“We’ve had a brilliant launch, thanks to the Bexley team and our friends here from Buzz,” he says to the group. “So, cheers to all of you.” He lifts his flute; the rest of us follow his lead. “But there’s always excitement around an opening, right? That’s the easy part. The real work is in keeping the momentum going.”
My phone vibrates in my front pocket. I specifically chose these wide-leg trousers so I could keep it there, in case Derrick texted. I wriggle my fingers in to retrieve it.
“I know Margo already has a media dinner in the works for Rivière. But the next play, I think, is to start cycling in some influencers for overnight stays,” Oliver continues. “I want them in the nicest suites, with the most outrageous views, eating Xander’s whole menu, posting that shit to their stories all day long.”
We all nod.
“Absolutely,” Jordana says. “My team has already started drafting a list of our first-choice picks. We can go over it here, if you want, and start the outreach as soon as we have your sign-off.”
I peek at my phone, now resting by my thigh on the orange velvet of the dining chair. The text isn’t from Derrick. It’s from a number I don’t recognize.
“Yes, brilliant,” says Oliver. “Charles, you’ll need to coordinate with Jordana to carve out the right blocks of time, in the rightrooms, for these people.” Charles nods. “And we won’t want them here until after La Vue opens, of course. That’s the other critical agenda item for today—we need to finalize the details for the event next month.”
La Vue is going to be the hotel’s rooftop bar. It has a 1970s Parisian vibe, so we’re planning a Studio 54 night for its grand opening.
“We just confirmed the same DJ who did the hotel opening,” Taylor chimes in. “She’s very excited about the theme. And I wanted to talk to you about possibly bringing in some performers as well—I found these professional disco dancers. Let me pull up a video, they’re just awesome…”
While everyone focuses on Taylor, I tap in my passcode, moving the phone from the seat to my lap, so I can read the message more easily.
It nearly stops my heart.
It’s Curt. Got your number from Jack’s phone. I can’t tell him without proof. Send a photo or there’s no deal.
He means a photo of the plagiarized paper, but he’s not dumb enough to put that in writing. Cold sweat rises on my skin. I’m a fucking moron for leaving West Virginia without it. Why didn’t I press Dottie harder?
I cannot afford to melt down here, but the room is spinning. The ringing in my head is back, and growing louder. I drink in a long inhale, then silently count down the exhale—four, three, two, one—willing my breathing to slow, willing the room to still.
“Margo?”
I lift my gaze from the phone screen. Six pairs of eyes stare back at me.
“Margo?” Jordana says again, her face contorted into some combination of exasperation and concern. “Did you hear what Serina just asked?”
I clear my throat, fighting through the pain in my skull.
“I didn’t, I’m sorry.” I force an embarrassed smile. “I seem to be a bit light-headed.”
“Are you okay?” Serina asks, sounding truly worried. “You do look pale.”
I catch Taylor rolling her eyes.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, waving Serina off. “Probably just the champagne on an empty stomach. Please go ahead—I’m so sorry—what was your question?” I notice Xander signal one of the servers.
“Oh, it’s just a silly idea I had. I wondered if you thought we should do more of those private cocktail tastings, with whichever reporters you think might appreciate it, leading up to the La Vue opening. I thought maybe it could help build some anticipation.”
It’s a great idea. The kind of idea I should’ve offered, not the client.
“That’s terrific, Serina, I would love to work with you on that,” I say.
She smiles. The server drops off a croissant in front of me. I pick off an end, shooting a grateful look at Xander. But I have no appetite. I’m nauseated with anxiety.
Jordana pulls out her laptop so we can review her spreadsheet of influencers. While it starts up, I excuse myself to the ladies’ room. It’s a relief to be alone. I brace myself against the marble vanity—the same black stone as the lobby floors—and shut my eyes. What am I supposed to write back to Curt?
When I open them again, my complexion looks even pastier. The greenish cast coming off the emerald tile walls doesn’t help.
I reread his text:Send a photo or there’s no deal.
All I can do is bluff.
