Last Chance

douze

A.N.

A Last Dance favourite of mine.
Here's to the Caleb x Lila shippers.
Breland's POV!

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xii.

Caleb led Delilah up the flight of stairs of the Bretford Mansion.

Its doubled door loomed overhead and Caleb felt apprehension twist in his gut; he had no idea if Delilah could pull this off, or if even he could pull this off, and he was terrified of the things that could go wrong. He clenched his jaw in defiance and fought against his rising anxiety; it would be strange to see his old friends but nice all the same. So he steeled himself as the porter opened the doors and led his companion inside.

Caleb marched ahead as they made their way through the large archways of the mansion entrance. His date fell in behind him, her heels echoed across the stone and glass walls. Catching up, Lila bristled at him before she carefully looped her arm through his and leaned on him ever so slightly, to give the illusion that she was enamoured by him. He noticed that after she rounded the corner, heading toward the ballroom, that she looked a little ill and nudged her slightly with his elbow.

"Are you alright?" He whispered in her ear.

She smiled sweetly at him, "I'm fine, Breland," she whispered back. "Just keep acting like you're infatuated with me and we can get this done."

"Easier said than done," he muttered. She responded by elbowing him in the ribs.

They stopped in front of two mahogany doors with golden handles. Caleb turned toward his date, his eyes asking the blonde one question: are you ready? She nodded and smiled at her once-nemesis.

He pulled the doors open and stepped aside, Lila still on his arm.

///

The entire room seemed to freeze as the lawyer and his mystery woman entered the room. Caleb kept up his cool confident facade, swaggering into the room with Delilah, who was convincingly acting like a well-mannered member of the upper echelon.

The room was made with dark granite, with large glass windows that were separated by dark marble pillars. Large blue banners strung from the walls embezzled with massive silvered doves. At the very back of the room was a raised dais with two large silver mock-thrones. On one sat the woman of the hour, not looking a day over thirty with milk skin and dark hair. She wore an olive green taffeta gown with a black bodice and gold trim. Francine spotted Caleb and gave him a dazzling smile.

Franny always had the flare for the theatrics but this was a little much. On brand, all the same.

On the other throne sat her husband—if the band on his ring finger was a telltale sign—in all of his glory. He wore a simple sleek suit jacket and slacks tucked into polished black boots. He had a salt-and-pepper beard and matching hair; Caleb didn't recognise him from his past—but he'd seen him somewhere he couldn't quite place.

"So these are your friends?" She asked, her green eyes curious.

"Friends. Acquaintances. Foes," he prattled on, "strangers at this point. You don't recognise anyone?"