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She shook her head firmly. “No way. People are going to be talking about me enough as it is. I was thinking something along the lines of this.” She plucked her go-to, floor-length little black dress from its hanger.
“Gone With the Wind.” Anya held up the burgundy dress like a battle flag, shaking it so the taffeta crinkled.
Drea nodded her head in agreement. “That’s the one.”
“Anya. Drea…” Her pulse picked up and, despite her reservations, she straightened her shoulders.
“You know we’re right. Remember the scene where Rhett Butler dresses Scarlett O’Hara in that racy red dress to teach her a lesson, but then she walks into that party, tilts her chin up, and dares someone to fuck with her? That is exactly what you need to do tonight.” Anya held out the ball gown. “Not to become a narcissistic husband stealer, of course, but you know what I mean.”
Sylvie wobbled on the pointed fence post of a decision.
“You won’t find better armor than this.” Anya smirked, shook the dress again, and drawled in a faux southern accent, “Come on, Miss Scarlett, it’s time to dress for the ball.”
An hour later, Sylvie snapped her gold clutch closed in annoyance as the taxi pulled into the museum’s entrance. “I can’t believe I left my cell phone at home.”
“There’s champagne here.” Drea’s tone was as dry as Dom Perignon. “Think of it as a blessing—you’ll be less likely to drunk dial him-whose-name-shall-not-be-spoken and curse out his lying ass.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
A valet opened the car door and she slid out, Drea and Anya following behind.
“Jeff Ashford.”
She cringed. “That was in college.” They all started giggling like they’d already been guzzling the bubbly on the way over. She hugged her friend. “God, I’m so glad you’re back from L.A.”
“Fingers crossed, I’m never going back again.” Drea paused before crossing the threshold into the museum. “You ready for this?”
Sylvie’s lungs pinched. Great. Having a stress-related asthma attack would just be the icing on the cake. Reflexively she patted her clutch until she felt the hard cylinder of her inhaler and then took in a deep breath. “Hell no, but let’s go anyway.”
The jewel-bedecked glitterati of the fashion set filled the museum’s massive white marble foyer. The low rumble of chatter paused for a collective breath when Sylvie, Anya, and Drea walked in the room.
“Gone With the Wind,” Anya murmured.
Right. Sylvie straightened her shoulders, raised her chin, and gave the crowd her best Scarlett O’Hara smile.
“There you are.” Ivy floated over in a teal, strapless, floor-length column dress with a slit from ankle to midthigh. “I’ve been stalking the front door hoping to catch you before the gossips descend. I can’t stop thinking about our conversation at the restaurant—especially after what happened with that awful Anders Bloom. I just—” She glanced up. Pippa Worthington was bearing down on them like a battleship. “Damn. Do you mind if we sneak off for a second so we can talk?”
“Oh. Um, sure. We’d—”
Ivy turned a cold, blue-eyed gaze on Drea and Anya. “In private?”
Sylvie swallowed a groan and ignored the unease tickling her skin. Talking about Anders was the last thing she wanted, but she had a giant suspension bridge to repair with Ivy. If a five-minute conversation would help, then that’s what she would do.
“We can slip into the architecture and design wing, where it’s quieter,” Ivy suggested.
Sylvie glanced inquiringly at her friend and sister.
“Go ahead,” Anya said, nodding toward the crowd. “We have tons of people to catch up with.”
“If you see our dads, tell them I’ll be back soon.” Sylvie linked an arm through Ivy’s.
The other woman smiled. “I promise I’ll be done with you in just a few minutes.”
Tony’s right glove whammed into his sparing partner’s abs. He followed with an uppercut and hook combination. Raul was his third sparring partner of the day, and since the gym would close for the night in half an hour, Raul would have to be his last. Sweat drenched Tony’s shirt. His arms, heavy as fifty-pound punching bags, ached like hell. Every pivot sent shockwaves of agony up from his bad knee.
And still it wasn’t enough to block out the reality of what he’d done. How he’d hurt Sylvie with his stupid actions and clumsy confession.
He ground his teeth. After the hell he’d caught for most of his life over being an OCD-level planner in everything from work to making dinner, he’d blurted out the truth like some thirteen-year-old kid with diarrhea of the mouth. What a fucking moron.
