The last few people paired off, and it was Ian that met her eyes and sauntered over.  She looked him up and down, pulling back up to match his small smile with one of her own. Not bad, at least he wasn’t pockmarked with acne like theater boy over there. Emmeline was unabashedly vain and liked her things pretty. It was an ugly trait, but she didn't see it that way.<span style="font-style: italic">Everyone</span>liked their things pretty. They just were too weak to own it.<br/><br/>“Emmeline, right?”<br/><br/>She inclined her head slightly. “Aaaand, Ian.”  She clicked her fingers, trying to shake away boredom as Dorsey gave the assignment. She sighed when it was over, her and Ian glancing back and forth in that awkward dance of 'are we partners or not.'<br/><br/>“I guess I’ll go first?” he asked.<br/><br/>“By all means,” Emmeline gestured for him to do so, but her attention seemed elsewhere, her eyes darting around the room to watch everyone else's attempts. She didn't want to be here now. This was stupid, and these childish practice games were so beneath her. But fine. She’d bite. She’d try. And then she’d prove Stanley wrong, this place has nothing to offer her; he’s blowing his money for her on the wrong things.<br/><br/><br/>“I have a younger sister named Abigail. I believe that romantic comedies are the devil. And I’m a serial killer.”<br/><br/>Emmeline blinked. He had her full attention. She studied him, her expression unreadable. She snorted. “Lier, you don’t have a sister.” She shook her head dismissively, her lips stretching into a smile she was only half masking.  It happened so fast and unconsciously, but the first impression that this was place wasn't for her changed the stakes for her. In this case, she had none. And when she had none? She became dangerously f*ckless. Two could play this game.<br/><br/>“I like chocolate.” Lie. “I’m from Brooklyn.” Truth, yet where was the accent? “And I’m a prostitute.” Truth.<br/><br/>She cocked a brow at him.