooperation, she really had no time to spare to entertain th...
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Fitzgerald Castle, Valencia Island, Western Ireland
Thursday, 2016, September 10th
Cynthia Fitzgerald-Moore looked ethereal in a mulberry chiffon dress, fair skin glowing a faint gold under the lights of the chandelier. She was in her element, surrounded by admiring men who wrestled for her attention, all of which she could wrap around her fingers with a simple flutter of her long eyelashes and a pout of her lips. They all thought that she was an airhead, a pretty little doll without a thought in her head.
They couldn't be farther from the truth.
As the last of the noble line she and Killian descended from, the rules that had governed the upper crust of society, and everything her father thought she needed to bring their line to a greater height alongside her brother, who would act as the head of the Fitzgerald-Moore family, had been drilled into their skulls from a tender age, the lessons starting ever since she could walk. Her father, who had passed away from lung cancer a year ago, and mother, following shortly after, had seen fit to rear her and her brother befitting of children their station. It certainly didn't matter of their genders, something Papá had believed firmly in. Cynthia had always been made to work just as hard as her brother.
The rules that were enforced, all came back to one thing in particular, and that was that she remained polite and dignified under all circumstances, despite whatever she felt. Cynthia could faintly remember her very first ball, where Mamá had told her the same thing, repeating it like a mantra until Cynthia was quite numb to the jealous barbs the other girls had shot at her, some of them disguised rather poorly by honeyed words. The others were harsh enough to chip away at the brick wall she had hidden behind.
It was a concept Cynthia understood and respected. Albeit it was a stifling notion that she followed somewhat grudgingly. Even so, Cynthia though rather viscously, these people were boring. Cynthia repressed the urge to give the pompous men, all vying for her attention, the finger. Instead, of tearing their ego apart with words, an ability she had perfected as she matured with age, like she so desperately yearned to, Cynthia settled for a wan smile as she excused herself politely.
The enigmatic mask she wore was impenetrable, never showing even a hint of the grimace that threatened to twist her lips. Her true feelings would always be masked, at least when moving around the social circles, it would. Despite the distaste that rushed through her veins, Cynthia could never, ever, mouth off to anyone who was in the vaulted ballroom. As powerful and influential her name was, it couldn't match up if any of these men decided to ally themselves together to go against her. After all, only the elite of the elite was invited to the annual Fitzgerald Autumn Ball. New money or old money, it didn't matter. That thought passed through Cynthia's mind fleetingly. Because, ultimately, it boiled down to one thing, and one thing alone.
Power.
It was a constant power struggle, Cynthia noted rather wearily. In every conversation she was engaged in, she either made a complete fool of those she was speaking to, or the other way around. Something that rarely ever happened. Cynthia acknowledged smugly. A battle with words never truly ended in a tie. Cynthia mused thoughtfully. At least in the dance between those striving for influence, it didn't. That, she was sure of.
As she mingled with different people, Cynthia mentally filed the names of those invited, away and categorizing them into different compartments. It wasn't only the rich and famous who were invited, promising talents from all over Europe, and some even from Asia had been scouted for the prestigious event that was held in the Fitzgerald Castle once a year. Whilst most of the blooming talents stumbled over their words, awestruck, the ones who kept their cool and allowed no stammering to pass through their lips, were the ones that caught Cynthia's attention the most. To them, Cynthia presented a sparkling sapphire brooch in the shape of a waning moon. Cynthia's symbol on the Moore's coat of arms.
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Searching for the tall, sharp form of her brother was easy. Even amongst the men dressed sharply in pressed tuxedos, her brother stood out. In a charcoal suit tailored impeccably to his lean form, no one could deny the fact that Killian Moore looked fantastic. Women, young and old, surrounded him, drawn towards his smoldering gaze and slicked back hair. Jesus. Cynthia winced, pursing her lips at the ostentatious display of sparkling gems that adorned the women's fingers and necks, half of which, sparkled dazzling in the light, successfully half-blinding Cynthia.
When her brother caught her searing gaze, Cynthia jerked her head sharply to the side, gesturing for her brother to escape from the ballroom, and into the safety of one of the luxurious suites the Fitzgerald Castle offered, where they could discuss the phone call that Theodore, the Fitzgerald's longest serving butler and the head supervisor of the Fitzgerald's domestic affairs, had informed her of, in the privacy behind closed doors.
