It’s a black off-the-shoulder gown with a structured bodice that hugs my waist and hips before melting into a sleek, floor-skimming skirt. The neckline dips low enough to suggest, not declare. It’s the kind of dress that makes me stand straighter and elongates every line of my body. Hopefully, it will make me feel like I belong in the very space I’m nervous about entering.
I pair it with delicate silver heels, a matching clutch bag, and a pair of diamond drop earrings that my grandmother left me for that understated sparkle. My hair is next. I twist it into a soft chignon and pin it in place, leaving a few tendrils loose to soften the effect. For my makeup, I keep it classic: understated bronze eyes, with a deep red lip, the shade bold, but timeless.
When the buzzer rings, my stomach flips. I smooth my dress down nervously, grab my clutch, and take a deep, calming breath before heading down to meet Rhett. As I push open the door and step outside, the sight that greets me stops me dead in my tracks.
My, my! Dear God!
Rhett is casually leaning against the car, looking like he’s strolled straight out of a glossy magazine spread. Every inch of his divinely tall, yummy body is wrapped in black tuxedo perfection. A crisp white dress shirt, and a black bow tie, which is slightly loose as if he couldn’t be bothered to make it too perfect, but somehow makes it even hotter. The jacket molds itself perfectly to his broad shoulders, and the trousers are cut in a way that makes him look utterly edible. His hair, apparently devoid of hair gel and only supported with coconut shampoo, has fallen into careless precision that looks like a hairdresser spent hours on it. And when his eyes sweep over me, slow and deliberate, they darken in a way that makes my pulse kick hard against my throat. I swallow hard and walk towards him.
He straightens, and his lips curve into a slow smile, his eyes dipping all the way down my body before returning to my face. “You went to town with the dress to impress thing. You look … amazing.”
Heat prickles the back of my neck. I laugh, too brightly, as if that can deflect the way his words settle like a hand against my skin. “Please, you’re the one who looks like every woman’s fantasy right now.”
“Every woman?” he teases. “I’ll settle for just yours.”
I roll my eyes, but the flutter in my chest betrays me. “Well done, Romeo. This is exactly the kind of stuff George needs to hear from you. Shall we?”
“Yes, but I hope you realize you’ve totally ruined tonight’s performance for me. I won’t be able to concentrate on anything but you.”
He opens the car door for me, his hand brushing my bare back as I slide inside. The touch is casual, gentlemanly, and yet I feel it like a spark against my raw nerves.
The drive is quick, the roads unusually quiet for a Saturday night. Rhett and I exchange small talk. I am guarded with what I say, conscious of the chauffeur being able to hear us, but Rhett seems to barely even notice his presence. I am glad when we arrive and get out of the car, and it’s just Rhett and me again.
The opera house is more dazzling than I imagined it was going to be. Crystal chandeliers drip from high arched ceilings painted with gold leaf flourishes. The marble underfoot gleams, polished to a mirror’s sheen, and grand staircases sweep up to balconies on either side. The lobby is alive with chatter, laughter, the clink of glasses, and the soft rustle of gowns as guests mill about.
Quite frankly, it’s intimidating.
It looks like a gathering of high net individuals and their snobbish wives and mistresses. It’s class, class, and more class,baby. The women are in exclusive gowns of jewel tones and shimmering fabrics, and the men are all in black suits. Even the bar staff manage to look posh. For a moment, I feel like an impostor, like security is going to pull me aside and ask who let me in.
Thank God, for Rhett.
He offers me his arm and confidently sweeps me in like we’re royalty. His presence is steady and grounding, and I remember what I always tell myself in situations that feel too big for me. I belong here because I’ve chosen to. And this time, it’s not just my choice. I belong here because Rhett belongs here, and because he asked me to come. Because George doesn’t get to own this world anymore. I’m here now, and I mean to stay.
Rhett gets us a couple of glasses of champagne, and we raise our glasses to each other.
“May the best man win,” he says, a mocking twist to his lips.
“May we both get our hearts’ desire,” I say.
The bubbles fizz against my lip as I take a sip, scanning the crowd. And that’s when my heart stops.
George. That’s George. He’s leaning against the bar, a glass of whiskey in his hand. His hair is shorter than I remember, styled quite neatly. His dark brown curls look lighter under the light from above. The cut of his tuxedo is impeccable - of course it is, he always did care about appearances - but it’s his smile that jolts me. That easy, charming grin that once convinced me the world revolved around me. My heart gives an uninvited flutter. I’ve made the right decision choosing to try to win George back. I mean, look at him. He’s clearly meant to be mine.
Then I see her.
And I feel like I might be sick. The woman at his side is striking in a way that makes me instantly catalogue every detail of her. Tall, willowy, her gown is a deep emerald green that hugs her like a second skin. Her back is quite bare, and shehas small breasts, so she can get away with not wearing a bra. Her long blonde hair is up in some kind of complicated up-do, and her lipstick is a perfect shade of nude. She looks polished and expensive, the kind of woman who eats beluga caviar (yuck) from a tiny silver spoon, and serves lobster hors d'oeuvres at her sophisticated dinner parties.
And George has his hand on the small of her naked back.
That hand stops me from being able to convince myself they aren’t together, that she just happens to be standing there. The butterflies fluttering in my chest die, replaced with something cooler. Cleaner. Meaner. Sure, George’s date is hot, but mine is hotter. I point George out subtly to Rhett.
“Don’t look now, but three o’clock by the bar. By that slutty blonde in the green dress. That’s George.”
“That’s him? I expected him to be taller,” he says.
I don’t have time to try to read any sort of meaning into that comment. “Remember,” I murmur, pressing my nails lightly against Rhett’s sleeve. “You’re besotted with me.”
His brow arches, amused. “I don’t even have to act.”
