AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Marissa’s face turns serious. “You know, not all men are like Justin,” she says, referring to my dung beetle of an ex. “Just because he’s rich, doesn’t mean Gabriel Mercer would gaslight you or try to control you. In fact, he’s so rich he’d never try to steal your business. He doesn’t need to.”
I push the shame of my breakup with my ex into the dark box at the bottom of my chest where I locked it so long ago. Love made me stupid, careless, naïve. I almost lost everything because of it. And the fact that I realized what a gross piece of work my ex was only by chance still smarts.
Repressing the humiliation is the only way I can bring myself to even speak about the fact. “Well, forgive me if that relationship left me with a few trust issues.” I push a lock of hair behind my ears. “And it’s not even about that. You should’ve seen Mercer today, Mari, he was so cocky, so entitled. And the way he looked at me and saw nothing more than a backup dancer; I’m tired of being underestimated by older men.”
“Who are you calling older? He’s younger than me!”
“But you don’t suffer from testosterone-induced egomaniac tendencies.”
Marissa smiles again.
“You find the situation funny?”
“No, sorry, I was just picturing you doing the “Maniac” routine from Flashdance in front of Gabriel Mercer.”
“You know I use that song to de-stress.”
“I bet he enjoyed witnessing your relaxation techniques.” She waggles her eyebrows.
I throw a French fry at her. “You’re a horrible friend.”
“Just calling it as I see it. Trust me, he didn’t dismiss you as a backup dancer; he probably wanted to be your Nick Hurley,” she says, referencing the romantic interest in the movie.
“Yeah,” I scoff. “Not in a billion years.”
7
GABRIEL
The night of the gala, I pull up on Fifth Avenue earlier than I would’ve planned if tonight were only a family obligation. I drop off my keys at the valet parking service, steering clear of the main Met entrance. I might be a willing partygoer for once, but I didn’t completely lose my mind. I’m not going to walk the red carpet.
Outside of business circles, I’m anonymous, except for a few appearances on celebrity gossip sites like Page Six that I try to keep to a minimum. I can get away with a low-key entrance from a side door. The valet gets in the driver’s seat and I watch him drive away my car—a classic Porsche 911, not the vintage Aston Martin GT Zagato I’d hoped to drive myself in. Sadly, Mila informed me earlier today that we lost the bid. The auction was private and I’ve no way of knowing who the lucky bastard enjoying my ride is.
I step onto the curb, buttoning my tux jacket, and stare up at the museum entrance. On the stairway to benefits heaven, the bleachers are in place, the red carpet is rolled out on the front steps, and spotlights pierce the heavens aided by a thousand flashbulbs busy capturing the newest celebrity. No matter the cause, a gala in New York at the Met always attracts the rich and famous.
I skirt the hot perimeter and text my contact on the inside, waiting by a service entrance. The door magically opens for me not two minutes later. Jared, a tall, brawny security guard, holds the door open for me and steps aside to leave me room to enter the narrow service hall.
“Evening, Mr. Mercer,” he greets me.
I step in and hand him a few hundred-dollar bills. “Jared, always a pleasure doing business with you.”
The security guard nods and, after a quick check of the street outside, closes the door, resuming his post behind it.
“See you next time.” I wave at him, making my way down the hall. I’ve used this route enough times to orient myself around the maze-like interiors of the Metropolitan Museum of Art like it was my house.
“Enjoy the party, Mr. Mercer.” Jared’s parting words bounce off the narrow walls as I go.
Once inside the museum, I grab a flute of champagne from a passing tray and position myself strategically by the wide windows overlooking the main entrance. I don’t want to miss Blake’s arrival. I’m not sure if she’s the type who’ll enjoy being in the limelight or if she would’ve preferred a low-key admission like me. But I know she won’t have a choice. It took me years to gain my privileged access.
I lean against the cold glass and keep my eyes on the scene below. Each arriving limo is greeted by a throng of fans, as ever more famous celebrities walk the red carpet, making the cameras and crowds grow wilder with each new arrival.
After a while, I lose interest and hope Blake will be next. She could already be inside. I came early, but maybe she beat me to the punch again. I’m about to walk away, but stop dead in my tracks as the name “Blake Avery” echoes over the PA system. There she is.
Miss Avery is wearing a simple slip dress that drapes over her toned body like the Devil’s cloth. The fabric is silver with a metallic shine. Under the spotlights, with the flashes of the cameras bouncing off the textile, the dress looks radiant, as if it were made of light.
Simple is not synonymous with plain. Miss Avery has taken the less is more factor to the next level. The high rise of the slit on Blake’s left thigh is enough to make my blood sizzle. I roam my eyes over the rest of her body up to her face, and it’s a strike to the chest again. Only this time, instead of a single bullet, I’m hit by a full volley straight to the heart. I worry I should start wearing a bulletproof vest whenever I’m around her.
The neckline of the dress is low and it pairs perfectly with the diamond necklace strung around her neck. Her hair is let loose in a silky curtain that hangs as low as her solar plexus. Unconstrained on one side and pulled behind her ear on the other to showcase a diamond ear cuff that circles her entire outer ear.
