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“Oh my God, that would be so hot if you got it!”
I frown slightly. I kind of imagined she’d be pissed at me for showing up, when it’s obvious I’m only here because of confidential information she came to me with, as my client. But Christina seems to read my mind, which makes me realize I’ve seriously underestimated her in characterizing her as just a trust-fund brat.
“Please,” she grins, waving me off with an elegant hand. “I don’t actually want to marry Gabriel. I’m just here to see if there’s anyone from my usual social circles desperate enough to come out for this, because that would be a riot.”
I smile awkwardly. Christina winces.
“Shit—sorry. That came out wrong.”
“It’s fine.”
She smiles genuinely at me as she takes my hands. “I really hope you get it. These other bitches?” She makes a face. “Pfft.”
I turn and discreetly survey the room full of gorgeous women, trying to see if I recognize anybody. One I instantly do, and my brow shoots up in surprise. Dr. Hannah Cowley, a tenured professor at Columbia Law School? Really?
Shit. I’d kind of figured that all the women at this thing would be socialites like Christina, and that maybe I’d have some sort of edge as a working professional, and better yet, also an attorney.
So much for that.
I recognize two more women—who are stunning—as fairly well-known fashion models. I mean for fuck’s sake, one of them, Francesca DiGallo, is up on a Calvin Klein billboard in Times fucking Square right now. My gaze continues around the room, and my face falls when it lands on Monica Wells.
Yeah. The Monica Wells, who was up for the Best Supporting Actress Oscar last year for her role in that World War Two epic.
I mean, shit.
What the fuck am I even doing here?
It’s not even necessary at this point with my confidence in the toilet, but Christina helpfully points out the rest of the competition.
“Ugh, I can’t believe Agnes Carpenter is here.” She gives me an eye roll. “Total whore. But loaded. Her ex-husband was in oil.”
Great.
“And Amanda Kerr…” She points across the room to a stacked, leggy redhead. “Her grandfather was a New York congressman. I think her father runs a DC lobbyist group?”
My heart sinks.
There’s no way I’m winning against these people. Not against Oscar-nominated actresses, billboard models, oil money, and women with family members whose literal job is to make sure people get elected.
“Ladies! Hi! Over here, please!”
A pretty but severe-looking petite blonde marches into the room on sky-high heels. She’s wearing dark-rimmed glasses and a seriously imposing power skirt-suit, with her hair pulled tightly into a bun. She taps her manicured nails on her tablet before glancing up sharply at us all.
“We’ll begin in just a few moments. Again, I just want to make sure everyone’s submitted their signed NDAs? Yes?”
Twenty-odd heads nod. I do, too, even though I’ve signed no such thing. Oops.
“Wonderful. I’ll be back to escort you all one by one to the stage. Please, just act natural and be yourself. Good luck, ladies.”
She starts to turn, but then stops. Her brows knit as her gaze lasers in on me.
Shit.
Christina is already wandering away, waving at someone she knows across the room as the blonde marches over to me.
“I’m sorry, and you are?” she asks.
“Fumi Yamaguchi.”
