“What?” I replied, distracted, thinking about the party.
“Your husband,” the kid repeated in French. “Didn’t you say you wanted both tickets?”
I couldn’t just explain to a kid that I wanted to get rid of my money without sounding completely bonkers.
“He’s waiting in the car.”
I searched for Entrance A, my eyes darting around. The sign indicated it was reserved for party attendees and provided direct access to the VIP area.
“Are you looking for the entrance?”
I nodded, feeling panic rising up my throat, like when you must speak in front of an audience and you’re not prepared, or when that annoying family member asks a question you hoped would never come up in front of your mother at the Christmas dinner. In this case, panic mode meant that the gravity of the situation was finally sinking in. I had travelled alone to another country with the hope of speaking to a billionaire about money that someone, possibly, had stolen from his club and given to me, a member of the law firm defending the alleged killer of his ex-wife.
The kid must have sensed my anxiety. It oozed from my pores in the form of sweat, and I had begun to feel my makeup turning into a sticky paste on my skin.
To my relief, he said, “Don’t worry, I know where it is. I’ll walk you there, Miss.”
That wasn’t my biggest concern, but it was a start. I trailed behind him to the quieter side of the stadium, away from the bustling crowd. Once we reached a small, white porch that offered a bit of shelter, I thanked the kid and started walking towards the entrance.
“Wait!” he shouted. “Aren’t you going to get your husband?”
For the love of God. I turned around.
“Thanks for your concern, really. But I’ll call him from inside.”
“He won’t be able to get in without his ticket.”
I had to summon all my strength not to shout at him to go back to his damn house and leave me alone. Did he really think I was married? I hadn’t even finished school yet!
It was anxiety talking, not me. And I felt sorry for the kid, but that wasn’t the reason I didn’t shout. Just as the words were about to slip out of my mouth and make me look like a lunatic, someone interrupted us.
“Vera?”
Bastian stood right there, looking damn handsome in his black suit and glasses and watching me with narrow eyes, Eloïse Hawtrey-Moore hanging off his arm.
“Isn’t this the girl from last night?” she sneered, looking over Bastian’s shoulder.
I was shocked into silence. I knew Eloïse would be there, but I didn’t imagine she would bring Bastian as her plus-one.
“Yes,” said my coworker. “Eloïse, this is Vera.”
“I remember you,” she said, showing a crooked smile. “The foreigner. What happened to your friend? Is she around here, too?”
I cleared my throat.
“No, I…”
Bastian stepped forward, releasing his arm from Eloïse’s. His gaze, clear of the shiny makeup from the previous night, had darkened.
“Can I know what you’re doing here?” he murmured in a harsh tone. “Who did you come with?”
Of course, there was no better moment for the skater kid to make his appearance.
“Don’t talk to her like that! She came with her…”
I pulled him towards me and put a hand over his shoulders.
“With my friend! Here he is! He had an extra ticket and called me,” I said. “It was all very last-minute, right?”
