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We stand close to each other as the elevator glides up to Mr. Peak’s New York lair. “Vera Wang is sending over your dress for the evening,” Mr. Peak says simply. Hey, what else can I expect from my boss. He may be all man but he certainly has good taste in women’s fashion.
The elevator stops at the third floor. The doors open and I am hit with the sight of the most opulent room I have ever seen in my life! The furniture looks like it was plundered from the finest castles in Europe. The walls are filled with Renaissance paintings. At the center of the space is a Roman statue of a nak**ed woman. I walk up to the statue of the woman who appears to be washing her hair.
“There are very few ancient Roman statues of women in the nude,” Mr. Peak lectures. He says that with a sense of pride. I notice that the statue is bathed in light. My boss puts his hands around me. “The model who posed for the sculpture impressed an artist who dedicated years to capturing her image in stone. Even though that Roman woman has been dead for thousands of years, her image still captivates people today. Her soul lives in that sculpted piece of rock. That, Sarah, is the power of seduction,” Mr. Peak informs me as he kisses my neck. Dammit. This man is as good with his mind as well as his lips.
Mr. Peak continues his tour of the townhouse. Every room is drop dead gorgeous. We take a sweeping staircase up to the top floor and my boss’s master bedroom. Now, I know my boss is a billionaire, but I can’t get over the fact that one man can own so many luxurious pieces of art, possessions, vehicles and real estate. It’s intoxicating.
As I walk around the top floor, I notice a set of stairs leading up to the ceiling. “Where does that go, Sir?” I ask. Mr. Peak walks up the stairs and shows me the door that leads to the roof of the townhouse. Now, that’s fun!
I follow my boss to the roof. The warm breeze of the summer city air hits my body. We walk around the rooftop terrace. I look over the side and see yellow cabs snake through 81st Street. I also catch a glimpse of Central Park just a few blocks away.
My boss checks his iPhone and says, “Vera Wang is here.” I look at him oddly. He mentioned that Vera Wang - the fashion house - is sending a dress over for the gala. But he makes it sounds like Vera Wangherself is coming to dress me!
We walk down the rooftop stairs and head to the elevator. We descend to the first floor. It opens. And right there, in the reception room, is Vera f**king Wang. The elegant designer is standing there with two of her as**sistants.
Mr. Peak and the legendary designer exchange some pleasantries. She asks about the “incident” on Columbus Circle. My boss as**sures her that “it’s not a big deal.” One of the as**sistants unzips a dress bag and reveals the most stunning white gown I have ever laid eyes upon.
My head is in a daze. This is just too much. “The gala will begin in a few hours. We should get dressed and make the rounds before we hit the Met,” Mr. Peak says to me. I can’t argue with that.
The designer and her as**sistants are led to a parlor room on the ground floor. I remove my clothes. The as**sistants dress me in the gown complete with a black ribbon around my waist. The gown’s long skirt has a flowing ruffled, five foot circumference which dominates the space around me. Wow, I feel like I am getting married.
I look into a full length mirror and I swear I want to cry. My body looks perfect in this dress. I never want to take this gown off. For the first time in my life, I really, honestly, feel like someone special.
The designer recommends a hair and makeup team who work on the Upper East Side. Since Mr. Peak is footing the bill, the exclusive hair and makeup team get to the townhouse in record time.
I am sat in a chair and primped and prodded with expert hands. My medium length hair is sculpted into an irresistible flowing hairstyle complete with curls that fall over my right shoulder. The make-up artist emphasizes my strong cheeks and applies these eyelashes that make me look like a “golden age” movie star.
Mr. Peak walks down stairs and looks at me. “Stand up. Turn Around,” my boss orders. I obey. He tells me to walk towards him. I push my shoulders back and use my elevated confidence to give Mr. Peak a good show. The big man nods in approval. It looks like I am ready for tonight’s “coming out” event!
***
The night falls on Manhattan. Mr. Peak and myself get into a black Maybach on 81st Street. We cruise from the Upper West Side to the Met. My body is shaking right now. Even though I have risked my life, the specter of being the center of attention is even more terrifying.
Mr. Peak notices that I am bobbing my right knee up and down. He places his firm hand over my leg. It makes me stop instantly. We approach the sight of the gala. Expensive luxury cars and limos are lined up ahead of us.
