The R. S. Wellington “Dance for the Cure” Gala was a smash. Everyone turned out at $10,000.00 a plate, dressed in dark brooding tuxedos with bright hints of color and slinky elegant dresses.

Booked almost a year in advance in the stunning two story ballroom at the Four Seasons, glittering chandeliers cast tiny refracted rainbows across a full orchestra ensemble.

Over a hundred tables circled a nearly mirror-reflective marble dance floor.

The men were all handsome, some old, some young, but all cut from the same cloth.

The women were as bright and variegated as rainforest birds, strutting and pecking quietly at one another. Every rainbow hue could be spotted in the ballroom, most accompanied by a shimmer and a thigh high slit.

Dinner, served on only the best china with real ‘silver’ware had wowed even the most discerning of guests. Music and alcohol flowed quite freely as the upper class tried to one up each other.

On a pedestal before the massive double windows lay the prize of the night. A recent acquisition of R.S. Wellington himself, on display for one night only before going forever into his private collection.

It was covered dramatically by a simple white cloth, two white gloved men standing motionless on either side, in case someone got too curious.

 

Kelyn Sinclair, stood beside a gorgeous marble fountain on the far side of the ballroom. Dressed in an emerald floor length gown with a plunging neckline and hip-hugging fabric, Kelyn looked just like every other over-styled beautiful girl at the party. Her deep red hair was twisted up in an elegant style, her creamy colored skin a perfect compliment to her dark emerald dress and her deep red lips. She was as much the belle of this little fete as any of the women here...

Except for her eyes.

She smiled, laughed, danced when she was forced to, but her eyes were watching.

Waiting.

While everyone else enjoyed a drink or feasted on the heavy culinary delights, Kelyn watched.

Kelyn was working.

Whatever Wellington had acquired had sent ripples through the ether than had all the pre-cogs screaming. She’d been trying to find a way to get into the gala, knowing that whatever it was needed to be contained. Luckily Wolfram and Hart sprung for the ticket. Kelyn wasn’t sure just how far her communal goodwill extended.

As it was, there was nothing too abnormal. The white cloth looked ordinary, the men beside it typical muscle.

But Kelyn just knew, before the end of the night, something was going to go sideways.

It always did.