ACT I: END OF THE WORLD

"Fear not the unknown. It is a sea of possibilities."

-Tom Althouse

Chapter One

She squeezed an eye shut in pain as rough hands had their way with her ebony locks. It was as if she needed to feel the talons.

"Hold…still…"

Dutifully, she closed her eyes and leaned slightly forward to provide little resistance. Handmaid or not, Nysa would have her way. She did not serve her young mistress; the young mistress served her.

"Ouch—"

"Miss Jotum, this is but a small price to pay for your betrothed!" The young mistress rolled her eyes, or at least tried to before Nysa popped her in the corner of her head. "I see everything, now hold still…"

The room was silent aside from the two grunting women near the vanity.

"There. Well don't you look as beautiful...as usual, of course," the woman mused.

In the mirror stood a girl with chestnut skin, her thick eyebrows plucked to perfection. Her face was lightly painted with natural tones, bringing calmness to her cheeks and almond moisture to her lips. Thin eyeliner contoured around her prominent, keen emerald eyes.

Her hair—honestly, she was impressed with this one. Nysa had superb skills, but hadn't been able to take advantage of the young girl who rarely went out. Her thick mane had been straightened then plat against her scalp, four thick braids falling down. The braids were bunched together at the back of her nape in an arrangement similar to carnations. Aside from product and gel, they were held together with a comb—the Jotum family crest of a crow evident.

The 2-inch, silver choker around her neck made it difficult to turn her head. The purpose for this contraption, she did not know. The tight, corset Nysa shoved her into hugged her chest a bit too tightly and now she thoroughly regrets not working out more.

"Here."

Nysa tied a flowing, coral underdress over the corset that reached to her hips. Then she tossed her a navy blue lady's overcoat adorned with every button known to Zanarkand. It snapped over her breastbone and covered the rest of her dress. The coat went down to calves, only showing her stocking-clad legs and night walking boots.

"What do you think?" Nysa was obviously proud of her work, smirking with her arms crossed. The young mistress was less than pleased.

"…I look like a boring heiress."

"Yes, well your betrothed requested this look specifically—"

"You can just say his name, you know."

"Your betrothed plans for you two to woo the town. Oh~ so cute! I can't wait to see those pictures~" And the woman caught herself mumbling excitedly about the affair. When she got like this, she knew her mistress would do nothing and leave her to her fancy.

Sigh. Tonight was her last night as a free woman.

Knock, knock.

"Come in~," Nysa bowed deeply. "Master Jotum, sir."

"Miss Carny," he greeted before pausing. "My, Ceres. Look at you…"

Ceres' uncle Mikal was a tall man, standing nearly a foot above her five feet and six inches. Thick, coils of auburn hair fell down his back in a flamboyant sweep. His olive skin was smooth as a baby's bottom with hands to match. He'd never worked a day in his life and yet, he owned the most successful bio-engineering corporation on the planet. All that hard work and all those long hours working, not one wrinkle to show for it. And the older man had the face of a thirty year old.

But he was a stern man, never showing a genuine smile for anyone. Not even his own niece. He knew how to play the crowd and demand respect with just a look. As cold as he was, he still delicately cared for his niece.

Unsure of what to say, the girl clasped her hands in front of her ribs. "Dravon requested this outfit," still not believing someone would do such a thing. She rubbed her fingers together. "Apparently he has big plans for the night…"

His frown did not leave. "You look lovely, as always."

"Yes, and I guess for the rest of my days, I will be lovely for him—"

"Ceres," he warned.

"Sorry—I" she crossed her arms. "I…don't want to do this."

She stopped speaking, feeling cold hands land on her shoulders. He coaxed her around to face him.

"Dravon Toler is the proprietor of the world's largest blitz ball merchandiser. He also now holds 46% of our shares."

"He knows nothing about running this company! I do!"

Then he turned her angry face up toward his, a rare emotion in his face.

"Don't think for one second that this is easy for me either." He saw the liquid gathering behind those green orbs. "You are my flesh and blood. You fill the position of heir perfectly. And you would've made a wonderful chief of innovation."

But…

"But this is the hand life has dealt us. So this is me taking care of you, understand?"

His thumb followed the droplets before they could form, gently caressing her face.

She numbly nodded.

"Good. Now muscle up, that's a good girl."

At his command, she fanned her face and straightened her posture. Nysa came forward to flatten her collar once more.

"That's my strong girl. I do not want to see anymore crying from here on."

It wasn't a command so much as a warning. Oh, her tears would know better than to show themselves now.

Stepping out of the car, Ceres was sure to access her public persona. The cold yet charismatic heiress ready to entertain the masses. Cameras flashed from every angle, capturing each tailored moment. Dravon's soft hand remained clasped around her own, his other hand secured behind her back, steadily pressing as they moved up the first staircase.

She smiled as he recanted some stupid little joke. The paparazzi ate it up as some clever trope. Suddenly, his head flew back as he bellowed into the sky at an absurd comment. As soon as the laugh faded, his arm slowly crept past her back to around her waist. Hiding her bewilderment, she turned back to face him with a coy smile.

One could mistake it as flirtation. But the two knew this was a warning.

He returned the look, tightening his grip. It caused her to fell against his side, seemingly intimate. Annoyed, she turned away to look around. He leaned down to whisper in her ear.

"Keep it up, princess. You know they like us."

The idea of Jotum Industries' princess and Toler Entertainment's prince tackling both the latest entertainment technologies and marriage.

"Ugh, people, am I right?" a gravely voice rang out.

Ceres whipped her head around to meet the sound, but there stood a young boy. Is that little boy talking? But his mouth wasn't moving.

"Babe, watch where you're stepping, please," Dravon expressed, tight-lipped.

"Wha—" she'd stepped on his foot. "Sorry."

He brushed the cuff of his shoes. "I don't want to have to throw these away. They're new."

A foolish comment like that would've usually caused Ceres to chew his head off, but she was absentminded. Something felt…off.

"It's too bad none of them will be alive to remember this. But I bet that's a good thing, in your case…"

Her head whipped around so fast. "What the hell—"

"Babe—"

"I wonder if you whine, too…?"

"Seriously, kid. You're creeping me out," she expressed.

"It's almost time to say good bye. "

"Whose child is this?"

"Ceres, there's no one there, geez." The affluent man put his arms around her shoulders and began to lead her away. "I won't have you ruining my night. Why don't we go up to our seats?"

"But, Draven—"

She needed to know more. Why did she need to say goodbye?

But when she looked again, the little boy was gone.

A/N: We all know who this 'little boy' is.