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Logging onto the computer, I review my investments. My mind can’t focus on doing any proper analysis on the numbers gyrating on the screen. When my eye begins to twitch, I know I’m losing the fight against post-anxiety exhaustion.

Ambling over to the bed, I look at it with yearning. It’s been a long day.

Slipping under the covers, excited to be cocooned, I shift down until my head hits the pillow. Something is wrong. No tension. No pressure. No cocoon.

Throwing back the covers, I walk to the end of the bed. Fearing what I know I’ll find but seeing no other option, I pinch the corner of the comforter and slowly pull it up, revealing the sheet corner dangling free.

My pinch turns to a fistful of blanket as I rip it off the bed. Fucking hell.

Not even my bed was spared.

13

After a litany of meetings, phone calls, emails, a hair appointment, and two consultations, my social battery is nearly spent. I usually don’t get excited easily over a party, but tonight’s the party of the season. The museum’s annual gala. Art. Music. Food. What more could a woman want? So long as the other curators keep their hands to themselves, everything should be fine.

Last year, I may have, perhaps, punched another curator for getting handsy. It’s honestly a bit surprising that I wasn’t blacklisted.

Giggling with excitement, I head to the closet, pulling out the dress I’ve waited months to wear. The three weeks of a celery juice cleanse better be fucking worth it. It’s a thing of beauty.

Pleated, metallic gold fabric that shimmers in the light. The herringbone bodice design gives the appearance of armor, broken only by the sweetheart neckline. Gold leaves adorn the halter strap, forming a collar of dominance, and of course, a nice slit up the side to accentuate my hips and ass.

Not that I’m self-conscious about my nonexistent ass. I mean. I have one, yes. It’s just not that bubble butt. In this dress, they’ll never know. I give my hair and make-up a final once-over before heading downstairs.

Gerald sits at his post on the counter beside his food bowl. His eyes blink as though blinded by the gold shimmering magnificence before him. Walking over, I spill a few pellets into his bowl. He does a backflip, hitting the cabinet as he performs his mini parkour routine. Half the items on the counter topple over. Leaning down, I run a finger along his fluffy head.

“You’re a real menace. But I love you. I’ll be home later. I left you a treat upstairs.”

His tiny ears perk up as I say the word “treat.” He’ll be upstairs and in the rose hip treats the minute his food bowl is out.

The doorbell rings.

Carl, another curator at my firm, will be my escort tonight. We’re both permanent singles; it’s more like convenient carpooling, but it works well. I never have to worry about trying to find a date.

“Coming!” I shout as I run to the front door, wrapping my coat around me, and grabbing my clutch.

On our way to the museum, we run through the guest list and discuss the possible exhibits being unveiled tonight. We both harbor a hope that a particular sculpture will be one of the exhibits. We pull up to the entrance and the valet takes Carl’s keys and scampers off.

Carl steps around to offer me his arm and escorts me up the steps of the museum. Something I’m exceedingly thankful for, given the tightness of the dress. The concierge at the top takes our coats and ushers us forward.

Even though we’re early, a line has formed, slowing our progress into the building. My foot taps incessantly every time the line pauses. I have to consciously remind myself to plaster a small smile on my face every time someone glances my way. My cheeks are already hurting from the effort. The fact that people smile willingly all day is beyond me. I’m fairly confident they’re deranged. Masochistic. Miserable. After several minutes of an inner monologue of judgment of the human race, we finally step through the glass doors of the museum.

Red carpet laid out for tonight’s gala contrasts starkly with the white marble columns that run the length of the museum’s main hall. The white walls turn to marbled glass at the back of the hall, creating an optical illusion that’s breathtaking. I’ve always marveled at how the architect managed to capture the light from the chandeliers without making it look like we’re entering a kaleidoscope. I scan the nearby tables for a program. Usually, the gala only has three rooms in use, all off the main hall, for different activities. Food and dancing can wait. Where are the exhibits? Unable to find a program, I sigh and begin weaving through the trickle of people, dodging all but the waiter with the champagne.

The bottleneck of people parts, and I’m able to see light splashing from three rooms off the main hall. One on the left, two on the right. The banquet was held in the room off to the left last year, so I’ll avoid that.

Walking down the right side of the hall, I peek into the first room. Couples twirl on the marble floor to a classic waltz. The violin and viola are masterfully played, but now is not the time for music. I wave to a few people I recognize as I proceed to the next room, mildly shocked that so many return the gesture. At least last year’s incident didn’t cement my reputation as a bitch. Kissing ass for a year must have worked. A buzz of excitement runs through me as I enter the third room.

Yes! Against the back wall are five podiums, each draped with a red velvet covering. I both love and hate when they do that. It’s like a child looking through a window at candy in a display. So close yet so far. My mind reels with ideas of what lies under the cloth.

Everyone is engaged in conversation, oblivious to my presence, as I step closer. My head slowly turns back to the pieces on display. Just a peek. That’s all. I raise my arm—slowly. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, halting my plans. Warmth runs down the back of my neck.

Locking my jaw, I turn to scan the room a second time. Where is he? Where is the asshole? The crowd milling around the room makes it nearly impossible to find him. I know he’s here somewhere, but at least he’s keeping his distance. Hopefully, having a date will keep him at bay. Wait. Shit. Where’s Carl? I’m always forgetting him at these things. With another glance at the displays, I head out in search of my absentee plus-one.

After wandering around the hall multiple times, I finally catch a glimpse of Carl, swaying to the music on the edge of the dance floor. His face breaks into a large smile as I stop beside him. He immediately jumps at the opportunity to pull me onto the dance floor. I’m not usually one to dance, but poor Carl is a bit awkward, making it difficult for him to get a dance partner. I happily oblige and take his hand. We spin around in a flurry, cracking jokes about how my dress is blinding people. His boisterous laugh drowns out the music. On our third round, I get a bit dizzy, when a sudden crash halts the music.

Everyone’s attention is turned to a corner at the front of the room. Elbowing people out of the way, I move to the front of the commotion. An overturned table rolls along its edge on the floor. Waiters descend upon the scene, cleaning up broken glass and sopping up puddles of champagne.

The museum’s director must see this as an opportunity to move the festivities as he calls us all to the exhibit room. Taking another look at the overturned table, I scrutinize the crowd as we walk down to the exhibition room.