Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
"Mrs. Bessant, always a pleasure."
Nearby, a woman in an emerald-green gown laughs with a group, and I realize with a jolt it's Anne Hathaway, her dark hair swept into an elegant chignon, chatting animatedly. All around are people I've only ever seen on TV screens or magazine covers, and now they’re close enough to touch. It makes this world I’m temporarily occupying feel even more surreal. In a way, it feels like I've stepped into a dream that's equal parts thrilling and terrifying. Any moment I could trip up and….
Blake pulls out my chair at our table. I sink into the seat, the silk of my gown sliding against the upholstered cushion, and he settles beside me.
"Want a drink?" he asks, his voice low.
Before I can respond, he reaches for a flute of champagne from a waiter’s tray. It's a bit rude. His assumption of what I would want. The casual dominance makes me bristle inwardly, but I stop myself. Of course, he knows what Carolyn wants. I give him a small smile as I take the proffered glass. At any rate, he’s not mine, I remind myself, so there’s no need to rock the boat especially in this sea of watchful eyes.
I lift the champagne to my lips and take a tentative sip. The crisp, effervescent bubbles burst on my tongue. Ooo, delicious, and then it hits me like a cold splash. Carolyn doesn't drink champagne. The memory floods back from the lessons, her voice in my ear during training: "I stick to red wine or scotch. Champagne gives me headaches."
Panic surges, my throat tightening as the fizz lingers, and I freeze, the glass hovering near my mouth. Oh God, should I push it away? Make some excuse? My mind races, nerves twisting in my gut like a knot I can't untie. Will he notice? Is this the slip that unravels everything?
I glance at him sidelong, seeing his eyes on me already, that intense gray gaze steady and probing, and my pulse hammers harder, wondering if he's on to me, if every little inconsistency is stacking up in his mind like evidence. This makes me so nervous, my fingers trembling slightly on the stem, the whole charade feeling fragile under his scrutiny.
I think for a moment, shaking my head internally—no, don't draw attention; play it cool—and instead, I set the champagne down gently, reaching for a nearby bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon from Opus One, the label sleek and dark. I pour myself a glass with hands that aren't quite steady, the rich ruby liquid swirling. All the while, I can feel his eyes lingering on me, that unwavering stare making my skin prickle and heat bloom under my gown as I wonder again if he's piecing all the inconsistencies together, if my every move is screaming imposter.
The whole function makes me nervous. Overwhelmed, really. My stomach churns as I scan the room, and spot more faces that belong on screens. Dave Chapelle is at a nearby table, his easy smile flashing as he chats with a group of environmental activists, and across the hall, Governor Kathy Hochul is laughing and mingling with celebrities. All of them are air-kissing and networking as if this is just another Friday.
I have no idea what I'm doing here, my mind blanking on the etiquette Carolyn drilled into me. Do I laugh at their jokes? Nod knowingly at their references to Davos or the Hamptons? Suddenly, I can't wait for all this to be over. What started as an adventure now seems more like a nightmare than anything else. The weight of my deception presses down, making a headache throb faintly at my temples. Even the jewels at my throat now feel like a noose.
The function starts then. The lights dim as the orchestra takes the stage. A chamber ensemble from the New York Philharmonic, their instruments gleaming under spotlights. A grand piano at the center. They launch into a performance of Vivaldi's "Four Seasons," the strings swelling with vibrant energy, the notes cascading through the hall.
I lean back in my chair, letting the music wash over me, the violin's melody soaring high and sweet, evoking images of blooming gardens and gentle rains—it's beautiful, transporting, and for the first time tonight, I enjoy something fully, my nerves easing as the piece builds to its crescendo. Applause ripples through the crowd when it ends.
The first course is served soon after. Waiters in crisp white and black uniforms glide between tables with plates of seared foie gras and rich torchon ham on top of tiny squares of brioche toast. The main course that follows is herb-crusted rack of lamb with minted pea purée. The meat is tender and pink, its juices mingling with a Bordeaux reduction, but I can’t eat much on account of the dress, the fitted bodice constricting my ribs with every breath. All I can do is push the food around my plate and take tiny bites that barely satisfy me.