Dedicated to LadyLuna4eva—because you can hear the music in the words and dance to the melody. She's one of my favorite readers. =)

A/N: Hello, everyone! Thanks for poking your head here again to see what's next with Brandon and Charlotte. This chapter is still a big chunk of the Championettes Brunch but it's an important phase for Charlotte who will go from high to low to high throughout the next few scenes.

I hope you like this one. This story is a love story but somehow, it has grown to be a bit more—I think that many of us would like to be a little bit like Charlotte sometimes. She's not perfect but I personally think there's something about her that's full of heart and goodness that will continue to shine through no matter what.

As always, please vote and comment! And listen to the chapter soundtrack—it's been my constant favorite all month! =)

***

The official induction of officers and members felt like a graduation ceremony.

Names were called up on stage and people got handed some rolled-up certificates. Everyone applauded, and the valedictorian (Layla, in this case, although she got an F in Playing-With-Other-Kids-In-The-Sandbox class) did a pretty speech.

Like graduation, the ceremony heralded the start of something new (because weren't endings simply new beginnings, anyway? Like the half-full, half-empty glass of milk mentality) and in my case, it was the start of what I would dub from this day forward as 'The Charlotte Conspiracy'.

A series of little accidents besieged me.

While I wasn’t the queen of subtlety myself, I would at least be smart enough not to be so obvious about sabotaging somebody—unless the point was to make it known that they were being sabotaged and hope that it would be enough to send them packing.

First, there was the cranberry punch someone spilled on my back on their way to their table before the ceremony started.

It splashed on my hair, shoulders and back because I was seated when the person stumbled past me.

Brandon jumped out of his seat, grabbing a table cloth to dry me but I simply groaned under my breath and calmly dried myself.

I didn't know at that time that these little accidents I was about to have weren't very 'accidental' after all. Thanks to fate, their plan to send me up the stage with a giant red stain on my dress was thwarted by the fact that I was already wearing a red dress. Someone should've brought a different color of Kool-Aid.

Since my bun was quite soaked and I didn't have time to run to the powder room to fix the mess before I was called up onstage, I just unpinned my hair and shook it loose.

My dark blond hair tumbled in wild, springy waves around me (the spackle that held it together was coming apart from the moisture), and the most I could do with it was tousle it quickly with my fingers so I didn't totally look like a science project on static electricity—or one made of plaster of paris.

Brandon reassured me I still looked great with that bedhead-after-a-night-of-heavy-sex effect.

I snorted and told him I didn't really relish have everyone speculate on my nocturnal activities. It felt oddly voyeuristic.

Anyway, on my way to the stage, someone accidentally dropped their gooey custard cake on the ground just as I was about to take a step forward.

I either had to stick my foot in the mush or lose my balance and break an ankle.

I winced at the mess but tried to keep walking.

Whatever was on that custard though sure as hell wasn’t caramel. Probably some kind of amber-colored epoxy because my shoe kept sticking as I took a few more steps forward.

People were waiting impatiently for me to make it to the stage and were craning their necks to see why I was taking so long.

I kept a smile on my face as I limped my way over.

Frustrated, I finally slipped off my strappy heels, balancing myself with one palm on the ground with my bum in the air.

Thank God my dress had a couple of inches to spare on the hemline or I would be flashing all these people my goods.

As soon as shoes were off, I grabbed them and practically sprinted to the stage to get my certificate—yes, barefoot.

There was a puzzled hush when I came up to take my certificate from Layla who was handing them out—a murmur of mixed amusement and disapproval rippling through the audience.

This was tricky.

Everyone who was invited here today was either associated to a Championette by family or romantic ties, or an important current or prospective benefactor the Society was trying to secure for this year’s projects.

I could make or break the group’s future with what I do—or don’t do—next.

I caught sight of Brandon’s face. He was frowning as he started to rise from his seat.

Stand back, white knight. Damsel’s got balls—or whatever similar metaphor there is that’s more anatomically correct.

I smiled my most brilliant smile and shrugged my shoulders, lifting my shoes in full view of everyone. “My Granny Ferris always said, why wear high heels to reach high when you can run barefoot, take off and fly?”

I turned to Layla and dipped my head demurely before turning back to the audience again and executing a graceful curtsy. “We, Championettes, may walk around in high heels a lot, but you can sure as hell trust that they won’t stop us from taking our causes to new heights—even if we have to occasionally do it barefoot.”

The burst of good-natured laughter—mostly from the men—surprised me, but a few in the audience started clapping and the rest followed—even those who didn’t look like they appreciated my good-humored metaphor.

I inwardly sighed.

No wonder the geniuses are considered oddities, and the gifted as anomalies—with so many rules, mediocrity seems to be the only means of acceptance nowadays. I pity humankind.

As nice as it was to have approval as a contagious thing, I’d rather people stuck to their convictions and be persuaded on their own.

Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth—take it and ride off into the sunset.

I grinned at everyone before turning to walk down the stage.

If I thought I got away practically scot-free (except for my ruined shoes which Armina would certainly weep over) from those two little accidents, I was wrong.

There were more in store.

I cleaned the glue off the sole of my shoe until it wasn’t as sticky anymore. When Brandon asked what happened, I just told him I stepped on some custard cake.

I didn’t want him to challenge anyone to a duel today.

I didn’t do bloodshed well, even in a red dress and killer heels, pun intended.

I was also determined not to make a mess that Melissa would have to clean up so I decided to put it behind me and make the most of the day.

The actual brunch part of the whole event finally commenced because, really, how many kinds of appetizers could you feed people in a darned brunch?

Anyway, the next thing I encountered was the hairball under my crepe.

I said nothing and simply handed the plate back discreetly to the server to ask for another one.

It wasn’t until the second plate arrived that I became fully convinced something was up.

The second plate had worcestershire sauce instead of caramel sauce. I could smell it easily enough that I didn’t have to taste the damned thing.

At least it wasn’t epoxy this time—that would’ve shut me up good.

Next, I found a couple of earthworms in my empty tea cup.

Worms, really? What are we? Four? Aren’t villains supposed to have a little more creativity than this? Trevor from second grade showed a little more imagination.

I waited until Brandon got distracted by a server filling his water before I tipped my cup over into one of the tiny flower pots that served as centerpieces on our table, depositing the worms on the soil.

Enjoy, my friends. Who knows where you’re turning up next? Life is uncertain—play in the mud. Smell the flowers. Leave the literal earth a better place for the life that comes after you.

The older woman to my right—Mrs. Pink Flamingo—caught me and gave me a sharp look.

“What are you doing, young lady?”

I flashed her a guilty smile as I slowly withdrew my now-earthworm-free cup away from the pot. “Just giving these lovely peonies a little refresher, that’s all. Tea is full of antioxidants, you know?”

The woman didn’t look convinced but she didn’t outwardly call me out for it. She just gave me a speculative look. “You’re a very unusual young woman.”

I glanced at her name card on the table, just beyond her plate—Mrs. Ellen Rossiter.

The last name sounded familiar. She was the wife of an ambassador of something but she came alone so I couldn’t figure out who her husband was and what he did. Without Felicity’s assistance, I was helpless with all these important titles and positions. Maybe because they usually didn’t matter to me.

“That’s one of the nicer things I’ve been called,” I told her with a mild snort. “I’ll take it.”

I was irritable enough that if Mrs. Rossiter decided to get on my case too, I was going to need to walk away to avoid being rude. But the woman’s brow arched and her expression quirked with reluctant amusement.

“You’re a little rough around the edges,” she said softly. “Just like any diamond before it’s polished to shine. I enjoyed your little speech earlier—even when you weren’t supposed to give one. It shows daring and grace and something that’s lost with the new generation—genuine optimism. The Championettes could certainly use some of that.”

Her praise caught me off guard that for a moment, I just stared at her.

Then I broke into a grin, a sense of self-satisfaction rushing through me. “Thank you, Mrs. Rossiter. Growing up poor and neglected taught me a few things, one of them being that in the face of miserable circumstances, you have two options—resigning yourself to fate or persevering in the hope of something better. If I have optimism, it’s because I wanted to live. Giving up meant a sure and swift death of my spirit so the choice had been easy.”

“As for my optimism,” Brandon butted in after he turned his attention back to me just as I was speaking to the older woman. “She is the reason for it.”

I rolled my eyes, fighting my warming cheeks. “Only because he grew up neither poor nor neglected. The very unfortunate man has no other alternative.”

The woman actually smiled this time. “Well, you have something else going for you, young one. You’re also so obviously in love. No wonder you’re happy.”

“Damn right, she is,” Brandon murmured against my ear just as he pressed a kiss on my temple.

I laughed but jabbed him a little on the side. “Don’t curse, Brand. Not in front of a lady. Not me, of course. I don’t count.”

“You are a lady,” Brandon insisted, turning to Mrs. Rossiter. “She’s a lady, isn’t she, Mrs. Rossiter? She’s got spunk but she’s every inch a lady.”

The older woman looked clearly amused by us now. “Why should she aspire being just a lady when she can be legendary instead?”

You can be legendary two ways—a total success or an epic failure. I'm hovering over the line.

“Hmm, I do like the sound of that better,” Brandon said, glancing at me, his eyes dancing. “I agree with Mrs. Rossiter, honey. You’ve got a higher calling.”

I groaned and laughed at the same time. “Stop, you two. My head is swelling up and if it explodes, I’ll be a different kind of legendary altogether.”

Mrs. Rossiter chuckled. “Alright, we’ll stop pressuring you with expectations. But I think you’ve got a lot of potential, Charlotte. I would be happy to help, should you ever need it. My husband is often away on official business so I’ve been mostly spending my time doing charity aid projects. I can give you a hand.”

“Really?” I asked excitedly. “But wait, why aren’t you a Championette?”

“I've been invited several times to join but my husband is always traveling, and I sometimes need to go with him on very short notice so I couldn’t commit,” she explained. “He’s retiring next year though so we’re going to be settling in Boston full-time. For now, I can lend you a hand here and there.”

Despite the calamity of my hair-soaking, my ruined shoe, my unplanned speech, and the disgusting things I’ve been served along with my food, I felt better.

I felt like I made an ally in Mrs. Rossiter and in times like this, I could never have too many allies.

***

Once the main brunch had been served and people started to wander to different tables to socialize over biscuits and tea (inspired by a British tradition called elevenses—as it was a little past eleven), I decided to sneak out and repair myself before I made my rounds.

Jake came over to our table to chat and I left him with Brandon while I dashed to the powder room which was inside the main house.

Despite my notoriety, I was amazingly stopped by a few people on my way over.

I thought that people mostly wanted to talk to Brandon and just merely smiled at me because I was pinned to his side so to have them approach me and talk to me like they actually cared about what I had to say caught me off guard.

And most of them were shockingly nice.

Shockingly because I already assumed that most rich people would always just turn their noses up at me.

There’s a lesson for you. You expected Brandon not generalize you along with every impoverished young woman out there who’s out to trap him for his money while you staunchly declared that everyone in his circle was insipid and shallow. You were just as presumptive as he was.

After doing this gig as Mrs. Maxfield for over two weeks now, I was discovering that just like the general population, the rich and elite didn’t always fit the stereotype.

Labels—they’re best used on commodities, not people.

The cynical, sarcastic side of me was guilty of using them all the time.

It was hard to shake them off, with generation after generation of habits layered over each other, but if I could start with one, surely in time, I would be able to strip away most of them.

So I stopped and conversed and genuinely took interest in the people who approached me.

I had just turned away from the owner of a local luxury hotel when Francis materialized next to me—the way bats, ravens and vampires would from a misty haze in a macabre movie. Okay, maybe not quite that way.

I reminded myself of labels but I didn’t really assign one to Francis—he just donned it on his own and proved the label fitting every time I had the misfortune of encountering him.

He had a faint mocking smile on his face as he sipped his drink and stared down at me.

“Networking, I see,” he said, a hint of snide in his voice. “Trying to get your claws into as many possible victims as possible, in other words.”

I smiled sweetly at him. “Why don’t you let me get mine into you so I can reach for your heart and rip it out? Oh, wait. You don't have one of those.”

A smile twitched on his mouth that for a moment I thought he was truly amused. But he schooled his expression back into frosty indifference, eyes narrowing slightly.

"You know, Charlotte, others might admire you for your brashness but if you're not careful, it'll lead you to a lot of trouble," he said meaningfully.

I shrugged. "Brash or not, I don't think it makes one whit of difference. I could be as close-lipped as a china doll and I'd still get into a lot of trouble. I'm afraid my blood just isn't blue enough for some things."

My righteous resolve about labels crumbled like sandcastles—or a badly-baked gingerbread house.

Sometimes, the only way to fight back is to fight dirty.

"And you worsen your situation by provoking people to no end," Francis replied, disapproval clear on his face now. "You can't afford enemies yet you're courting all the ones who can trample you with little effort."

My chin thrust up in challenge. "I may just be a mere pebble but I'm the pebble in your shoe—the more determined you are to step on me, the deeper I dig into your foot until you're blistered and bleeding."

His gaze lingered on me with disquieting intensity that almost made me squirm. I could practically hear him plotting in his mind.

"We'll see about that," he said. "Live your fairy tale for as long as you can but be certain of one thing—it always ends, and it's always fiction."

I gave him a bold smile. "It's always fiction to those unfortunate who have never lived one their entire life. It almost makes me feel sorry for you."

He scowled. "I don't care for your pity, Charlotte. If there's anyone who will have all this mess heaped over her head, it's you. Back off or buck up."

My shoulders squared as I faced him off in sheer defiance. "Bring it on."

And with that, I turned on my heel and strode away, sparing Francis no backward glance.

I didn’t have to see his face to know that he was probably staring after me in disdain—as if I were something uncouth—a wild animal.

The thing about wild animals is that they act purely on instinct. Threaten them, their home, and their family, and you’ll get ripped into shreds.

Francis held a very important ace but he was yet to play his hand.

I was still unclear on his agenda—except to constantly vex Brandon, and me, by extension.

To what end was still a puzzle.

Francis didn’t strike me as completely evil—merely opportunistic to gain an advantage even through unpleasant means.

Absolute evil was just evil for kicks.

Either way, I’m standing my ground. Now that I have so much to lose, I can't afford not to fight.

With a sense of fearlessness filling my spine with steel, I pulled myself straighter, marching forward with renewed determination to protect and fight for everything I have.

A few women were just exiting the powder room when I came in so I was relieved for the privacy as I hunched in front of the mirror to try to make sense of my tangled hair.

The sight of it made my heart sink a bit.

The hair product made some chunks of the wild curls stiff, and my eyes watered as I tried to run my fingers through the coils to loosen them somehow.

It took about half an hour and a few pitying stares from women who’d come and gone into the room to do their business, to make the most of what I could of my hair.

“I might cause Clyde a trip to the psych ward when he sees my pictures in the paper,” I murmured, resigned to the fact that the morning-after-wild-sex-during-a-crazy-concert-party-look was the best my hair could manage.

I studied my face in the mirror and decided that I didn’t look too bad.

A little unruly but passable—if you didn’t mind the mussed-up hairstyle.

Accept it, Charlotte. Some women are just born with it all—gorgeous genes, grace and the good luck not to be targeted by overzealous Laylalistas.

I normally wasn’t so hard on myself about lacking in some things but then I didn’t often find myself measured up against someone like Simone Clark, for example, who must’ve been born without a single baby hair out of place.