unlegitimate

[unlegitimate]

He's out of place here, in the kitchens. He feels as if a diamond was just thrown into a pile of shit. Any other night, he might rethink that, might feel worse about that thought, but after everything that's happened tonight, frankly, he deserves better than what he's been given. The wolf whistle makes it worse. He resists the urge to bare his teeth and growl like some sort of animal. He has airs to keep up, a familial reputation resting on his shoulders in front of these commoners.

"I don't know what any of that means," he says through gritted teeth, "and how does your psychic know about me if you didn't bring me up to her?" He doesn't believe her lie. Everyone on the island knows any del Bosque with sense wouldn't be congregating with a du Bois regularly, so why would a du Bois' psychic of all people make the assumption that Greta knew Andrea personally? And don't say it's because she's psychic. Psychics aren't real, and he has liquor down his back, and he knows it's going to dry sticky. He desperately wants a shower.

The song that's playing is unfamiliar to his ears. Like with his phone, he prefers music that was made generations prior, all strings, no lyrics. He's at peace when he's watching the sinfónica, more so than he is most anywhere else. This music is almost grating to his ears (or, perhaps, it's the stickiness from the alcohol, and the interactions he's had with his family all night, and the fact that he hasn't had even a second of pece and quiet since his arrival). Andrea sheds his jacket in an attempt to lessen the amount of liquor that will dry, sticky and odorous, to his back, and hands it over. "It's black, I don't know what that... that-" he gestures to the bottle, "what that'll do for it."

She pulls him through a set of silver swing doors. A few heads turn but most remain fixated on slicing identical cubes of cheese and tender peach flesh. A man caramelizing butter on the stove whistles with a glint in his eye that flashes recognition. Greta's molars grind together as she winks and waves. She ends up pinning a passing dishwasher with a smile. "Could you do me a tiny flavor? Do you have any club soda or whatever?"

One overpriced bottle of sparkling water in hand later, she parks Andrea next to an empty peach crate just off the main kitchen and starts fishing around underneath a work bench for a stack of cloth napkins. "I didn't ask her anything." Lie. "The planets tell her what to tell me. You were born under a super unlucky star by the way. Your fourth house is totally fucked." Probably true.

A radio by the prep station is playing a top-40 ear worm, rhythmic with the twang of a metallic guitar and percussive drum and güira. Greta pops up humming along, a bundle of napkins tucked under her arm. She positions the lip of the water bottle against the edge of the bench and in a single well-practiced downward pull, pops off the cap.

She holds out a hand. "Here, gimme me your jacket."

[unlegitimate]

Sun and fucking stars, Andrea does not want to be having this conversation anymore. Can't she fuck off and bother literally anyone else? He's the youngest son, his status in the family is next to nothing, he's nearly positive that he wouldn't be invited if there was some family meeting to discuss upcoming business ventures. So, really, what does he know about Coronadan production of anything? He goes where he's told to go, smiles for the cameras, signs paperwork he's told to sign. He's like a fucking welcome mat, letting everyone walk over him – as if the del Bosques would have a welcome mat at the front door in any lifetime.

"If they're at risk of losing their homes, that seems, to me, like a fault of their own budgeting. Minimum wage was worked out to ensure that everyone in Coronado can survive on what they're paid. Perhaps tell them to take fewer luxury holidays if that's such a concern." People's income and how they spend it is none of his business. Perhaps they should have outlawed sports gambling a long time ago. Again, not his business. He has no desire to make or change any laws in Coronado.

"Miss Montgomery, if you'd like to ask questions about the prices of anything at this event, I suggest you speak with my mother. I'm simply here to celebrate the night and honor our new Premier." Let Luciana deal with all of this.

It’s a shame he doesn’t take her, completely and utterly ridiculous, bait. Just when she thought he could be fun, he plays what she assumes is the pretentious card in his deck: Mansplaining the ‘price of luxury’ to such a lowly form such as herself. What an asshole. 

Simone glances at the party going on around them to keep from rolling her eyes. “This may surprise you,” Simone starts, just casually enough. “but economics is a required class for most majors nowadays.” And also fifteen years ago. And likely thirty years ago. And maybe, probably, even longer. In that she’ll admit that she’s no expert. “Worth the cost? I suppose it’s just so unfortunate that the hefty price of all that luxury isn’t shared with people who actually contribute to it's creation.” She takes a slow and intentional sip of her overpriced alcohol. 

“I don’t know many of the field workers personally,” A careful admission, as that hard edge once again hits her tone. “But if this is local, Coronadian caviar– which I assume it is, given the theme of tonight– I do know most of the dock and factory workers that the two major suppliers employ. Do you know how many of them are at risk of losing the roof over their heads? How many of them work from sunrise to sunset, hoping to bring in enough fish to scoop eggs out of, or make enough tins that day to be able to just barely afford to feed their families?” The casual ease that made up her smile before dissolves into something sharper and filled with venom, but she doesn’t get loud. Worse, she stays deathly calm.

“Don’t presume it’s me who doesn’t understand the price your luxury demands, Mr. Del Bosque.”

[unlegitimate]

Night can't get worse. Andrea keeps repeating that to himself in his mind as he continues about the party, making small talks with friends of Rafael's. There's a voice, a dangerous voice, in the back of his head, whispering to him: do any of these people know your real father? Would they be able to tell you stories about him? Did he smile often? Laugh easily? Or was he as stoic and flat-faced as any del Bosque ought to be? Was? Is? Where is he? Who am I?

Night can't get worse. He's sitting at his table between courses, having just finished a conversation with a table mate – why his mother would've thought to seat him with Chester Marlbank of all people is beyond Andrea, unless she wanted to torture him. She probably wanted to torture him.

Night can't get worse. Until he's soaking wet with some drink spilled down his back. He quickly rises to his feet, biting back every curse he's ever learned; this is still polite society, and a del Bosque can't be seen cursing out guests, no matter the cause. He does his best to sound reassuring as he tells Ornsby that it's fine, that the suit is black, that no one will notice.

And then Greta du Bois is pulling him by the elbow, and the night's gotten worse. Andrea tries not to sigh heavily, but he follows, not wanting to peel the soaking wet jacket from his shoulders in front of the crowd. "I told you. I don't text, and I don't believe in psychics, and why are you asking your psychic about me?"

who: @unlegitimate when: between the beef and cheese

It's a shame because it's a very nice suit, but Greta doesn't let guilt the better of her, not when there's likely a row of near identical suits laundered, pressed, and hung two exacting inches apart in the neuroses factory where Andrea was made.

Timing is everything. It's the theme of the evening, publicly and privately, and rising from her seat under the guise of swinging by Nora's table just when spines are starting to slouch is no exception. She's on her way back when she passes Desmond Ormsby hovering near Andrea's table. The man is red in the face, his hand gripping his rocks glass like a lifeline. She nudges his elbow and just like that, his drink cascades onto Andrea's suit.

Ormsby blusters an apology, Celestine Nethersole is busy despairing about the splashback on her hem, and Greta cups one hand on Andrea's elbow, intent on drawing him away to the kitchen where if he's very lucky, fizzy water and napkins will help lift the stain.

Amid it all, she manages to get in lowly, "See, if you had texted me I could've warned you that my psychic said this would be a tough day for you."

[unlegitimate]

Just be fucking normal for four fucking hours, and then you can go home and sit in your library or go to bed and pretend none of this ever happened. Andrea doesn't want to be a failure. He doesn't want to be seen as he knows he is - the disappointment, the shame, the embarrassment. Not good enough. Never good enough. Was he good enough as a child, before he knew that he'd never been Rafael's son? No, probably not. The way his mother treats him now mustn't have changed since he was a child. She never truly loved him. She never will love him. He needs to come to terms with that sooner rather than later.

"Yes, there's an agradecimiento in the post," he answers; his posture has significantly relaxed, though. It's genuinely a gift he will use – even if the notebook will simply have to be burnt within the year. He can't have his every thought piling up in his desk for anyone to break into. If he had his notebooks going all the way back to when he was thirteen, he can only imagine what people (his family, a servant, who's to say) might've found in them. "But I ought to thank you in person as well. It's a very kind gift, and it will get plenty of use. You'll be in my mind whenever I do." At least the pen will survive the burning of the notebook. It's a beautiful thing. It may even come to replace his favorite someday.

[unlegitimate]

It's not that Andrea doesn't care about Chancellor Delgado's speech; it's that he does care, he just knows he's last in the pecking order to do anything about any of it. He puts down his fork while she speaks, politeness overwhelming his desire to eat the fresh peaches on his plate. It all seems so inconsequential to him; so there's parts of the island that will be designated as heritage sites, so what? They are heritage sites, the history of their home is important, they oughtn't forget it.

He's finally about to start eating his peaches when Giulia of all people moves to his side. Resisting the urge to have any sort of physical reaction - from an eye roll to an exhale that's just slightly too loud - he takes a small bite of his dessert, then sets his fork down again. The tension in the room is palpable, yes, but why? It didn't seem like a big deal to him. Not much is actually going to change, it seems to him that people are panicking over nothing. And fuck if he knows a thing about football. "Ninety days from now, a cultural preservation act is being implimented." It's very much up his alley, but he doesn't know how much detail she wants out of this conversation. "It's about attracting tourism to Coronado while keeping the island's history in mind. You might want to look into the new Mill Community Trust, she said we've made charitable donations to it." If they had, it would've been done in Giulia's name, and if they hadn't, he'd be more concerned that they were just spoken for. "She had all of these... diapositivas. About the different neighborhoods. There are taxes involved. Documentation will be available from 9 tomorrow morning. I'm sure you could speak with her tonight if you have more imminent further questions."

Closed starter @unlegitimate

Location & time: Coronado Eterna event part 2

There's been longer soirées, events, meetings, you name it Giulia has seen it all, and tonight's a walk in the park. A dance, a dinner and that's it! She ponders idly about other longer evenings and the dossier she has to finish afterwards, all the while enjoying her cigarette break outside, in-between the cheese and dessert course. Applause comes from inside, Giulia can hear the beginning of Noémi's speech, the light voice muffled by closed windows. There was no imperative to hear the speech, she finishes her cigarette calmly, and heads back in the room as Noémi closes up the last slide. Polite applause leads her away from the stage.

She knows applause, and this one is forced, unenthusiastic, she can feel it instantly. The wind has changed, faces have closed behind the masks. What did Miss Diaporama do this time? She sees her dessert waiting at her seat, her table neighbors have already dug in (so rude) but she can't just join their conversation without having a clue about what else has been showed on screen, so Giulia looks around in a flash and- ah, not ideal but this will do. She glides at her nephew's side. "Andrea, what's all this about?" She points at the room in general with her chin, a discreet gesture no one but him can catch. "What did Noémi say this time, is the Football Cup cancelled?"

[unlegitimate]

"Of course I'm the kind of man who lends out books, what sort of library would it be if you couldn't borrow from it?" In all honesty, he's only ever lent out his books to his closest friend, but that doesn't mean he's unwilling to give up a book or two from his stacks for someone else. No one else has ever asked. Andrea understands why Teo had such a fondness for her. He wonders what broke them apart. Probably Teo being Teo, in all honesty. Taking the business card that's been offered to him, Andrea can't help but smile. Finally, a respite from the hell that this night has been so far. Who knew he'd get on so well with Ariya? Part of him feels as if he's betraying Teo, but if that were the case, Teo would've made his stance on Ariya very clear; for all Andrea can remember, he's never actually talked about her. And it's not as if he's doing anything wrong – politeness isn't a crime. He takes the business card in hand, looking down at it. He's not much of a texter, but... "I'll give you a call this week, Miss Chanthara. Enjoy the rest of your night. I look forward to our two-person book club."

"that depends," ariya says, eyes flicking upward like she's considering the question seriously. "are you the kind of man who makes good on his book-lending promises or the kind who just likes to say he has a library?" her voice is light, evidently teasing and something warmer lingers beneath it. a curiosity that could grow if allowed. "andrea del bosque, bookworm. who knew?" she doesn't sound mocking. in fact, there's the faintest note of approval tucked into the words, maybe even a little intrigue. at his question, she reaches for her purse, as if deciding something mid-thought, plucking out a minimalist business card containing her number. she offers it between two fingers, head tilting slightly. "here. for when you feel like arranging our next meeting." her lips curve into a smile, eyes sparkling with the faintest hint of well-meaning mischief. "we'll call it a two-person book club."

[unlegitimate]

Just be fucking normal for four fucking hours, and then you can go home and sit in your library or go to bed and pretend none of this ever happened. Andrea doesn't want to be a failure. He doesn't want to be seen as he knows he is - the disappointment, the shame, the embarrassment. Not good enough. Never good enough. Was he good enough as a child, before he knew that he'd never been Rafael's son? No, probably not. The way his mother treats him now mustn't have changed since he was a child. She never truly loved him. She never will love him. He needs to come to terms with that sooner rather than later.

"Yes, there's an agradecimiento in the post," he answers; his posture has significantly relaxed, though. It's genuinely a gift he will use – even if the notebook will simply have to be burnt within the year. He can't have his every thought piling up in his desk for anyone to break into. If he had his notebooks going all the way back to when he was thirteen, he can only imagine what people (his family, a servant, who's to say) might've found in them. "But I ought to thank you in person as well. It's a very kind gift, and it will get plenty of use. You'll be in my mind whenever I do." At least the pen will survive the burning of the notebook. It's a beautiful thing. It may even come to replace his favorite someday.

Fumiko catches the brief teeter in his expression, as if she’s spotted a buzzing fly in the otherwise pristine hall. It’s something unexpected, unbecoming, and somewhat of a nuisance. It makes her brows furrow, ever so softly. Oh, how she truly doesn’t like when things aren’t in order. She pays it no mind this time—this time—deciding to show Andrea mercy; she hadn’t intended to give him a fright anyway. He shouldn’t have been so skittish about it, she thinks, but the moment has passed. Civilians really can be so maudlin. Not a second too late, her chin sharply turns up, and her brows unscrew from their stare. “I’m sure you’ll be able to contribute as well. You’ve recently graduated from law school, yes? Have you received our gift?” A tradition as old as time, practiced since Alonso’s generation—though Fumiko would argue that their sacred gifts should only be given to real del Bosques. Not loose thread, fraying, and unable to fit through even the thickest needle.

[unlegitimate]

"Yes, people have their reasons that they choose to vote for one candidate over another, that is typically how elections work." If she's implying election fraud, he knows as well as anyone that that isn't happening. Election intimidation, maybe, but that's none of his business. He won't bring up either; an implication is not an accusation, and he won't go defending his family when an accusation has not been put directly on the table, lest she exaggerate his reaction when recalling this conversation at a later point.

The tone shift nearly brings a furrow to his brow, though he doesn't actually comment on it; it's easier to let others talk, to let them fill the silence, even if the topic placed in front of them is as strange as this. What is she on about? "I think it's the cost of luxury." Not that she would know anything about that. "When a vineyard can only produce a certain amount of grapes per year, and there are more people that want the wines those grapes produce, the price of the wine goes up." Simple supply and demand, really, and the del Bosques are willing to pay more for the finer things in life than most - if not all - of the rest of the island would. "The finer things in life are worth the cost."

"That's my hope also, every election. And yet.." She shrugs, letting the sentence drop. "There are other reasons people make the votes that they do, hm? Money, influence.. a strong disregard for any life other than your own. So many reasons."

Despite her negging, Simone is acutely aware that this is not the Del Bosque that's truly willing to play ball. And unfortunately it's become very apparent that Andrea has none of the answers she's looking for. Just the same script as his siblings likely do-- though he lacks some of the same grace.

And maybe that's why she doesn't simply walk away. The defensive edge to every thinly veiled insult towards his family, the desperate attempts to change the topic. The way he tries to remind her that she's not on the same playing field, like it's something that should matter to her. Who knew this party would turn out to be fun.

"Sure. Who doesn't like bubbles. Honestly I expect nothing less, given the rumors about the budget for this little party. It's a weird thing to think about, isn't it?" She speaks like suddenly they're friends, just gabbing away. "Why fermented grapes and thinly sliced vegetables and deli meat go for so much these days." She looks into her own glass of sweet bubbly liquid for emphasis. "Do you think it's like that one coffee that comes out of a big cat's butt? Are these butt grapes?"

[unlegitimate]

The short leash he's on is nearly suffocating. He really ought to just keep his mouth shut at all times. Selective mutism would end up in the papers even more than the occasional conversation with someone asking about him, though – there's no way he can win. The color of his hair - his mother's. The shape of his nose - his mother's. And he was never contributing to the unemployment rate, he went to school, then had a job, then went to school again, and now he's getting a job, but he can't open his mouth to argue; his leash will get even shorter, and he'd deserve that.

Finally, someone interrupts this conversation, takes the boot off of his throat. "Yes, Mr. Marín, a pleasure to see you again." Andrea holds his hand out to shake, his tone polite despite the conversation he'd just been having. "How is Alba? All well, I hope." He's doing his best to get out of the conversation with Rafael. He doesn't mind a conversation with Mr. Marín, should it mean he gets himself free of the choke collar he'd been forced into when his father called his name.

"Father, you wouldn't mind if I took Mr. Marín to find the both of us some of the jalabrisas prepared for tonight? If I recall, we both have a taste for lomo embuchado, no...?" Thank you, Valerio Marín.

No paperwork would be signed without his eyes having scanned through it, but this was not a problem for now. It was hardly a problem for later. Andrea, whether he knew it or not, would end up at a law firm of Rafael’s choice. “I’d rather you didn’t.” Though less of a liability around the room than Teo, Rafael couldn’t stand the thought of Andrea bragging about his honours like it was an achievement. “People write about the colour of your hair, the shape of your nose, and whether or not you are still contributing to the unemployment rate.” A beat. “It’s not about worr—”

“Rafael!” A guest suddenly appears by their sides. He was a small man with round features and noticeably bad posture. Everyone knew he dressed to overcompensate for his humble beginnings. Regardless, they shake hands like old friends.

“Valerio,” Rafael greets, and with a hand on the other man’s elbow, he turns him towards Andrea. “Always a pleasure. You’ve met my son, Andrea.”

[unlegitimate]

"I think I could get you that hazard pay you're looking for... if we go about it the right way, that is." Not that his family would ever pay her for anything, but he has near-unlimited amounts of money, more than he knows what to do with at any given time; he could afford to use a bit of it, even if on something more a joke than anything serious. "He would never tell me about a crush, but I'll keep my mind on it, I'm sure something'll come up." Truthfully, the only true childhood memory he has of Teo is that of finally finding out the thing that Teo'd been holding over his head for... what was it, weeks? Months? Years? And the heartbreak that came after, the questions, the answers it provided, his world turning upside down in a way that makes him sick to his stomach to this day, a roller coaster he can't get himself off of. "Oh, I never claimed to be perfect. But I have a decent collection of books, you're more than welcome to borrow from it at any point. My library's my favorite room in my home." That's true; it's big, but not cold. Dark, but not oppressive. The chairs are comfortable, there's a fireplace that's consistently burning in the winter, it might be his favorite place in the world. A brow raises at her next words, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "And when will be the next time we see each other?"

"your secret's safe with me," ariya replies with a mock-solemn nod, one brow arching and her tone landing on teasing, "though i feel like i should get hazard pay for being complicit in anything that might risk your mother's wrath." at his comment about being seen and not heard, something flickers briefly across her expression. understanding, maybe. recognition. then it's gone again, replaced by a faint smirk. "well, i look forward to whatever memories resurface. i'm sure there's something semi-humiliating buried in there somewhere. a bad haircut. a regrettable crush. a secret collection of sea glass or something." she tilts her head slightly at the self-deprecating remark. "reading is deeply endearing," she informs him, matter-of-fact, "very mysterious of you. brooding, even. the fish thing… less so, but i suppose no one's perfect." a beat. then, her mouth quirks. "you're climbing the ranks fast, andrea. keep this up and the slot might just be yours by the time we next see each other."

[unlegitimate]

He's a puppet on strings, he has been his whole life. There's no way to cut them free, not without leaving behind everything he's ever known. What's more terrifying, the knowledge that he'll be trapped in his cage until he dies, or the unknown that would lie ahead should he choose to break himself out of said cage? Once again, an evil voice in the back of his mind tells him to ask his mother who his birth father is. If he doesn't find out now, he may never find out. Who's to say he'll live another day?

A blink. A bang, blood, a body hitting the floor, more blood. Screaming.

"Yes, well, we're honored to have the trust of the public." He can't fucking focus on this conversation. Not after the implications she's dropped, not after the conversation he'd had with his father earlier, not with the way his family has been treating him lately. Fingers twitching, he takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "They've all got minds of their own; it's nice to see we're all on the same page about what's right for Coronado."

Fumiko isn’t a sadist—far from it. She doesn’t take pleasure in drawing out something that would be considered painful to civilians (the del Bosques included); however, if it’s a necessary measure to maintain the order and to not have Andrea be swayed by his emotions in a public setting, it’s her duty to do so. “Yes, to celebrate,” she nods. “You should be ecstatic, Andrea; your family never ceases to unite the country.” Not without her family’s help, of course, but Fumiko simply tilts her head with the implication.

[unlegitimate]

Andrea may be the shame of the family, but he isn't an idiot. He can put two and two together. This likely has to do with the conversation he'd had with Ariya. It was just that – a conversation. What is he supposed to do, try to avoid everyone Teo's ever interacted with before? Teo wasn't close enough to overhear what they were talking about; if he was, Andrea would've seen him. It was friendly conversation.

Nevertheless, he's here, in this conversation he has no desire to be in - a staple of the night, it seems. "Great, I'll just sit in the corner, then, stare at the ceiling. How's that?" The sarcasm nearly chokes him coming out of his mouth. People would notice if he were actively being avoidant. Andrea needs to be seen as a del Bosque, needs to be as public a person as the rest of his family is.

"I'm sure I'll see you later, Teo." Andrea watches him go, still holding the full glass that he now has to get rid of. Again. What a waste of perfectly good perlacéa. He gives his cousin some time to get back into the crowd before slowly following behind, unenthused about the long night ahead.

It isn't ruin he fears, not at Andrea's hands. In a better moment, he might've even laughed. The unknown, however, only a fool would welcome without reservation.

... And unnecessary chitchat between his cousin and his ex is an unknown. It's not that he cares if they should talk, except that he's the common denominator between them. The obvious topic for any small talk, the default he'd rather not be for either one.

"Could've fooled me." Teodósio replies simply, tossing the cork and catching it in the same hand. He'll allow Andrea the fact that his wagging tongue has never done much damage to date, but it doesn't mean he wouldn't prefer it bolted more tightly behind his teeth. As for whether he's enjoying the party...

"I'd enjoy it a little more if you could find it in yourself to enjoy it a little less."

If he could put a cork in it, maybe, or better yet — learn the art of lying. That's Andrea's problem, he muses, pushing off the wall, this time with the intention of leaving.

He's never been as good a liar as the rest of them.

"Drink up, cousin. We've a long night ahead." As if to model it, Teodósio takes a long swig from the newly opened bottle. He'll leave it with one of the waiters, maybe with special instructions to reserve what's left for the most distinguished among their Du Bois guests, but for now he merely wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, shoots his cousin a conciliatory smile, and stalks out of the hall and back into the main room.

[unlegitimate]

He's just gotten away from family, from pressure, from everything that's been driving him mad all night, and here comes Aurélie. Truly, the family is lucky he cares about their reputation so much that he won't yell in public. Can't she tell he's tired? "Ha ha, very funny," he mutters, knowing it's not a joke. "Can you give me a minute? Seriously, all I need is a minute, I'll be back inside soon." No one is looking for him; if he's certain of one thing, it's that.

Aurélie watches, it's what she’s good at – tracking crowds, the ebb and flow of conversations and which particular figures they were most concentrated around, like celestial bodies dominating the galaxy. Her uncle, her aunt ( far enough away from each other to pique her interest but not raise too many outside concerns ), the Du Bois have their own orbiting sycophants, though in her opinion their gravitational pull hold less sway than they think. So she sees Andrea and Elena, watches as he walks away with that sad puppy look on his face that she will admit he hides quite well usually, and follows.

“You know what they say about sulking, don't you?”

[unlegitimate]

open to first !!

Has he seen the fucking gardens. Yes, he's seen the fucking gardens. He's seeing the fucking gardens right fucking now, thank you very fucking much. His hands are in his pockets, his posture relaxed despite the tension building up in his gut, in his throat. There's no notebook here, nowhere to get all of those feelings out. At least he's alone here, in the darkness, the sun having set. He's made this little, isolated corner of the gardens his own for the time being, just to decompress. Worst case scenario, he dies. Two deaths at two parties, maybe that would finally send the family into a spiral. Doubtful, though - they wouldn't care if he disappeared into the night, never to be seen again.

[unlegitimate]

The chastisement makes him feel pathetic. Like he's some toddler who can't control his emotions, like he's meant to take every jab to his personality, his very existence, like it's a gift. Thank you, may I have another? What does she have that he doesn't? Why does she hate him? He's never done a thing to her. Did he take some food off her plate before he knew how to count to ten?

He works incredibly hard every day. He can't settle for anything less than the best; he tried that, he was a paralegal for far too long and it made him want to end the night with a blade to the throat every single day. So he took more for himself. His high honors at Orvièux weren't just handed to him. She thinks he's dirt. They all do.

"Enjoy the night, Elena. Tell the husband I say hello." And he's gone, he doesn't need to listen to any of this any longer.

“Ah,” she says lightly, almost resigned. The inevitability of this interaction hangs between them, like the tide meeting the shore. Of course Andrea couldn't outpace the swell of his own emotions. Of course he had to make a scene. Polished words are leveled at him with all the years of practice he claims she has over him. Clinical, calm, devoid of any of the feelings he seems so determined to make known. “So we’ve already made it to this part of the evening."

Elena is not one to be on the defensive. Let him believe her successes were freely given, unearned and undeserved. The reality has always been hard for him to grasp, even harder for him to admit: each of them was given every opportunity to prove their worth. Whatever slights he has faced, real or imagined, value is derived from contribution, not self-pity.

"Have you seen the gardens?" Her tilts to the side, the question heavy with dismissal.

[unlegitimate]

There's no point to this debate. Whether or not they'd be having this party if Cervantes hadn't won the election is irrelevant; he had. Why do they invite stupid journalists to these parties? The line of questioning is tiring him. "The people had their say. If Coronadans didn't want Premier Cervantes, they wouldn't have voted for him." Democracy prevails. People still love the del Bosques. That's what matters to his family.

Not that it matters to Andrea who the Premier is, it won't earn him any favors. "The point of the Premier is to have the ear of the people. If he didn't care about what his voters have to say, if he doesn't have their best interests in mind, I'd hope Coronadans would be smart enough to vote for anyone else, no matter who my family endorses." Andrea isn't one for politics. This conversation is more Elena's speed, though she'd likely be less kind about her answers.

"The antevenas and perlacéa are excellent, aren't they?" She probably hasn't had anything this luxurious in her life. She ought to savor it. Who knows how long a person stays on an invite list on this island?

What a good little bird. Simone thinks, barely registering his actual squawking. It's a tell for most people, so she has no qualms with applying it here, that once eye contact is broken the truth is shoved to the side. Parroting whatever's been told to him by whoever's got the keys to the cage. A second-notch PR team, she's sure. Not as good as Tatiana, but good enough to stay out of trouble with most journalists and media figure heads.

Most. But not all. There were still a few others, like herself, who refused to let his family fall through the cracks of justice and accountability.

"Of course, of course. I'm sure that's true." There's a viciousness to her tone, a slight sneer to her smile. They both know she doesn't believe that. They also both know that there's no proof otherwise. "Anyway, I suppose we'll never know, right? Your family's pick won. Which means you still have a friend in the highest of places." The thinly veiled accusation is said like it's something exciting. Like there was a need to find him a bright side. "That must be a very special feeling. There's certainly very few who have ever felt it."

[unlegitimate]

This isn't a joke, this isn't banter, Teodósio's very serious about something. Does this have to do with the conversation with his father? His sister? They went normally, as far as conversations went, if you asked him. "My tongue isn't loose," he insists, adjusting his grip on the glass. "There's no family business that I'm privy to that would lead to the ruin of anyone but myself," he keeps his voice as low as he can while a good-natured smile is plastered to his face; he can't be drawing attention to the conversation. Why is Teo trying to force him to drink? "I'm enjoying the party. Aren't you?" He's not thinking about the last one, about the blood, the screams, the aftershocks.

"Loose tongues are bad for business. Don't they teach you that in business law?" He says it lightly, as if he's teasing, but the glint in his eyes says otherwise.

"What else could I possibly mean?" Teodósio adds, as if the suspicion in Andrea's voice befuddles him. It isn't an answer. He nods to the drink his cousin's just sampled, placid and easygoing as he adjusts his grip over the bottle. "I've just done so, haven't I?"