Page 48 of X: Command Me through Alexander’s Eyes

“Defunding?” I say coldly.

His fist tightens, and I wonder what will happen if I push him just an inch farther. Would he rescind invitations to future engagements? Or would there be a fistfight and another scandal for the wretched tabloids? “Find your pretty girl and dance with her,” he advises me, shaking off the tense rage with a shrug of the shoulders. “Play with your toy. I don’t have time for your childish behavior.”

“Oh, but it’s a party. Aren’t we all supposed to cut loose?” I say, even as his words strike like a knife in the back. I know what he’s doing. He’s manipulating me—twisting me into the irresponsible prodigal son that feeds his ego. If I won’t kiss his ass like everyone else, he’s left with no other choice.

My grandmother steps between us, shielding her son as though she senses how close we are to coming to blows. “You disobedient little bastard.”

“Grandmother,” I say dryly. “Lovely to see you this evening.”

“How could you bring that…that American here?” She makes the word sound like a slur. To her, it is.

“You’re a terrible snob,” I inform her. “She’s half British.”

“Half British! There’s no such thing as half British,” she says with a sniff, as though the very idea is an affront.

“As much as I enjoy a good flagellation”—I aim this barb at my father—“I should see to my date.”

Grandmother mutters something about disgusting and attitude and my mother under her breath. I force myself to ignore it.

“Good night, Alexander.” There’s a finality as he dismisses me.

At least he won’t care if I leave, now.

Turning, I spot Edward talking furiously with David. He glances up, our eyes lock, and he shakes his head helplessly. I cross to him in three strides.

“Where’s Clara?” I demand, searching for a red rose in the crowd.

“She left. David saw her—“

I don’t wait to hear the rest of his explanation. A few people try to stop me as I push through the crowd, but there’s only one person I care about, and she’s out in the night—alone and unprotected. I have no idea when she left, but when I slip out into the night, the steps are empty. There’s no trace of her. There’s only darkness, along with a few lingering paparazzi, who snap to attention and begin taking photos. Maybe she didn’t come this way. Maybe she’s still inside. But I can’t sense her presence. It’s as though she’s fled the ball, rushing home to her safe, ordinary life without leaving so much as a glass slipper behind.