Chapter 49 Lorelei’s Engagement Party
I arrived late. Naturally.
I parked my car near the service entrance, away from the valet line where Bentleys and limousines were disgorging the city’s elite.
I was wearing the red dress.
It was a floor-length gown of crimson silk, with a slit that went up to my hip and a neckline that plunged dangerously low. It was bold. It was aggressive. It was the dress of a woman who wasn't afraid to bleed.
I walked into the foyer.
The party was in full swing. A string quartet played in the corner. Waiters circulated with champagne. The room was a sea of tuxedos and designer gowns.
I saw Lorelei immediately.
She was standing near the grand staircase, holding court. She was wearing white—a lace gown that looked suspiciously bridal. Tristan stood next to her.
He looked miserable.
He was wearing a black tuxedo, his face pale, his eyes scanning the crowd.
When I walked in, the room quieted.
Not completely—the music played on—but a ripple of silence spread from the door as people noticed me. They noticed the red dress. They noticed the bruise on my neck that I hadn't bothered to cover.
Tristan saw me.
His eyes widened. He took a step forward, as if to come to me, but Lorelei placed a hand on his arm.
I smiled. I walked through the crowd. People parted for me. I heard the whispers.
I ignored them. I walked straight to the bar.
"Gin martini," I told the bartender. "Straight up. Three olives."
"Minerva."
I turned.
Agatha stood there. She was wearing purple taffeta again, looking like a regal bruise.
"You came," she said, her voice tight.
"I wouldn't miss it, Agatha. It’s not every day my ex-husband gets engaged to a woman who thinks 'safe' is a personality trait."
Agatha’s lips thinned. "This is a family event. Do not make a scene."
"I am the scene, Agatha." I took my drink from the bartender. "Besides, I’m just here to inspect the load-bearing capacity of the dance floor. You have a lot of... weight... in this room."
Agatha glared at me, then turned and marched away.
I sipped my drink. I watched Tristan.
He was trapped. Senator Vance had cornered him near the fireplace, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. Lorelei was beaming, showing off a ring that looked heavy enough to sink a ship.
But Tristan wasn't looking at the ring. He was looking at me.
His gaze burned across the room.
Save me.
I raised my glass to him.
Save yourself.
The speeches began at 9:00 PM.
Senator Vance took the microphone. He stood on the landing of the staircase, beaming down at the crowd.
"Friends, colleagues," he boomed. "We are gathered here to celebrate a union. A union of two great families. My daughter, Lorelei, and Tristan Johnston."
"Tristan," the Senator continued, gesturing for him to come up. "Come here, son. Say a few words."
Tristan walked up the stairs. He moved stiffly, like a marionette.
He took the microphone. He looked out at the crowd.
He looked at Lorelei, who was gazing up at him with adoration.
He looked at Agatha, who was nodding encouragingly.
And then he looked at me.
I was standing at the back of the room, leaning against a pillar. The red dress was a beacon in the sea of black and white.
I just watched. Tristan took a deep breath.
"Thank you, Senator," he said. His voice echoed in the high ceiling. "Thank you all for coming."
He paused.
"Lorelei," he said, looking down at her. "You are... a remarkable woman. You are kind. You are patient. You are everything a man should want."
Lorelei’s smile widened.
"But," Tristan said.
The smile faltered.
"But I can't do this," he said.
A gasp rippled through the room.
"Tristan?" Agatha hissed from the front row.
"I can't marry you, Lorelei," Tristan said, his voice gaining strength. "I can't pretend that this is right. I can't pretend that I'm... safe."
He looked up. He looked directly at me.
"I don't want safe," he said. "I want real. I want the fire. Even if it burns me."
The room erupted.
Whispers. Shouts. The Senator turned purple.
Lorelei stood frozen at the bottom of the stairs. Her face crumbled.
"Tristan!" she cried. "What are you doing?"
"I'm apologizing," he said. "To you. For wasting your time. And to myself... for lying."
He put the microphone down on the banister. He walked down the stairs.
He walked past Lorelei. He walked past the Senator. He walked past Agatha.
He walked straight to me. The crowd parted.
He stopped in front of me. He was breathing hard.
"I did it," he whispered.
"You did," I said.
"I chose."
"You did."
"Now what?" he asked.
I didn't answer him, I just hold his hand.
But before we could move, Lorelei moved.
She screamed.
She ran across the room. She grabbed a glass of red wine from a waiter’s tray.
And she threw it.
Not at Tristan.
At me.
The wine hit my chest. It splashed across the red silk.
But unlike the silver dress... this dress was red.
The wine blended in. It disappeared.
I looked down at the wet spot. Then I looked up at Lorelei.
Lorelei stared at me. Her chest heaved.
Then, she slapped Tristan.
The sound echoed through the silent room.
Tristan didn't flinch. He took the slap. He stood there, his cheek turning red, looking at her with pity.
"I deserved that," he said.
"You go to hell!" Lorelei screamed. "Both of you! You deserve each other!"
She turned and ran out of the room, sobbing.
The Senator marched up to Tristan.
"You have made a powerful enemy tonight, Johnston," he spat.
"Get in line," Tristan said calmly.
The Senator stormed out. Agatha followed him, looking like she was about to have a stroke.
The guests stood there, unsure of what to do.
Tristan turned to me.
"Let’s go," he said.
He took my hand.
And we walked out of the engagement party together.
We didn't go far.
We walked out to the terrace. The night air was cool. The fog had lifted, revealing a sky full of stars.
We stood by the stone railing, looking out at the gardens.
"You caused a scene," I said.
He turned to me. He touched the wet spot on my dress.
"I ruined your dress."
"It’s fine," I said. "It’s resilient."
"Like you."
He leaned in. He rested his forehead against mine.
"I passed the test," he whispered.
"You did."
"So... can I kiss you now?"
I looked at him. I looked at the man who had just blown up his life for me.
"No," I said.
He pulled back, confused. "No?"
"Not here," I said. "Not in this house. Not tonight."
"Then where?"
I smiled.
"My place," I said. "My apartment. Tonight."
His eyes darkened.
"Your apartment?"
"Yes. Just us."
He nodded. "Okay. Your apartment."
"But Tristan?"
"Yeah?"
"You drive. I’ve had a martini."
He laughed. A real, free laugh.
"I’ll drive," he promised.