Chapter 15

The following morning, I stepped out of my room wearing the only monochrome suit I owned: An all-white number which pulled together a draped jacket, matched over wide-leg pants and a pair of Louboutin stilettoes that I’d splurged on back home in New York.

They were the most expensive pair of shoes I owned, and even though watching the amount of money they’d cost vanish from my account had almost knocked me straight into unconsciousness—I’d known they were a good investment as soon as they arrived, and I put them on.

It was an outfit that Paula had helped me put together, and coupled with my bold red lipstick and hair which I’d had cut into a bob few days prior, I looked (in my humble opinion, at least) every bit the Parisian it girl/business woman, which was the desired effect that I’d been going for.

The look on Elijah’s face as soon as he laid eyes on me was all the proof I needed that I was on the right path, and as his eyes slid down my length, taking me in in my entirety, I realized for the first time that save a silver Rolex on his wrist and the white shirt he had on beneath his vest he was dressed from head to toe in black, which meant that whether we liked it or not we were a matching pair.

Somehow, I found the thought of this did not give rise to small flutter waves of panic. On the contrary, I rather liked it.

“Would you like some breakfast?” I asked when he said nothing, continuing his visual assessment of me. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and with much difficulty he eventually managed to pull his eyes up until our gazes were level.

“I already ate this morning right after my workout.”

He swallowed again, stopping for a moment to place his phone face down on the countertop. We had about an hour left to kill before the conference was set to start, and the hotel that’d been set to host it was only a few blocks away from the Du Pont.

“You look”—his brows furrowed slightly as he squinted—“different.”

A moment of insecurity reared its head up at his words, and I grimaced, looking away from him as I felt my face color.

“Different?” I inquired conversationally even as every fiber of my being demanded that the floor beneath me cave in on itself so I could just fucking die. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” Elijah interrupted before I’d even finished asking. “It means I think you’re beautiful today, which doesn’t mean I don’t always think that you’re beautiful, because I do. Just that today you are especially so.”

His words fell into a void of silence broken only by the sounds we made as we breathed, and as our gazes met again I noticed that the tips of his ears had started to turn red before he looked away, swallowing uncomfortably.

It was hard to reconcile the Elijah before me with the one I’d come to expect from New York, or even the one I’d seen yesterday—French playboy, and all—as where usually he was always so self-assured, now, standing in front of me with his hands flapping back and forth just as they’d been doing yesterday, he appeared more vulnerable than I’d ever seen him. It was like watching a Lion go from zero to a hundred, except in reverse. My head was spinning.

I refused to let my mind dwell on how he’d let slip the fact that he found me beautiful, sending him a smile which he hesitantly returned before I brushed past, rummaging through the pantry until I happened upon several boxes of cereal.

Grabbing one of them, I retrieved a gallon of milk from the fridge before setting around to getting my breakfast ready, because while like most of the human race I turned down food when I got nervous, funnily enough the thought of how in just an hour I would be within walking distance of some of the most prolific industrialists in the world (some of whom I’d even read about back in college) didn’t faze me, and this lack of fear was enough to make sure this girl had worked up a ravenous appetite.

I tucked in, careful to ensure that my lipstick did not smudge and at the same time aware of Elijah, whose eyes followed my every motion, so that by my second bite of fruit loops I started to feel self-conscious.

“Could you please look away?” It was a fight to hold back the strain that threatened to creep into my voice that’d come by as a result of his scrutiny. Eventually, however, it won out.

“It’s breakfast, Mr. Wilder,” I snapped, unable to stop myself. “Not a Nat Geo documentary.”

As soon as the words flew out of my mouth I knew that I’d made a mistake, as the air of open wonder he’d had about him immediately disappeared. His expression turned wounded, then it smoothened out and he apologized, straightening wordlessly.

“I’ll wait downstairs,” Elijah said, throwing a quick glance at his wristwatch as he excused himself, and when the door shut behind him it felt like all the warmth in the room had been sucked out.

In the silence that followed, I forced down mouthful after mouthful of cereal down my throat even though I’d lost my appetite, and after rinsing out the bowl I grabbed the blue-black binder I’d had prepared for today and walked out, wondering if an apology would be the right move.

Technically, I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong, and perhaps it was my anxiety talking and how I hated confrontations of any kind as a rule. Or maybe it was true remorse.

I didn’t know which, but it hardly mattered since it would take a lie greater than I could’ve managed to explain away the hurt I felt at how I hadn’t been aware of the fact that Elijah had started to thaw towards me, until he backed up and froze right back.

•

Here was a secret that the one percent did not want you to find out about: Money talked, but wealth didn’t whisper—it screamed.

It screamed with every silent turn of the wheels of a Rolls-Royce, and at private showings during Fashion Week, where models strutted over runways in dresses only two thousand women in the world could afford. It screamed in country club memberships and yacht parties, a closetful of Manolos, $17,000 Rolexes, etc. It was never quiet, but the hard part lay in keeping your ears out for all the right notes.

A symphony started up as soon as I stepped out of the backseat and onto the paved curbs in front of Sanctuaire Caché—another one of Paris’s most popular hotels, though this year it hosted the business conference—a symphony started and wouldn’t let up.

It felt like watching a younger, less glamorous sibling of the Grammys or something, as a small group of camera men called out to most of the suited attendees in a mix of French and English, asking for a quick picture, a pose, a word, anything.

I’d made time in the middle of my meltdown to look up the conference in question and knew that it was kind of a big deal as entire trade policies had come into fruition from mere discussions carried out over a session or two—but nothing could’ve prepared me for the real deal, and as I took in the scene before me I could feel my heart begin to race uncomfortably.

The men in their three pieces looked like movie stars, of course, but a quick glance through informed me of what I’d already suspected: There were hardly any women around, and the few I spotted were conservatively dressed in midi dresses and or suit skirts and low pumps, with not a flash of cleavage in sight.

They looked like they devoured copies of The Economist and were capable of great things. They looked used to being taken seriously, and even though I happened to be all of the above mentioned save the last, the sight of so many eyes casually dismissing me after a cursory glance in my direction was like nothing I’d experienced in my life before.

The contents of my stomach turned unpleasantly, my limbs froze, and I blinked, trapped in my own body as voices in my head clamored over themselves to remind me that I was a fraud, and the only reason I’d even made it this far was probably because my boss thought I was a good lay. Pretty soon he’d get tired of me just as David had.

My intrusive thoughts didn’t disappear when I felt Elijah come to stand beside me, not even when he leaned down and spoke so low it was any miracle I even caught his words.

“The first few times were the hardest.” I looked into his disconcertingly clear irises, and saw that at a small, optimistic smile played at the corner of his mouth. “The camera shutters, the crowds—everything felt amplified; too hot, too painful, too much. I wasn’t sure I could cope.”

I clung desperately to the lifeboat his words and the resonant hum of his baritone promised.

“So I devised a plan,” Elijah continued. “I’d get in as quickly as possible, and as soon as that happened I’d grab a moment to myself and find something to drink, maybe loosen my tie, get rid of my jacket, anything.” He paused to clear his throat.

“After a while, the world would start to feel a little less on fire.”

Elijah sent me an enigmatic look which lingered for longer than it should have in public, before stepping away out of my personal space.

“Are you okay?” he asked, like he hadn’t just shared something personal that made me want to cuss out and ask if he was okay.

After a prolonged moment I nodded even though I didn’t think I was completely out of the woods yet.

“The press always kicks up a fuss on day one,” he reassured again, “but after that things mellow out.”

We’d stood on the curbs for close to three minutes now, and I could see necks craning to look in our direction perhaps, I thought half-jokingly, pulled in by Elijah and the orbit of gravity he seemed to carry around with him everywhere he went.

I was gearing myself up to apologize for how I’d snapped at him earlier when without warning he peeled himself off the Bentley and I mirrored him, straightening as he took a moment to adjust his cufflinks before advancing forward.

For a second I remained back, and the inappropriate thought of how great his ass looked in those pants (God bless his tailor!) flashed through my mind but I ignored it, clutching the binder tighter as I dashed behind him and hoped that there was nothing in my expression to give away how I’d just been having very risqué thoughts about my boss’s derrière.

Within an instant I walked a half-step behind him, and maybe it was just coincidence but when we arrived at the cameras Elijah angled his body to mine in an almost protective manner, shielding me from as many eyes as he could manage in such an impromptu situation until finally we stood in the lobby of the hotel, where we were greeted by ushers who recognized Elijah as soon as he stepped in.

We had on our ID tags, which had been mailed months in advance to the Wilkinson headquarters, and as they lead us on to our respective seats I felt my palm start to turn sweaty at the thought that Elijah and I wouldn’t be occupying the same seats.

Most of the big shots sat together as the conference was a socializing tactic as much as it was an opportunity for some of the brightest minds in the business world to come together and share ideas.

Back in New York I’d looked at this as some sort of small reprieve from Elijah, a chance to face my work without having to worry about being under his never-ending scrutiny. But something must’ve changed in the last twenty-four hours because I did not want to be away from him.

Somehow in the face of our time together I’d let Elijah get under my skin, let him become a crutch I used to navigate unfamiliar spaces—and the ease with which it’d all come about was staggering to me.

The thing about anxiety was that it made it extremely difficult to trust people or let them in. You could tell yourself that you’d let this person in for long enough to believe it, but putting it to a test was the only sure way to know if it was true or not.

I’d told myself that I trusted David, for example, but as soon as I found out about his cheating I’d interviewed for jobs, booked a ticket to New York, packed my bags, and left. Real love weathered a lot of storms, I knew, and I had no doubts that as he’d cried in our apartment, saying he loved me even as I readied myself to leave, that he’d believed what he was saying. David had always been very straightforward, very solid, and after all it was the first time (or at least the first time he’d gotten sloppy enough that I caught him.)

A more optimistic woman could’ve put aside her hurt to gather him in her arms, run her fingers through his hair and soothe away his tears, but I that had never been in my nature.

My disorder provided no room for forgiveness or mistakes in most cases, and just the fact that he’d cheated once would be more than enough to cast a shadow over the course of our relationship for a very long time, if not personally, which meant that I’d be looking forward to years of paranoia at my own expense, which wouldn’t be fair to us.

Leaving David had hurt, but looking back, I realized that staying could’ve very well killed me. Now, months later I was playing the role of the other woman and letting Elijah Wilder in like the little fool I was.

How much more stupid could I get?

I felt the weight of his gaze land on me when the time came for us to be separated but I studiously ignored it, looking over my binder like I was checking to see if I’d forgotten something as if I hadn’t meticulously put it together the night before.

A moment passed and then he called my name, uttering it the way you would a broken prayer—but I carried on, pretending I hadn’t heard.