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“Go,” Jonathan says. “That’s an order from your learned counsel. See, be seen, shake hands. Don’t let the Sterling board know you’re rattled.”
Caleb turns to me. “I guess this means we’re going out tonight. Pick you up at eight?”
* * *
I agonize over my outfit,knowing the whole point of the evening is to be standing directly in the public eye. In the end, Mara helps me pick a white gown that’s not innocent in the least, with a plunging neckline that exposes my cleavage and hugs my body. She helps me put my hair up in a sexy updo, too, which I pair with smoky eyeliner and a pair of cute flats I can just about manage with my ankle.
Caleb is waiting for me beside the fountain in Lincoln Center. Wearing a tuxedo.
Damn, it’s hard to think of a more breathtaking sight than Caleb in a tuxedo.
“You’re gorgeous,” he says to me as he takes my hand. “But we have to hurry. The opera is about to start.”
“Oh? What are we seeing?” I ask, not like I know one opera from another.
“Die Zauberflöte.”
“Translation?”
He smiles. “No idea. I won’t be looking at anything but you,” he adds, dipping his lips to whisper in my ear. “Wondering if you’re wearing anything under that gown.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I retort, flirtatious.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “I might just find out… Right here.”
Caleb steers us inside the grand lobby, which is emptying out as people move to their seats. Still, we draw plenty of looks, and I can sense Caleb at war between whisking me out of there as fast as we can, and maintaining the casual act that Jonathan urged.
“Relax,” I tell him, patting his arm. “They’re just thinking about how good you look in that tux.”
Caleb snorts. “Sure.” But he slows, nodding at a few people in greeting. Everyone’s dressed in glamorous formalwear, and even though the circumstances aren’t ideal, it’s still a thrill to be on his arm at an event like this, moving through the upper-crust crowd as if I belong.
Instead of following the crowd to the main auditorium, Caleb leads me up a flight of stairs, to a lavish, velvet-lined hallway. “This box has been in my family for generations,” he explains, as an usher holds open the door for us. But before we can step inside, a painfully familiar voice echoes down the hallway.
“Well, isn’t this awkward?”
We turn. It’s Olivia, draped in blood-red silk, with Sebastian Wolfe on her arm. The British man looks imposing, dressed all in black, and a part of me would find him handsome if I didn’t know what a massive asshole he is.
Olivia raises her glass in a mock-toast.
“So nice to see you and your… Assistant here, Caleb,” she coos.
I tense. But Caleb’s palm is steady on my back.
“I wouldn’t have thought you’d have time for the opera, what with all your scheming,” he replies.
She trills a laugh. “I can multitask. After all, it doesn’t take much work to destroy your reputation when you’re working so hard to do it yourself.”
“We’ll see about that,” is all Caleb mutters, before leading me into the box.
The door shuts behind us and Caleb exhales. “I forgot that the Cross family box is right next to ours. Our parents got them at the same time. Of course Olivia has hers.”
“Sure.” I tease, trying to lighten the mood. “Some families pass down old china. You guys inherit boxes at the Met.”
Caleb cracks a smile. “There are some perks to the soiled Sterling name.”
He’s right. We’re front and center, with a perfect view of the stage. Instead of cramped chairs, we have luxurious seats to lounge on, and an usher silently enters bearing champagne and petits fours.
“Despite the company, this is amazing,” I tell him.
