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Chapter Three
“Please follow me, Ms. Everest.”
Daria hastily stood up and followed the receptionist through a hallway designed to intimidate, with its vaulted ceiling and plush carpet.
It wasn’t like her to be nervous, but she was now, her heart doing its best to smash its way out of her chest.
Up, down, up, down, up, down—-
Please God, please, please help me get this job. Daria wiped clammy hands against the side of her pencil-cut skirt as she prayed.
The urge to cry came out of nowhere, taking her by surprise, and Daria hastily averted her gaze to the ceiling.
Don’t cry. You mustn’t cry. You shouldn’t cry. You don’t deserve to cry. She inhaled and exhaled several times as she recited the mantra in her mind.
She could have come here anytime, but what little pride Daria had left prevented her from doing so. She had played the role of Facebook stalker one too many times in the past. If she wanted her second chance with Nik to start right, then she couldn’t allow herself to make the same mistakes.
She couldn’t let her whole life revolve around love, not even if she wanted to. She could only allow herself to go to NYC if she had a legitimate reason, and this job was it.
A two-month stay, a styling challenge she hadn’t ever come across, and a bridezilla as a client according to the email.
Two months, Daria thought. She had two months to find Nik and Miranda, whose surnames she didn’t even know. She had tried searching for “Nik and Miranda” on the Internet but came up with nothing. Either those weren’t their real names, or they were rich enough to hide from Google.
“We’re here, Ms. Everest.” Turning towards her with a frosty smile, the receptionist opened a door for Daria.
“Thank you.” She tried to use a sunny smile to melt the other woman’s icy behavior but failed. Stepping past the receptionist with a gulp, Daria went inside the conference, heart thudding harder against her chest as she heard the receptionist pull the door close behind her.
Words from her usual spiel for introducing herself and talking about her work ran through her mind, and she mentally sighed in relief. Good. She still remembered what to say.
She looked up, smile in place, and the first thing she saw was Nik and his fiancée staring back at her from across the room.
Daria blinked several times. The vision didn’t waver, didn’t change, but her heartbeat did, racing, skipping—-
Up, down, up, down—-
It was really Nik. It was really Miranda. And, Daria thought dazedly, she was really screwed.
She halted midway, unwilling to come any closer. If she did, she had a feeling she would probably expire out of sheer distress.
Despite her state of misery and shock, she couldn’t help observing painfully how the two of them looked good together. The couple had immediately come to their feet the moment she entered. Nik looked dashingly handsome in his black suit, his dark eyes cold and his expression aloof. Beside him, Miranda, in her white lace dress and matching shoes, was still perfectly small, perfectly blond, and perfectly feminine.
Daria wanted to hate her, but she tried not to because only bitches hated other women for being perfect. She might be a flirt, but she at least drew the line at being a bitch.
“Ms. Everest, thank you for coming,” Miranda said in a perfectly pleasant voice.
She could listen to that voice forever, Daria thought. Everything about Miranda was just so perfect. It almost gave her a perverse and obsessive kind of pleasure, counting the number of ways she came up short when compared to the other woman.
As Miranda spoke, she closed the distance between them, Nik following shortly behind. Daria tried hard not to stare at Nik the whole time.
Miranda offered her hand, and Daria forced herself to take it. She also made an effort not to crush the other woman’s doll-like fingers. God, those fingers were so thin and tiny. Surely it was impossible those fingers had muscles and real flesh like hers?
When Miranda stepped back, Daria saw her side brush against Nik, and the rollercoaster that carried her heart took a nosedive at the sight.
Her gaze flew up to the ceiling. Don’t cry. You shouldn’t cry. You don’t deserve to cry.
But when she looked back at the couple, Daria was startled to notice that a good half-foot separated them. Her gaze flickered towards Miranda’s, and that was when she saw the faint apology in the other woman’s blue eyes. I’m sorry that hurt you. We didn’t mean to.
How perfectly, graciously forgiving of Miranda. Daria wanted to kill herself on the spot after it.
