ChapterSeven
Piper
“That’s Oliver’s ex,” Mindy says in my ear, nodding to a stunning woman posing on the red carpet in front of us.
The woman’s royal blue dress fits her like a second skin. Her shiny dark hair is a sleek wave down her back. She’s tall and glamorous, precisely the kind of woman you’d imagine a billionaire would want on his arm.
We aren’t walking the red carpet ourselves, not really—we’re creeping in the background and watching while music artists, journalists, and other industry folks pose for pictures and talk to reporters.
“Who is she?” I ask, fiddling with the silvery strap of the dress I borrowed from Mindy and trying not to wince in the matching heels every time I take a step. They fit—Mindy and I are almost the exact same size and have a similar frame—but I haven’t worn shoes this nice in months, and my feet are not happy with the torture.
“Regina Charles. She’s the editor of Rage.”
So, not Emma. Hmm.
Rage is a fairly new fashion magazine that’s bold and popular. Regina Charles fits Oliver. Statuesque, magnetic, successful. They would be gorgeous next to each other. Two halves of the same shiny and lucrative coin.
“Who’s he with now?” I ask as if wanting to dig the knife a little deeper into my own gut. We skirt a journalist interviewing a pop star and head into the venue.
“No one that I know of,” Mindy says.
“Maybe someone named Emma?” I flush.
I shouldn’t have asked. I shouldn’t care. But I do.
She links her elbow with mine, leaning in to speak into my ear over the rock music blasting an inch beyond what’s comfortable. “Not that I know of, but it’s hard to say. Regina is the only person that anyone can confirm he’s dated, and that’s because she blabbed about it all over the place. Oliver is notoriously private. Their relationship didn’t last long after that.”
We barely make it two steps through the crowd before we’re stopped by a twentysomething in a gunmetal-gray blazer paired with a smarmy smile. Basically, a Christian Bale-in-American Psycho wannabe.
Mindy introduces us, and I immediately forget his name. They start talking shop. It’s all “sync licensing” this and “360 deal” that—music-industry speak that I don’t understand and can barely hear over the noise anyway.
I glance around instead. The venue is crowded with an eclectic mix of industry types. Sleek suits and flashy dresses are mixed liberally with jeans and T-shirts. Except of course, they’re Dolce & Gabbana jeans and Fendi T-shirts. The way the rich dress down.
Waiters in colorful tuxedos circulate with appetizer trays, and a DJ spins records up in one corner. The center is a giant dancefloor strobing with flashing lights, while more mellow glows perch in the corners. And I locate what must be the bar, all the way on the opposite side, smothered with people.
I’ve been immersed in glitz and glamour before, back in LA. It’s all shiny and nice at first, but there’s a hum of falsehood under the glittering veneer. Smoke and mirrors, masks of happiness—it’s all for show. None of it feels real.
It’s not my thing. It never was. Ben loved parties like this. He liked seeing and being seen. I would much rather be at home, watching a movie, or in the studio creating. If only work were an option right now. If only the blank page wasn’t always staring at me, mocking me with its empty space.
Mindy and the suit finish their conversation, and almost immediately, her assistant, Ally, pops in between us. “Thank God you’re here. You look amazing, where did you get that dress? We need you. Richard is all coked out and threatening to beat up Justin Timberlake, who isn’t here, by the way, but there’s some young kid with ramen hair, and Richard thinks he’s back in 1998 since he had that whole boy-band thing that fizzled out. We need you to calm him down before he punches some rando in the face. The press will have a field day.” She finally takes a breath.
Mindy nods at her then winces at me. “Sorry, Piper. Duty calls. I’ll be right back.”
I wave her away. “Go on. I’ll meet you at the bar.”
“I’ll be quick.”
“Take your time. I’ll get us drinks.”
Mindy squeezes my hand once before hustling after Ally.
Slipping through the crowd, I head in the direction of the bar. I find a small spot to squeeze myself into between a shaggy-haired cowboy and a handsome couple standing together, the man’s arms on either side of the woman, peering over her head to order drinks and then dipping down to kiss her cheek. I turn away.
The last time I was at a swanky party with Ben, I spent too long talking to another metalwork artist, and Ben accused me of flirting with him. “Are you trying to make me look like a fool?” he hissed at me.
Then he froze me out, completely ignoring me the rest of the night while he chatted and schmoozed with everyone else present. It was a common tactic for him—letting me know I did wrong, then pretending everything was fine while the anticipation built until when we would be alone at the end of the night and he could berate and criticize me to his heart’s content. Right now, I might be a loser all by myself at the bar, but this is still way better than being with Ben.
The bartender lifts his brows at me, ready for my order. I glance at the shaggy-haired cowboy. He was here first, but he dips his head, gesturing for me to order.