Abigail had invited her fighter to the ball more or less by handing him suit in a dark garment bag and telling him to shave. She really didn’t want to stay long; going to a party so soon after the Morel’s funeral made her feel like she was celebrating her friend’s death, when the reality was quite the contrary. She had made a few other friends on the island, but none were as close as the other woman. Still, the invitation made her attendance seem compulsory, or at least what passed for compulsory in this social circle, and as much as she didn’t like it, she found a boat-neck, knee-length dress (a red one, after Wilson had insisted she would look good in it), a nice pair of strappy heels and a well-dressed man to hold what wouldn’t fit in her purse. Her makeup was understated, her hair left down in soft waves; she wanted to appear casual and approachable. Not to mention that she didn’t want to go the whole nine yards just for an appearance.
Considering her fighter had been housed in the Red Block with a private shower, she let him get ready there and picked him up there to walk back together. She had adjusted his tie almost the instant she saw him, but other than that, she was genuinely surprised at how well he cleaned up. As they walked to the hotel, she still caught herself glancing at him proudly out of the corner of her eye. She had planned well enough that they entered right before the welcoming speech. She avoided telling Wilson, but honestly, she really didn’t want to see either of the death matches that sandwiched the night. The fighting was quickly losing whatever appeal it had to start with, especially Ribbon’s matches. Even the morbid curiosity was gone, only to be replaced with an empty, slightly sick feeling.
Once the speech had finished, Abigail picked up a martini and made small-talk with a few of the other owners, none of whom were very interesting. Most of them recognized Wilson and congratulated her on his block change, even though he was standing at her side. One of them owned a mutant he had beaten and took it personally, but she managed to get out of that conversation quickly.
They found a moment of quiet by a wall, after Forge had moved away to join Ribbon, leaving the wallflower spot open. Her free hand moving to take the cocktail stick, the banker looked over toward her fighter and gave him a small, knowing smile. “These things are usually just like this,” she told him, lifting the stick to her mouth and sliding the olive off with her teeth. Putting the stick in her empty martini glass, she glanced toward the party, seeing Ribbon quickly but trying to avoid her. She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about her, but she didn’t want to go exploring her feelings in front of all the important owners on the island. She looked back to Wilson.