A Diamond in the Rough

Chapter 22: Ballo della Regina

Contrary to what an outside observer might expect, Emma didn’t hate the color black. She just didn’t wear it often or own many garments with black as the primary color, because she didn’t love how it looked with her fair complexion. When she properly maintained her tan, at least, black wasn’t so bad.

Mother, on the other hand, loved wearing black; but she, unlike Emma, assiduously maintained her tan. She’d insisted that Emma have a classic Little Black Dress: “For a young woman of your station, no wardrobe is complete without one, Emma darling.” She’d also insisted that black boots – one pair in leather, another in suede – were essential to complete myriad looks (not that Mother would ever use the word “myriad”).

Emma would never admit it, but today she felt grateful for Mother’s fashion sense. She put together an all-black outfit consisting of her LBD, black suede calf boots, and fishnet tights. A silver chain around the waist served as a belt, and a silver pendant holding a two-carat princess-cut diamond adorned her neck. A small black clutch held her phone, petty cash, driver’s license, and enough makeup for a touch-up. Paired silver bangles and her favorite diamond studs completed the look, along with a white-and-black diagonal-striped pashmina for warmth.

Ready for a night at the ballet.

XXXXX

At the apartment complex where Emma lived, the buildings had a corridor/stairwell that the apartments opened to, which gave residents a place to shelter in inclement weather while awaiting pickup. The evening splashed its oranges and pinks across the sky, but the blustery fall breeze impelled Emma to remain under that shelter. She’d worked too hard on her look to let the wind ruin it.

A black limo pulled up at five minutes before six. Emma smirked, appreciating such punctuality. A chauffeur clad all in black (naturally) stepped out to open the door for Emma, a door that opened into a dark interior cabin. Not ominous at all, Emma snarked to herself as she climbed in.

Within, Shaw awaited, a glass of wine in hand, a red darker than any Emma had ever seen. An immaculately tailored tuxedo with black bow tie added to the air of sophistication. A tight-lipped smile curled his mouth on seeing his guest, who noted – for the first time, since Shaw had been wearing sunglasses when they met – his incredibly dark eyes.

The limo’s cabin had a single, U-shaped seat in black leather, with Shaw occupying the vertex of the U. Emma settled into place on the cushion nearest the door, at a distance that would seem “close but not too close.” She smiled and inclined her head towards her host. “Mr. Shaw, I wanted to thank you again for the invitation this evening. A chance to see the Bolshoi was quite the pleasant surprise.”

Shaw swirled the wine in his glass as the limo glided smoothly into motion. “Of course, Miss Frost. I’m pleased you accepted.” He lifted his glass. “Would you like a glass? This mourvèdre is quite dry. Superb.”

“No, thank you,” she answered. She scooted a tad closer and rested her chin on her hand, but she kept her gaze on Shaw’s forehead to avoid reading his thoughts (for now). “Ever since you called, I’ve been wondering: What made you think of inviting me to the ballet?” Her eyes narrowed fractionally. “I’m quite sure I didn’t mention to you at the party that I dance.”

Shaw merely shrugged. “Winston has spoken on more than one occasion of your prowess on the dance floor. Quite glowingly, I should add.”

At least he’s not stalking me or anything.

Shaw’s voice dropped lower, into an almost conspiratorial tone. “Plus, if I may be so bold, Miss Frost, you’re built like a ballerina: tall, slim, long-legged. I’ve also noted that, when you stand, you place your feet in… third position, I believe it is?”

Emma shrugged nonchalantly. “I can’t say I ever noticed,” she lied, “but you’ve got an eye for detail, it seems. Are you a great connoisseur of ballet?”

“You could say that I appreciate beauty in all its forms,” replied Shaw before sipping his wine. “Present company included, of course.”

Emma responded with a thin smile and crinkle of her nose to communicate that, while she appreciated the compliment, it was also a little too obvious. “Mr. Shaw, you flatter me. What about me – a young woman of barely eighteen, at most half your age but likely less – could interest a man such as yourself, a captain of industry and man of wealth and taste?”

Before Shaw could answer, the ringing of a phone came from the armrest beside him. The shadow of a frown crossed his face, before his smile returned, if paper-thin. “Excuse me, Miss Frost. Only a select few have this number, so I must take this.”

Emma sat back, looking as unperturbed as she could manage.

Shaw opened the armrest to retrieve the phone receiver. “This is Shaw,” he practically growled.

Emma couldn’t hear the person on the other end distinctly, but she could hear the booming voice enough to marvel that Shaw didn’t wince at having it right in his ear.

“Leland, I thought we discussed this,” Shaw grumbled. “The Latverian account was yours to handle.”

This Leland, whoever he was, seemed to protest.

“Fine, fine. We’ll discuss it further tomorrow back in the office. I’m out tonight.”

The lascivious tone of Leland’s response made Emma’s skin crawl from three feet away.

“Yes, Leland, ‘the Frost girl’” Shaw’s dark eyes flicked over towards Emma momentarily. “Winston’s daughter.”

Leland’s response sounded even worse – if such a thing were possible – to Emma’s ears.

“Have some decency, will you, man?” Shaw practically snarled. “You make me wonder, sometimes, why I keep you around.”

The ensuing loud, boisterous laugh from Leland made Emma’s skin crawl even more intensely than before.

“Now, Leland, I must go. If I remain on the phone with you, I should prove a poor host. We’ll talk again tomorrow,” he promised, before adding darkly, “About business.”

With that, he hung up, shaking his head.

“Dare I ask?” joked Emma, in an attempt – not entirely unsuccessful – to dispel her own discomfort.

Shaw shook his head again, this time with a dark chuckle. “That man is absurdly uncouth. I’m not entirely convinced he wasn’t raised by wolves.” He refocused his attention entirely onto Emma (she barely averted her eyes in time). “Let’s not waste more time on Leland, hm?”

“Let’s not,” agreed Emma with a thin smile.

XXXXX

For the remainder of the ride, Shaw peppered Emma with questions about ballet. She gleefully delved into the nuances of technique, all too happy to show off the depth of her knowledge and experience with the art. All throughout, Shaw seemed intrigued, and Emma couldn’t deny feeling a certain… appreciation… for his engagement.

The performance venue, when they arrived, bore all the understated elegance of the type of performance hall with the cachet to book the Bolshoi. Plentiful light streamed from brass chandeliers. Ultramarine carpet contrasted with the polished yellowheart wooden seats in the area for general admission, the plush cushions matching the carpet. Based on the shape of the room, Emma could tell the acoustics would be superb.

Naturally, Shaw had a box seat, one which looked down onto the stage from a high angle at stage-left. Two armchairs, even plusher than the general-admission seating, awaited side bey side, each with a small cherry-wood table on the opposite sides. One of those tables held a metal bucked filled with ice, from which protruded the neck of a clear glass bottle of white wine, along with two glasses beside the bucket. A program sat on each chair’s armrest.

Shaw gestured for Emma to sit first while he poured himself a glass. “Would you like a glass, Miss Frost? This sinsault rosé is quite refreshing, I find.”

“You keep offering me alcohol, Mr. Shaw. One might get the wrong idea about your intentions.” She began flipping idly through the program.

Shaw chuckled as he swirled the wine in his glass. “I merely intend to treat you like a lady of taste,” he replied.

“Perhaps you forget – I’m only eighteen,” Emma chided in a playful tone.

“If so, it’s because you carry yourself much more maturely. Besides,” he added with a snort, “at eighteen, you could by tobacco and a gun on your way home from voting or volunteering for one of the branches of the military. It’s absurd that the law prohibits you from consuming alcohol as well. Other countries – civilized countries – don’t draw such ridiculous distinctions.”

“So, you simply ignore laws you disagree with?” Emma looked up from the program, her attention now fixed on the holder of such a potentially dangerous position, though she still avoided making eye contact.

“Of course,” Shaw affirmed as he sat. “I find Thoreau quite persuasive on the topic. Don’t you?”

Emma thought for a bit before admitting, “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with his work.”

A smirk – one that Emma found a bit condescending – developed on Shaw’s face. “‘Civil Disobedience.’ Thoreau argues that we have no obligation to obey unjust or tyrannical laws.” The barest hint of self-deprecation appeared in his ensuing chuckle. “As far as I’m concerned, nearly every law is tyranny, as laws restrict one’s ability to pursue one’s own self-interest.”

Don’t you mean “selfish” interests? Emma wondered, though she wisely kept the thought to herself.

Her thoughts then took a somewhat unexpected turn: With all the special privileges I have at Bernhardt – not having to park in the freshman lot, not having to live in the dorms – I’m hardly in a position to judge. Jean’s commented on it several times. Before meeting her, though, I never would’ve questioned the justice of it; getting extra perks purely for being a Frost, or for having paid for them, was simply “how life works.”

The lights dimmed, and the orchestra began tuning, forestalling further conversation. The corps de ballet took their places on stage. Emma scooted to the edge of her seat, eager for the show to start.

XXXXX

At intermission, Emma excused herself to the ladies’ room. Naturally, Shaw’s top-dollar box seat had its own private restroom. She touched up her makeup before withdrawing her phone from her clutch to text her friend, as promised: < Still alive. Shaw’s behaved himself so far. Mostly. >

A few minutes later, her phone beeped with Jean’s reply: < Am relieved. Still, plz be careful. >

< Of course, darling. > Emma smiled to herself. < I’d much rather be here with you. >

< Of course. Darling. >

Emma rarely giggled, but that response elicited one.

XXXXX

After the finale, Shaw again peppered Emma with questions and observations about the performance. Again, Emma gleefully expounded about the flawless technique and artistry displayed. Shaw’s continued engagement, she admitted to herself, certainly feels much different from the shallow attention that came from the boys at the Labor Day party.

It also feels different from being with Jean. Not unpleasantly so…

Perplexing.

XXXXX

When the limo arrived at her apartment, Emma favored her date with a pleasant – and not un-genuine – smile. “Mr. Shaw, I simply must thank you for a lovely evening.”

Shaw inclined his head magnanimously. “You took the words from my mouth, Miss Frost.” He held out his hand for hers; when she extended it, he kissed the back of the upper parts of her fingers, near the knuckles.

“How gallant,” she teased, finding (to her shock) that her heart did flutter, just a bit, at the gesture.

That wolfish smile returned to Shaw’s face. “I hope you’ll permit me to call on you again?”

“Of course,” Emma replied, waiting a beat before pulling her hand away. “Especially if it’s the Bolshoi again.”

Shaw chuckled. “Variety is the spice of life, Miss Frost,” he replied in a low, conspiratorial tone, “so I prefer trying new things whenever I can.”

Emma swallowed; she hoped it hadn’t been noticeable. She debated whether to make eye contact, to see what, exactly, he’d meant by that remark; but she decided that she had inkling enough without seeing it in imagined detail. Aloud, she replied, “This was a lovely surprise, and I look forward to the next one.”

Shaw’s grin grew even more wolfish. “I’m so glad to hear that. Good night, Miss Frost.”

At that point, the chauffeur opened the door. Emma exited the vehicle. She maintained a totally normal, unperturbed gait, all the way to her door.

She’d wanted to run.

Once inside, she leaned against the closed door, shut her eyes, and breathed deeply to calm her racing heart.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

A/N: In the mainline continuity, Shaw and Emma have a relationship that's more than "just business," so I'll be exploring that a bit in this story. On some level, she is attracted to him, even if she also knows / thinks / understands that it's a bad idea. At least, in this story, she has a resource that her mainline counterpart didn't: Jean, and by extension the X-Men.