evening.”
Was I happy to see her smile at everyone she talked to? I suppose, yes, it’s a relief knowing that
she’s capable of networking when necessary. If I have a problem with the way all the men smiled
back, then that’s on me. “Is that what it was? A performance?”
“Well…of course it is,” she says, absently rubbing her arm as she scowls out at the crowd.
“Nobody’s stripped bare at something like this. We all have an agenda, and we’re doing whatever we
need to do to meet our objectives. You should know, you’re the master at it.”
“Am I supposed to be flattered or offended?” I ask mildly. She seems like she’s stewing for a
fight. How is she so pleasant to everyone else, then she’s grumpy at me? In the words of the divine
Miss Taylor Swift, it’s me. I’m the problem, clearly.
“That’s up to you. I’m just pointing out a fact. But in this crowd, whatever you’re feeling will be
hidden by your charming, fake smile. No way will you show anyone what you’re really feeling.”
I straighten my pocket square as I absorb her words. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Being
polite and charming works.” I would know, it’s gotten me to the highest heights.
“Maybe it is when you’re hiding who you really are,” she mumbles, sliding the now-empty glass
onto the barter. “Can I go now? I really need to go.” She’s holding her arms out from her body
awkwardly as her face crumples with pain.
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask her, putting my hand on her back to guide her through the room. I
catch her flinch when I touch her, and I immediately register the heat coming through the gown. She’s
burning up. “Are you sick?”
She pulls away from me as she moves faster through the crowd. “Not exactly,” she says, flapping
her arms.
“What the fuck is going on?” I whisper in her ear, trying not to draw any more attention. Too many
people are watching me escort the stunning woman flapping her way through the ballroom.
“I need to get out of this dress,” she says as she hits the doors, shoving them open into the hallway
of the hotel. She spins in a circle, rivers of sweat pouring down her face, then darts for the washroom.
I don’t hesitate before I follow her in. A perfectly coiffed, Botoxed woman, looking forty but
probably pushing sixty, huffs and hurries out.
“You’re freaking me out,” I tell Maya. She’s stopped at the sink, pulling at the neckline of her
dress, nearly sobbing. “Jesus Christ,” I choke out as she pulls the neckline away from her breasts. It’s
