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I can tell she’s nervous about the party. I want to reassure her, but no. Let’s see how well she can handle herself against the elite of the elite.
The racing jet halts, and we descend from it. I look at my watch; it’s almost 8 p.m., and the charity event is in less than an hour. Two black SUVs wait on the darkened tarmac, their uniformed drivers standing patiently beside them.
“Which car is ours?” Layla asks in a quiet voice as we approach the SUVs.
“Both.”
“What?” Her voice is higher. “Are we taking separate cars?”
The stylist I told my assistant to hire comes out of one of the SUVs and walks briskly to meet us.
“Mr. Jackson, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Pixie.” She stretches a hand, and I clasp it in mine. I wonder if she got a pixie cut because her name’s Pixie. The thought almost makes me chuckle. “And you must be Layla.”
Layla nods, her hair in her bun bobbing as she moves her head. The two women shake hands, and Pixie leads Layla to one of the cars. She looks back at me, confusion in her eyes.
“Don’t worry. They're taking you to get a dress and everything else you need for the night. You'll be dropped off at the hotel later, and we'll enter together," I shout over at her as I head to my car.
I watch Pixie put her hand on the small of Layla’s back and guide her into the car. They shut the door, and not long after, they were gone. I let out a breath and entered my opened car door. The driver closes it behind me and re-enters the car.
“Mr. Jackson. The apartment?”
“Let’s get a move on.”
I fetch my phone as the car starts to move.
Don’t worry, Layla. Everything is going to be okay. Just be yourself tonight and….
I stop typing. What the hell am I doing? Why do I care what she feels when this is simply her job? I delete the message, lock my phone, and dump it onto the car seat.
My hand reaches into my pocket and pulls out a small red crystal box. I open it, and on the velvet foam sits a small diamond ring. The driver’s eyes meet mine in the rear mirror, and he quickly looks away. My mind goes to Layla, and I wonder how she’ll react when I propose to her in front of the crowd.
***
My tailored tuxedo, with its sleek lines and polished buttons, isn’t my first choice, but I wear it all the same. I’m waiting in my car outside the Ritz-Carlton Hotel for Layla to arrive. The deep black fabric of my jacket and pants fit with the black leather of my car seat. My crisp white shirt peeks from beneath my coat as I look out the window for any sign of Layla.
“I think they’re here, sir,” my driver’s voice breaks my search as his eyes meet mine in the rear mirror.
I look ahead and finally notice the other SUV arriving. I push the door open.
Cameras flash as paparazzi gather outside the hotel for the charity event. When they notice me, they turn their focus on me. I ignore them as they take pictures and throw questions. I watch the SUV slow to a halt. My heart beats quicker as the door opens. Layla takes her time before she finally steps out of the car.
My breath catches in my throat.
I stare at her, unable to peel my eyes away. Layla is wearing a black, shimmering gown that reaches her ankles but has a slit up to her thighs, revealing one of her oiled legs. The gown clings to her in all the right places and cascades like liquid darkness, starkly contrasting her radiant complexion. She has her long, wavy hair down, and the black in her hair matches the gown, while the white strands match the pearls around her neck.
She glides towards me in her black heels, her fingers clutching her small, black purse. The paparazzi follow my gaze, and they must recognize her from the picture on Entertainment Weekly when the paparazzi followed us to Alfredo’s that night. Layla shields her face from the camera with her purse as the flashes reflect off her gown.
Who are you?! Are you Tristan’s new beau? Hey, look here! Could you smile at us, beautiful?
I finally break out of my trance as I rush toward her to save her from the vultures. We meet at the bottom step of the hotel, and she looks up at me, the eyeshadow around her eyes making it seem like she’s staring through me. She smells like lavender, and I drink it in.
I stretch out a hand. “You’re…” My eyes rake over her as she looks up at me, her lips painted red. “late. You’re late.”
Her lips part, and her features tighten as if that isn’t what she expects to hear. She takes my hand, and amidst the flashes of the cameras and the noise of the paparazzi, we strut toward the hotel.
As Layla and I make our entrance, the room seems to hush, a momentary pause in the air. Different eyes take us in, and mouths whisper as I lead her to the bar. Eventually, the hum of conversation returns to the large ballroom.
“Drink?” I ask her with a quick look as I signal to the bartender.
