Believe it or not, I didn't marry Richard for his money. I'm more of a rave party girl and raw conversations—or used to.
After Rich and I met, I practically stayed in Seattle for him because as a writer I could do my job from anywhere, but none of my friends were there and eventually I just gave in to his world because I do, I kind of morph a bit into whoever I am with.
Truth be told, though, I doubt I'll ever get his world.
Later, when Richard checks in, I can't help it: "Did you notice how Piper treats his wife? Or women in general?"
"Yes. It's sad to watch. But that's his generation. They do things differently," he says, tone too unconcerned for my taste.
I raise a brow at him. "It's not different. It's monstrous. Men like him disgust me."
Richard makes a face. "Look. I'm not waiting for moral guidance from him. Just need him to say yes to this deal."
"I don't have a good feeling about him," I say, eyeing the old sleaze across the room, who's back to pestering his wife.
Richard gives me an impatient eye roll and sits down. "Em,we're talking seven figures. Minimum. So leave that up to me. Okay?"
Of course. I'm just a woman who apparently loves to garden.
I give him a resigned smile. "Okay. Do your thing."
He smiles back, more genuine than me. "Good. We can't let personal biases interfere with what matters."
"And what matters?"
He fixes his Rolex. "Results. Numbers. Deals. Everything else is just noise."
I blink at him. Noise? Is that what my feelings are to him? Something to mute? That's great to know.
You know he didn't mean it like that, Emma.
Whatever.
Across the room, Piper waves our way, and before I know it Richard is there, clicking with Piper, heads bent in some passionate conversation.
The idea of him working with someone like that makes me sick, even if it's just about numbers.
So I turn to the DJ, a teenager wearing a white blazer and white pants, moving to the rhythm even though no one dares to dance here.
And suddenly I'm not pressed between sinister green walls anymore.
I'm back at Fashion Club.
?
It was two nights after I met Mara in the café.
I went reluctantly, ego-bruised from moving back to SanFrancisco, and if I'm being honest, still crying over my ex at nights with a spoon and a tub of ice cream.
Mara insisted I needed a night out, though—and she picked the right place.
The air reminded me of my favorite teenage lip gloss calledCareless Strawberry, and each bass drop thumped lower, promising to shake David out of my system.
The walls were fully tiled in tiny mosaic mirrors, hundred disco balls turning at the ceiling, but it was my silver bodysuit that caught every eye, when I walked in like a total snack.
That was the point. I already felt chewed up anyway, so might as well enjoy it.
And I don't know why, but when I turned toward the DJ booth, I thought of Ben—half-expecting him to be spinning tracks there, just like that first time I saw him.
