His laughter is unashamed. "So you snuck into a Gilded Room party. I have to say, this challenges my view of you."
"Terrific. Can we lose the nickname now?"
"No," he says. "I did wonder how you'd paid for membership on a trainee's salary… so this solves that conundrum."
"I didn't pay at all."
"A beauty membership after all," he muses. "Well… let me phrase it this way. If you end up receiving an invitation, will you go?"
I look up at him. He's watching me with practiced casualness, like my answer is nothing but a curiosity. But there's a burning interest in his eyes that he can't entirely mask.
He's going.
And he's asking if I'm going too.
My stomach locks into a fist of anticipation as want floods me. We're playing with fire, and I've always been careful. Always done the right thing.
But now I want to be burned. "I think I will," I tell him. "If I get an invitation, that is."
"Good to know," he says, smiling. "Maybe I'll see you there."
"Maybe you will… Tristan."
A thick, golden envelope is waiting for me when I get back from work a few days later. It's lying on my trodden doormat, innocuous. Like before, my address is written on it. Like before, my name isn't.
"Well, well… let's see what you have in store for me this time," I murmur, slicing it open with my finger. This is worth daring a paper cut for. I pull out an invitation printed on thick cardstock.
It's addressed to me.
Me, as in, Frederica Bilson. Not Rebecca Hartford.
I sink down onto my kitchen chair with the invitation still in hand. This has to be Tristan's doing-it has to be. Has he paid the fee for me? Pulled some strings with the selection committee?
My eyes scan the rest of the invitation.
Frederica Bilson,
It's December, and the holidays are just around the corner. You know what that means… a lot of gift-wrapping and bow-tying. Or untying. We know which one we prefer.
Join us at the Winter Hotel this coming Saturday. Leave your smartphone and inhibition at the door, and remember, anonymity is the currency that makes the world go round.
It feels like the invitation has a heartbeat of its own, and it's pounding just as fast as mine. Closing my eyes, I see Tristan's face in front of me, the way he'd looking sitting across from me in the dimly lit deli last week. Deep, blue eyes. Thick dark hair. Two-day-old beard along his square jaw. My stomach clenches at the idea of sleeping with him again. This time, we'll know each other. Who we are outside of the confines of the Gilded Room.
And we'd still be choosing one another.
I glance over at the dresser in my tiny room, at my shrine to success. My grandfather. My parents. My business books and my diploma.
Sleeping with a boss has never been the kind of move I want to make. I had once laughed at women who did that-I'd scorned it.
And yet here we are.
Tristan had been right, the arrogant bastard, when he said I'm afraid of dating. Somehow he'd found my weak spot and applied pressure to it, like he knew the ins and outs of me just by looking. It's the one realm of my life I've never managed to feel confident in. Where effort doesn't correlate to success, where I can't study my way to an A or work long hours to get a good performance review.
My fingers tighten around the invitation still in my hand. Perhaps I'm done being afraid.
Time to undo those laces.
When Saturday rolls around, I've repeated the same I'm-going-to-a-secret-elite-sex-club shower I did last time. Shaved. Scrubbed. Contemplated my life decisions. Blow-dried my hair.
The dress I'm wearing isn't remotely as revealing as last time… but it is tighter. It clings to my skin like a second one, deep red in color. It's a dress I'd bought with friends in Philadelphia, the kind your girlfriends say you have to get this! but you have absolutely no business wearing to work or bars.
Turns out I have just the occasion for it now.
I arrive at the Winter Hotel just as it begins to snow. The flakes fall gently from the dark sky, whirling to the sidewalk like heaven-sent crystals. I pause outside to catch a few in my gloved hand. I've always loved the snow. Has to be a good sign.
The elevator to the thirteenth floor is smooth and uninterrupted. I keep my eyes trailed on the monitor for each passing floor. I've learned how to conquer elevators. Philadelphia taught me how, but it's still a small mental hurdle every time, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I step out.
"Welcome," a smartly dressed woman in a suit says. She's not wearing anything beneath her blazer, the open V neatly covering her breasts.
"Thank you," I say, extending my invitation. She smiles as she looks it over.
"Welcome, Frederica. Do you have your mask with you?"
I pull it out of my clutch. "I do."
"Then you're good to go. Enjoy yourself." She pulls back a draped curtain and I step into the Winter's grand ballroom and enter a world of decadence.
I hand my phone to the attendant, barely looking at him as I receive my numbers. Because there's a giant catwalk in the middle of the ballroom, and walking on it are women draped in silk and pearls… and nothing else. Guests mingle around the catwalk, applauding, whistling. As I watch, a guest is pulled up by a performer, and she joins them without breaking stride, pulling off her dress as she walks down the runway.
The same thick, pulsing beat resonates from the speakers, and my nostrils fill with the scent of incense.
"Champagne?"
"Yes, thank you," I murmur, accepting a flute from a waiter's tray. In a daze, I move through the party in search of a tall, broad-shouldered man I have no business talking to.
I don't see him.
A woman sitting on a couch sees my roving gaze. She gives me a grin and runs her hand over her partner's hair. His hand is moving between her legs.
"Join us, honey?"
"Thank you, but I'm here with someone."
"Bring him too," she purrs.
Christ. "Maybe later, thank you."
She smiles. "Enjoy yourself, then. Let loose."