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The taxi pulled outside the apartment building on the Upper West Side at half-past nine. Oriana paid the driver and stepped out of the car, where a doorman immediately greeted her and allowed her entry. Plenty of other beautifully dressed people were coming in for the party— it was clear she was one of them.
Still, Oriana felt uneasy, carrying such a long-lost secret that could potentially expose her past— ruin everything she worked so hard for in the blink of an eye.
The party that evening was held by the B-celebrity actress Monica Streetwise, who’d risen to fame during her twenties in a hit sitcom calledAll About My Brotherbefore following that up with romantic comedies that had slight “edges” to them. Now, in her forties, Monica’s roles had more-or-less dried up, but she had enough sitcom money to roll with the high artists of New York City. None of them let her know how much they looked down on her for her role in that sitcom, as they appreciated her lavish parties too much.
Oriana didn’t know Monica well, but she did rather like her. She appreciated when Monica made fun of her sitcom, saying that it “paid the bills,” which was what it was meant to do. Although Oriana existed in the “upper echelon” of the art world, she understood that sometimes, Americans just wanted to sit on the couch and watch a sitcom. Sometimes, people just wanted to relax and not “engage” with high art.
Oriana entered the luxurious apartment and was immediately handed a glass of champagne, which she sipped slowly, not wanting to get drunk. Not when there was so much at stake. Immediately, one of her clients approached her, eager to discuss an art piece they craved. Oriana instantly went into business mode, grateful to think about something besides her fears.
But after her client left to speak to someone else, Oriana stood alone momentarily, scanning the crowd, eyeing their beautifully made clothing, expensive haircuts, and the way they spoke to one another, all pretending to be a lot more charming than they were. Oriana would have preferred to be in Martha’s Vineyard, surrounded by her family and friends. They certainly laughed a lot more.
Then again, even if she did make it home, whoever knew her secret probably knew where she lived. Nervous, she placed her barely drunk champagne glass to the side and weaved through the crowd, trying to keep tabs on everyone.
“Oriana!”
Oriana spun at the sound of her name to watch as an old, dear friend of hers approached through the crowd. Nick Walters was handsome, successful, and sharp as a tack. Oriana had met him during her New York City years before she’d been able to move her entire family back to Martha’s Vineyard.
“Nick Walters! My gosh.” Oriana hugged him and immediately relaxed into herself, remembering the person she’d been all those years ago— before everything had happened.
“I saw you from across the party and thought, ‘Who is that glamorous woman standing alone?’ And then, I realized, it was you!” Nick laughed. “When was the last time we saw each other?”
“Gosh, it’s been too long, Nick.” Oriana furrowed her brow, trying to add up the years. “How have you been?”
Nick explained he’d been traveling for work a lot recently, that he’d been in Beijing, Bangkok, and Budapest, but he’d craved the comforts of New York City and was so glad to be back.
“I don’t know how you ever left, Oriana,” Nick said.
Oriana sighed. “I know. But I couldn’t have raised Joel and Alexa here.”
“I always forget that you’re a mother, first and foremost,” Nick said. “I suppose the couture clothing always throws me off.”
Oriana laughed. “I have plenty of mom jeans at home. Mark my words.”
“Honey, don’t talk about mom jeans here,” Nick hissed playfully. “They might kick you out of the party!”
Oriana’s heart lifted at the banter with her dear friend. For a little while, she allowed herself to fall into the glitz of the night, even drinking a glass of champagne and allowing Nick to guide her through the party to chat with guests she hadn’t met before. But by the time eleven-thirty hit, Oriana’s fears had returned, and she admitted to Nick that she was in the midst of a “family emergency” and needed to get back to the hotel.
Nick was noticeably disappointed. “I hate to hear that, honey. Can I help you with anything?”
“You’re sweet,” Oriana said. “But this is something I have to deal with on my own, I’m afraid.”
“You were always too strong for your own good,” Nick said.
Oriana said goodbye to everyone she’d spoken with, then slipped into the wild New York City night, taking a taxi back toward her hotel. A few blocks prior to it, she asked the taxi to drop her off, as she hadn’t eaten a proper dinner, and she wanted to grab a few snacks at a bodega— fruit, maybe pretzels and guacamole. Anything to tide her over till tomorrow.
But as Oriana stood in line at the cash register, carrying her goods, a man walked into the bodega. Oriana’s heart stopped beating. His face was familiar. Too familiar.
He’d been at the party.
Outraged, Oriana placed her goods on the counter and marched directly up to him. His eyes widened with surprise.
“Why did you follow me?” Oriana demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.
The man stuttered. “Pardon?”
“I said, why did you follow me from the party? I remember you. And I know what you’re up to. You aren’t going to get away with this.”
The man tilted his head, and his eyes swam with confusion.He was a brilliant actor. He should have won an award.
