4
Mel
It isn’t until I hand my rental car keys to the valet parking attendant at Club M that it sinks in.
I’m actually going through with this.
It’s only been two days since I first concocted this crazy scheme, but already it’s been quite a journey.
The first problem: If Xavier Leforte, the enigmatic founder of Club M, finds out I’m at the masquerade ball, he might tell West and Rob.
I don't know Xavier well—he's not a good friend of mine or anything—but he owns several hotels, and so does Fontaine & Yarrow. West and Rob introduced us a couple of years ago. I run into him at least once a year at some form of industry event, and he always recognizes me.
Needless to say, I was freaking out when I called the club Friday morning to ask about attending.
The next problem: I had to give the person who answered my real name. They vet every club member, and even the people attending the public events are even subject to a background check. It's part of the sex club’s security protocols.
I don’t have any spy friends that can whip me up a fake identity, but even if they could, I didn’t think it would stand up to Club M’s scrutiny.
The third problem: The ball was sold out. “There is a waitlist I can put you on,” the Club M employee said. “Would you like me to take down your details?”
The universe gave me a way out, but I didn’t take it for some inexplicable reason. “Will I be able to stay anonymous?” I asked instead. “At the ball, I mean.”
“Of course, Ms. Ortega,” he’d replied. “That is the point of a masquerade ball, after all. The club is a safe space for our guests to act out their fantasies. The security team will know who you are, but they are the only ones.”
“In that case,” I said. “Please put me on the waitlist.”
The man called me back an hour later. “We had a last-minute cancellation, Ms. Ortega. Are you still interested in attending the ball tomorrow night?”
And I said yes and paid for the exorbitantly priced ticket. Five thousand dollars. In the world of billionaires, that’s probably like a ten-dollar cover charge, but it’s an absolutely insane amount of money for me. I reminded myself it’s for a good cause. (Cervical cancer research. Despite my sister’s jokes, I did not spend five grand to get myself laid. Really.)
Cat performed an absolute miracle getting me ready for tonight. She waved her magic wand and fairy-godmothered the crap out of me. I am completely transformed. My formerly black, pin-straight, and almost-waist-length hair is now the color of honey and falls to my shoulders in loose curls. My brows have been plucked into two arches. My eyes have changed from a brown-black to a smoky shade of gray.
Colored contacts might be a miracle, but they're hideously uncomfortable. I’ve been wearing the lenses all day, trying to get used to them, and I keep wanting to rub at my eyes. “Don’t you dare,” Cat warned me when I told her that. “You’ll smudge your makeup.”
My makeup is flawless. That’s the only word for it. I don’t know how Cat did it, but she made me look completely different. I have a round face, and she’s made it look more angular. She's also given me cheekbones that nature never did.
Then there’s my outfit. I’m wearing a red silk strapless corset with a long, red silk skirt that falls to the floor. The clothes are a loaner from the theater company’s wardrobe and made for someone smaller and about three inches taller than me. I don’t have much going on in the chest department, but the corset pushes them in and up, making them appear bigger than they are.
Let’s be honest: it looks like I'm offering them up on a platter. Then again, I am going to a sex club. I’ll probably be the most conservatively dressed person there.
When Cat finished with me, I stared at my reflection in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself. My baby sister is a genius.
This brings me to now.
The moment of truth. The point of no-return.
The instant I walk through the castle doors, I’m committed to this crazy plan.
The parking attendant clears her throat and snaps me out of my daze. I’m already wearing my jeweled, feathered mask—another theater prop—which conceals most of my face. As if sensing my hesitation, she helpfully directs me toward the sweeping staircase.
I guess I’m doing this.
I leave my phone and coat in the car, pick up my skirt so I don’t trip, and climb the stairs, which are lined with heat lamps—a nice touch for January. At the top of the stairs, wooden doors open into a large foyer. A huge glass chandelier hangs from a high ceiling, throwing golden light everywhere, and a blazing fireplace provides warmth.
And there are people. So many people.
I step inside, find a quiet corner, and look around, trying to get my bearings. There are more than a hundred guests in the foyer. The men wear suits, the women are in evening gowns, and everyone has a mask on. It feels very mysterious and Eyes Wide Shut. White clad waitstaff circulate among the guests, holding trays of wine, champagne, and appetizers.