Fancy, Fancy, Fancy

“Marc, this is too much,” Sinead murmured. He’d driven them, and she hadn’t figured out where they were going until they pulled up in front of the Royal Ontario Museum and a valet had taken the keys to park the car. A red carpet was rolled out from the main entrance to the big, old building and spotlights were illuminating it like there should have been celebrities taking photo ops and interviews before a movie premier or award show. There were plenty of people, and some of them might have actually been celebrities, but the signs all proclaimed the event to be some sort of a fundraiser.

“What do you mean, Detective?” Marc asked. He’d offered her his arm and she’d taken it, and now they were waiting in line to have their invitations checked.

“All of this,” Sinead said. “The dress, and the event. We shouldn’t be seen together in such a public place?”

“Why not?” Marc asked.

“Because it’s not right!” Sinead hissed. Despite the chill in the evening air, she could feel her cheeks flushing.

“It’s not right that I bring a beautiful acquaintance to a fundraising event as my guest?” Marc asked.

Sinead ignored the fact that her stomach knotted when he called her an ‘acquaintance.’ “So this isn’t a date?”

“Ma chère, none of what we have been doing has been dating,” Marc said quietly. “You made it very clear, that first time I invited you to dinner, that you were not interested in such a thing. This is simply another of our adventures.”

Sinead grimaced and looked away down the street. Part of Avenue Rd, leading down to Queens Park, was blocked off and had Paid Duty officers manning the traffic directions. She didn’t recognise any of them immediately and hoped that would stay true. The last thing she needed was someone asking questions. Well, beyond Jules.

That worry was a distraction from what she was feeling about what he said, though. All of this - this trading, and the teasing, and the fucking buttplug, was because Sinead had refused to sit down and have a dinner with the man. She’d blown him off. Now she kept thinking of when she’d blown him, kneeling naked in his living room.

Sinead had acted like a cunt, and now she was being treated like one.

“Sinead,” Marc said, snapping her out of her thoughts. “Tonight is about having fun. You look like you’ve sucked on a lemon.”

“Maybe that’s what it’s like, getting dragged places without being told where we’re going,” Sinead retorted, letting her frustration bubble over. She knew it was a mask, one of her defensive mechanisms, but she did it anyway. “Did you consider that maybe I wouldn’t want to come to something like this?”

“No,” Marc said flatly. “And don’t be absurd, ma petite rebelle. You look astounding, half of the men around us are stealing glances at you, and we are about to have a lovely time drinking exquisite drinks and eating unnecessarily complicated hors d'oeuvres as we make small talk and, most importantly, take in some of the exhibits. Now stop being childish, your pouting is unattractive.”

Sinead flushed again and found herself standing a little straighter, feeling like she’d just been dressed down by one of her teachers back in the Academy. The last time someone had talked to her like that had been her ex-husband, and she’d never let him get away with it. She wanted to blow up at Marc and tell him where he could stuff his attitude and his buttplug, storm away and take an Uber back to get her car. She had what she needed from him. This could all stop.

But… she had been pouting. And she was being childish.

Fuck you, she thought at Marc. But when he glanced at her again she smiled apologetically, and she wasn’t entirely sure if she was faking it or not.

The real problem was that this was exactly the kind of event she would have died to be attending if she’d been the cop on the corner directing traffic, working some Paid Duty overtime and imagining herself all dressed up. She was living out the reality of her own desires, and she was ruining the experience by being… not spiteful, but something.

Her smile stayed in place as Marc presented his invitation to the man at the podium, and they were gestured onto the red carpet. There were a few photographers present, snapping shots for the organisation running the fundraiser, but Sinead doubted anyone would care about her or Marc when local politicians or a few Toronto-born entertainment stars might be in attendance.

Inside, the ROM was brightly lit and decorated to match the high-class event. Marc said hello to some folks, leading her deeper into the building, and soon she felt herself falling back into that persona she’d affected while they were undercover with Victor Berisha at the bar. She laughed and made jokes. She spoke with women of all ages, all dressed to the nines and completely comfortable with the setting, and that made her feel comfortable. Marc introduced her as his companion and guest for the evening, and no one blinked an eye, and everyone seemed friendly. Several folks, when it came up that she was a police detective, were impressed and curious. Only two asked if she could help handle their parking tickets.

“She’s very lovely, Marc,” said one woman. Sinead had been separated by Marc as they were drawn into different conversations, though they were only a few feet apart. “But please tell me things haven’t soured with Felicity? I was so hoping to see her tonight. I just adore her.”

“No, no,” Marc said. “Nothing like that. She had plans of her own tonight, and I was blessed to have a connection to the Detective and she agreed to accompany me.”

The woman continued the conversation, but Sinead missed whatever was said.

Who the fuck was Felicity?

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