Her soft smile makes her that much more beautiful. I’m never going to see a more gorgeous woman. No one will ever be able to argue with me on that truth.
Ella finishes descending the staircase and meets me at the bottom where I’m quick to wrap my arm around her waist.
“I don’t want to mess up your makeup,” I say, “but I really need to kiss you.”
“You won’t mess it up.” She lets out a quiet laugh. “They’re professionals. It’ll last no matter what happens tonight.”
That comment makes my chest tighten with nerves that I’d forgotten about. “Nothing’s going to happen tonight.”
“No, of course it won’t.” Ella’s eyes shine as she looks me over once again. “I can’t get over how good you look in a tux,” she says softly.
“I’m nothing compared to you.” With that I lean down and plant a kiss on her lips.
“Are we ready?” she asks.
I let myself look at her for one more long moment. This is the calm before the storm. Even if nothing goes wrong tonight, it’ll be busy. Cameras and socializing and press. It’s going to be the opposite of Ella’s quiet house and the calm routines we’ve built up over her time with the Firm.
“Yes. Let’s get you in the car.”
* * *
Ella
Lights,camera, action.
There’s a familiar buzz and thrill that lights through me, but also a tinge of fear. I remember my first appearance on a red carpet. I was fourteen and I had nothing to fear. Cameras flashed, I posed, I granted interviews to anyone who asked.
The first time I was labeled a socialite was two years later. At the party celebrating my sweet sixteen I arrived covered from head to toe in Chanel’s new line that was released the week after. I was the “it” girl. Access to wealth beyond imagine and friends with anyone who was anyone … because of who my father was and how many dollar signs were attached to my name.
Then at eighteen, after a sex tape scandal, all the hottest designers begged me to wear them. All I got was attention. Good and bad both. Kam took me under his wing when things got too heavy. “Any press is good press” is a lie when mental health is added to the mix.
The number of people who told me to kill myself after I was photographed with a director who was married was in the thousands. Rumors spread like wildfire. I posed because he asked. The man wasn’t even my type but I was a homewrecker nonetheless.
And yet, with the onslaught of negativity, the lights never stopped flashing. The comments poured in and Kam made sure to fix it all. Putting out one fire after the next.
As Silas drives the car away and Z gives my hand a squeeze, I stand tall off to the right, knowing they’re waiting. There’s a banner and bright lights set up for the private fashion line reveal.
Martinis served on silver platters right after. I recognize half of the photographers and a reporter at the entrance. At least thirty people stand out front of the massive estate. The guests are waiting on the right side of the red velvet rope; photographers and press crowd the other side.
Trish told me the only reporter I’ll be speaking with tonight been paid off. Kam gave him a list of softball questions to ask so I won’t be surprised or caught off guard. It’s rigged, so to speak.
“You all right?” Z questions, soft and low. In the shadows beside the grand foyer, only feet from where the night will begin, I feel nothing but doubt.
I don’t know if I can go through it all again. The highs are the best highs, but the lows … the lows have almost killed me so many times and I don’t know how many lives I have left, but I want this one. I want my happily ever after without this.
“We can go back to the house,” he offers.
“No, no, just preparing myself,” I tell him. Moving to my tiptoes in my heels, I plant a kiss on his lips.
The perfectly manicured lawn is split with a paved path that will lead us to the start of the event. A photo, a sound bite, a martini and then I can hide inside.
“Are Kam and Trish inside? Do you know?” I ask Z as a cool breeze comes by, much colder than I expected. Warmth is just around the corner.
“They are. Everyone is.” Z then asks, “Do you want my jacket?” He’s already removing his tux jacket and I have to stop him, grabbing the expensive fabric, pulling it back into position and tapping his chest.
“I’ll just move quick so we’re inside fast,” I tell him and then take his hand. “Let’s do this.” I tug, but he doesn’t move. Looking back, I find his gaze searching mine.
“We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”