“This girl, she’s good for you. I can see it already in just these few weeks. You’re focused, training properly, staying out of trouble and bad headlines. Don’t screw this up, Jack.”
“I won’t.” Another lie, since the whole plan is to eventually stage a “breakup” when I head back to Europe for the season. But that’s a problem for my future self to deal with.
“Good. See you and Lark Saturday evening.”
I stand there for a long moment, looking down at my phone, the morning sun warming my skin despite the distinct chill settling into my thoughts. Great. More pressure to sell this relationship convincingly. But then again, isn’t that exactly what we wanted? For everyone to believe it? The fact that it’s working so well should be a good thing, a positive development.
I shove my phone back in my pocket, looking out at the parking lot. The problem is I’m starting to look forward to our fake dates a little too much, and it’s beginning to feel like I’m digging myself into a hole I might not be able to climb out of.
CHAPTER 8
LARK
The Callahan Spirits headquarters is in Bellevue, tucked into one of those polished neighborhoods where even the trees look expensive and intentional. It’s a modern glass building that somehow manages to be thirty floors tall without being obnoxious about it, all clean lines and subtle logos etched into the glass. Very understated wealth.
I arrive at the designated entrance, where a small fleet of luxury cars is queued up at the valet station. Men in crisp black uniforms efficiently whisk away Bentleys and Mercedes like they’re handling ordinary sedans. I hesitate for a moment, suddenly very aware of my Honda with its duct-taped side mirror sitting in this line of vehicles that probably cost more than my entire apartment building.
Should I have arranged for a rideshare instead? Too late now. I’m committed.
As I pull up to the valet stand, a young man in a perfectly tailored uniform opens my door with the same courteous professional smile he probably gave to the Maserati that just pulled away ahead of me.
“Welcome to Callahan Spirits, miss,” he says smoothly, handing me a ticket. “The event is on the top floor. The elevators are just inside and to your left.”
“Thank you,” I reply, trying desperately to act like I do this every single day. I watch as he slides into the driver’s seat and carefully drives my car away, probably to some hidden corner of the garage reserved for vehicles that don’t quite qualify as luxury.
I smooth down my dress with slightly damp palms. It’s black, floor-length with a slit up the left side that shows leg when I walk. The neckline dips low enough to show off some cleavage, which was the whole point when I bought it last year, and the fabric is some kind of silky material that moves well.
But I’m about to walk into a room full of people who probably think Prada is casual Friday wear. At least I splurged on the good mascara tonight, my eyeliner cooperated, and the red lipstick I’m wearing makes me feel like I can fake confidence for an evening.
Okay. Deep breaths. This is fine.You’re fine. Everything is fine.
Though I’ll admit the fake dating performances we’ve been doing over the past two weeks at the coffee shop and around Dark River have felt a hell of a lot easier than this mega-fancy corporate event in Seattle with actual stakes. Two hours, I tell myself firmly. Make it through two hours of smiling and small talk and then find a polite excuse to leave. Jack can’t possibly expect me to stay this entire night.
I follow the discreet signage through the gleaming lobby to a private elevator bank, where a woman with an iPad is checking guests against a list. She’s wearing a professional headset and her posture screams efficiency and organization.
When I give my name, her expression brightens immediately. “Ms. Reyes, welcome. Mr. Midnight mentioned you’d be arriving separately. Please, this way.”
I’m escorted into an elevator that looks more luxurious than most hotel rooms I’ve stayed in—polished brass accents catching the light, a backlit panel of what appears to be actual marble.
I pull out my phone as the elevator glides upward.
Me:I’m here, in the elevator, heading up.
Jack:Great, making my way to you now.
Thank god. The idea of walking into this event without Jack as a buffer, having to navigate this world alone, isn’t remotely my idea of a good time. I check my reflection one more time in those flattering mirrors. I’d straightened my hair so it falls sleek down my back, but I spot a slightly wavy strand that I’d missed. Great. No help for that now.
The elevator opens directly into a stunning atrium that makes me forget to breathe for a second. The ceiling soars at least twenty feet high, glass and polished steel, with the evening sky visible. The space is already filled with people in formal wear—women in elegant dresses and men in fancy suits. Waitstaff in crisp black and white circulate smoothly with silver trays of champagne flutes and delicate hors d’oeuvres that look more like tiny art installations than actual food.
On one side of the massive room, a gleaming Formula One race car is displayed on a slowly rotating platform, dramatic lighting highlighting every aggressive curve of its aerodynamic design. The car looks like it’s ready to launch off the platform at any second.
Nearby, an impressive motorcycle sits on its own illuminated display, chrome and leather, and a third platform showcases what looks like maybe a rally car covered in sponsor decals, all three vehicles bearing the Callahan Spirits logo prominently. A small crowd is gathered around them, taking photosand pointing at various features, their animated conversation carrying across the space.
I hover uncertainly near the elevator, trying to look like I’m intentionally standing alone rather than completely out of my depth. These people look like they stepped directly out of a Vogue editorial, with perfect hair and casual wealth and confidence. I can practically smell the old money in the room, mixing with expensive perfume and privilege and power.
I feel suddenly, acutely out of place. This isn’t just stepping into a different social circle; it’s stepping onto an entirely different planet. These people live in a completely different universe than I do, with different rules and expectations and?—
Then I see him.
