Maeve

“Where the hell is he?” I asked Myla, who was leaning against one of the columns in the ballroom, looking a little flustered herself. She was dressed in an insanely flattering sea-green colored gown, the same color as the silky ribbons woven into her braids. She shrugged, tilting the remaining champagne in the flute she was holding into her mouth.

“Where is anyone we know? There has to be five-hundred people here, if not more. I haven’t seen Keaton ...