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Blushing fiercely, I turn away and awkwardly ask the bartender at the bar I’m sitting at for another glass of champagne. I don’t plan on drinking it—I mean, current activities aside, this is a business meeting. But, frankly, it’s an excuse to avert my eyes for a moment.
I thank the bartender, blushing again when I hear a particularly vocal woman shrieking wildly behind me. The rough, masculine grunts of more than one man follow, and I feel my face heat as my thighs grow slick.
“Miss?”
Startled, I whirl toward the presence behind me. The man is wearing a simple black suit and a matte black mask, signifying he’s one of the staff here.
“Yes?”
I try to smile through the blush on my face, tucking a strand of my lavender-silver wig behind my ear. Yes, the masks are a good start. But the thought of someone recognizing me here, or seeing me in court later and realizing where they’d seen me before is terrifying. So, same as the first time I came, I’m here tonight with an extra layer of anonymity in the form of the wig covering my jet-black hair.
The man dips his chin. “Mr. Krylov sends his deepest apologies. Something came up at the last minute, and he’s unable to make it to your meeting.”
Dammit.
I nod back. “Okay, thanks for the heads up.”
When he leaves, I sigh.
Well, silver lining, I’m in a pretty lousy headspace for a client meeting anyway.
I make my way past the writhing mass of humanity in the middle of the room and head for the exit. After picking my way through two smaller lounges full of sexual debauchery, I step out into the main lobby of Club Venom.
All I’m thinking about is what I heard at that lunch with Christina Daniels yesterday: Gabriel is running for some sort of political office, and he needs a fake wife. I get it—you don’t have to be a Poli Sci major to know that single people rarely win elections. They’re viewed as less trustworthy. Less able to commit to things. Flighty. Untethered.
None of those is a good look for a politician trying to get elected. So, whatever Gabriel is running for, he wants it badly enough that he’s willing to pay someone four fucking million dollars to be his wife for the cameras.
I chew on my lip, thinking that one through for the millionth time.
Showing up to those “auditions” tomorrow would be career suicide. Just being there would put me in a terrible light to the partners. I mean, I’m an equity partner now: I’m part of the firm and its image.
Prancing around an audition to be the fake wife of one of the name partners for a fee is a really bad idea.
…But so is getting decapitated.
“How was your evening, miss?”
I smile politely at the woman standing behind the concierge desk.
“Short, but enjoyable. Thanks.”
I slip off my mask and wristband, handing them to her before pulling off my wig and stuffing it into my bag that she’s just retrieved for me.
“Is there a restroom?—”
“Through the curtain to your right, miss. First door on the left.”
I thank her, collecting my stuff and slipping down the hall. Inside, I fire off a quick text to Taylor explaining that Drazen had to reschedule. Then I fix my hair, take a breath, and leave the bathroom.
“Good evening, Mr. Black.”
I’m just about to step out from behind the dark red velvet curtain and back into the foyer when I hear it. I stiffen, my heart leaping. I sink against the wall, my pulse thudding.
No. It can’t?—
“Good evening, Marissa.”
My throat closes a little.
