It’s not every day you get on the guest list for a Louis Vuitton event, and yet here I was. I only had one nice dress in my capsule wardrobe that I’d stuffed into my small suitcase for this trip. I’d worn it at the gala in Singapore and couldn’t help the nervous knot that had formed at the thought of anyone commenting on it. But I reassured myself that no one would have remembered me at that event. I’d probably go largely unnoticed at this one too.
Caroline met me in the hotel lobby. She was dressed to the nines and looked stunning. Her hair was slicked right back and tied tightly in a thick plait. Her curvaceous figure was barely contained in a sparkling gold dress and she stood a clear threeinches taller than me in her killer heels. Bright red gloss covered her lips.
“Wow,” I said as I reached her.
“I know,” she said, flashing me a wicked grin. “You look gorgeous too.”
She was being polite, but I took the compliment.
We took a cab to the ballroom that the fashion house had hired for their gala. As we stepped into the glittering, marble-floored hotel, I stared up in awe at the chandeliers.
“OK,” I murmured, “Being a TV reporter’s plus one has its perks.”
“Look,” Caroline said, nudging me and directing my attention to a long table staffed by a dozen young people in crisp, white shirts. They were handing out swag bags to all of the attendees and we rushed over to claim ours.
We slipped away to a quiet corner to peek inside. The bags were thick, matte-black canvas with embossed gold Louis Vuitton lettering—and heavier than I expected. Inside, I found a miniature bottle of their signature fragrance, a deep red YSL lipstick, a jade rabbit charm tied to a silk ribbon, and a leather card holder that probably cost more than my flight to Japan. Beneath all that, a tiny lacquered box revealed two gold-foil-wrapped mooncakes, nestled like treasure. It was beautiful. Extravagant. A little surreal. Caroline cooed over her own haul, already dabbing perfume on her wrist, while I turned a decorative luggage tag over in my hand, wondering what it felt like to live in a world where things like this weren’t a novelty. It was hard not to feel like an imposter—but harder still not to love the rush of it.
“Come on,” Caroline said, pulling me by the arm into the main ballroom, following the flow of guests and the rousing orchestral music flowing from within.
It was stunning. Printed screens lined the walls and each table was dressed with pink and gold table cloths and tall glass jars stuffed with lilies. Lights twinkled all around us and petite servers with trays full of champagne slipped silently between guests.
A bark of laughter caught my attention and I turned to see Jax Rivers at the heart of a cluster of enthralled men and women.
Everyone was here. Whole teams, FIA reps, press, celebrities—I caught a glimpse of Idris Elba in the middle of a group of be-suited business men.
Obsidian’s table was near the centre of the room and along with Norton Ross, the two drivers and their engineers sat in quiet conversation. My breath hitched at the sight of Volkov in a tuxedo. Although the more remarkable man at the table was his engineer, Mac. The grizzled old dog with his bushy moustache looked ill at ease all dressed up like that. A sudden rush of empathy for him swelled in my chest. Despite my very strong suspicion that he was at the heart of this scandal. He was a practical man, an engineer and strategist. He wasn’t the guy you put in front of sponsors. Glancing down at my slightly creased, black dress, relatively simple compared to many of the designer gowns swirling through the room, I felt a certain kinship with Mac.
But now wasn’t the time for empathy. I had to remain suspicious and vigilant. I had a story to write.
I remained on edge and uncomfortable all evening. Caroline flitted between groups, stunning everyone she spoke to, but I was finding myself slightly frozen out. After my probing question at the Obsidian panel, no one from their team would look at me. Even Callum Drake, who had been happy to open up to me at the last gala. I got the impression from the constant PR-rep on his arm that he was deliberately being kept away from me.
It was a good thing that Caroline and I ate beforehand, because the alcohol-to-food ratio at the event was not conducive to any attempt to stay sober or fed. After my fourth glass of champagne, I managed to grab a few miniature dumplings and some shrimp from a passing tray. But the booze was fogging my brain regardless.
I found my way out onto the balcony, which was glittering with fairy lights and looked out across the brightly-lit city. Cars buzzed past below like ants. The night air was cool and a shiver danced over my skin as I leaned against the metal railing. The only other people out here turned and stepped back inside, leaving me alone facing the Shanghai night. I drew a deep breath. I had to find my proof and I was beginning to fear it would be impossible. My father had faced the same problem. The scandal that had led to him losing his job as a race engineer still haunted my family. It was the sole reason I was so relentless in pursuing this. I had two points to prove.
“Penny for them?”
I whipped around, my heart pounding.
Aleks stood behind me, nursing a glass of vodka. He’d loosened his tie and unfastened his top button, giving him that devastatingly sexy hint of rebellion.
“Deja-vu,” I said softly, glancing down at my empty glass. I set it down on the table beside me and moved along the balcony, away from the glass doors.
“What is?”
“Us, meeting at galas, in formal wear.” I indicated our clothing and surroundings. He followed me along the balcony all the way to the end, beside a tall, potted olive tree. His hand rested on the cool metal railing as his other hand knocked back his drink.
“Hm. You have a point.” He put his glass down and glanced out across the skyline.
“Are you having a good night?”
“No. You?”
“Not really.”
“Where’s your friend?” He glanced back towards the doors. We were still alone.
“Mingling with the rich and powerful, I suspect. Not quite my scene.”
