She turns to Carolyn and launches into a rant. “God, it's been ages. I haven't heard from you in so long. No one's been able to reach you; you've canceled so many of our scheduled lunches over the past month. What's going on?"
Carolyn hesitates, her fingers tightening slightly on my arm. "I've been busy," she says softly, her voice steady but with that underlying nervousness.
Leila arches a perfectly sculpted brow, her lips curving in that faux-concerned smile. "With what... no offense, but you've vanished. Spill."
Before Carolyn can respond, Leila's gaze sharpens, tilting her head as she studies her. "There's something different about you," she says with a frown.
I start really paying attention, my hand still on Carolyn's back, feeling the subtle tension in her muscles.
"How so?" I ask, my voice casual, leaning in slightly, the crowd's murmur fading around me.
Leila pauses, her eyes narrowing playfully on Carolyn, but there's a bite there. "I just can't point it out. What did you do, Carolyn? Your face is plumper... or maybe not. I don’t know, but the nose. The nose is definitely different, and well, hooray to theupgrade in bra cup size. Oh my God, of course! You sly thing. You secretly had some work done, didn’t you? Love the new nose. Who did it for you?”
Carolyn doesn't respond, her flush deepening, and I see how uncomfortable she is. Her posture stiffens under my hand, her breath quickening just a touch. For some weird reason, I can’t bear to have her made to feel bad. Enough. I tighten my grip slightly, my protective instinct kicking in.
“We’d better go,” I say and steer her away toward our assigned seats in the grand hall.
Carolyn, eager to leave with me, murmurs her excuses to Leila over her shoulder.
"We'll catch up soon, I promise.”
And we slip away together.
Chapter Twenty-Six
JULIET
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M_kTSBqQkME
-no way you’ll see me crawl-
We head over to our assigned seats, Blake's hand a steady presence on the small of my back, guiding me through the throng of glittering guests. The space has been transformed into a sea of elegance with towering floral arrangements of white orchids and calla lilies cascading from crystal vases on pedestal tables. Their petals are luminous under the massive chandeliers that drip like frozen waterfalls from the vaulted ceiling. The air is crisp and chilled, carrying the scent of expensive perfumes. We greet a cluster of people, Blake's voice smooth and commanding as he shakes hands with a silver-haired man in a tuxedo.
"Senator Schumer, good to see you," he says, his grip firm, while I smile politely beside him, my heart racing as I recognize the face from countless news clips; Chuck Schumer, the SenateMajority Leader, his eyes crinkling with that practiced warmth as he nods at me.
"Mrs. Bessant, always a pleasure."
Nearby, a woman in an emerald-green gown laughs with a group, and I realize with a jolt it's Anne Hathaway, her dark hair swept into an elegant chignon, chatting animatedly. All around are people I've only ever seen on TV screens or magazine covers, and now they’re close enough to touch. It makes this world I’m temporarily occupying feel even more surreal. In a way, it feels like I've stepped into a dream that's equal parts thrilling and terrifying. Any moment I could trip up and….
Blake pulls out my chair at our table. I sink into the seat, the silk of my gown sliding against the upholstered cushion, and he settles beside me.
"Want a drink?" he asks, his voice low.
Before I can respond, he reaches for a flute of champagne from a waiter’s tray. It's a bit rude. His assumption of what I would want. The casual dominance makes me bristle inwardly, but I stop myself. Of course, he knows what Carolyn wants. I give him a small smile as I take the proffered glass. At any rate, he’s not mine, I remind myself, so there’s no need to rock the boat especially in this sea of watchful eyes.
I lift the champagne to my lips and take a tentative sip. The crisp, effervescent bubbles burst on my tongue. Ooo, delicious, and then it hits me like a cold splash. Carolyn doesn't drink champagne. The memory floods back from the lessons, her voice in my ear during training: "I stick to red wine or scotch. Champagne gives me headaches."
Panic surges, my throat tightening as the fizz lingers, and I freeze, the glass hovering near my mouth. Oh God, should I push it away? Make some excuse? My mind races, nerves twisting in my gut like a knot I can't untie. Will he notice? Is this the slip that unravels everything?
I glance at him sidelong, seeing his eyes on me already, that intense gray gaze steady and probing, and my pulse hammers harder, wondering if he's on to me, if every little inconsistency is stacking up in his mind like evidence. This makes me so nervous, my fingers trembling slightly on the stem, the whole charade feeling fragile under his scrutiny.
I think for a moment, shaking my head internally—no, don't draw attention; play it cool—and instead, I set the champagne down gently, reaching for a nearby bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon from Opus One, the label sleek and dark. I pour myself a glass with hands that aren't quite steady, the rich ruby liquid swirling. All the while, I can feel his eyes lingering on me, that unwavering stare making my skin prickle and heat bloom under my gown as I wonder again if he's piecing all the inconsistencies together, if my every move is screaming imposter.
The whole function makes me nervous. Overwhelmed, really. My stomach churns as I scan the room, and spot more faces that belong on screens. Dave Chapelle is at a nearby table, his easy smile flashing as he chats with a group of environmental activists, and across the hall, Governor Kathy Hochul is laughing and mingling with celebrities. All of them are air-kissing and networking as if this is just another Friday.
I have no idea what I'm doing here, my mind blanking on the etiquette Carolyn drilled into me. Do I laugh at their jokes? Nod knowingly at their references to Davos or the Hamptons? Suddenly, I can't wait for all this to be over. What started as an adventure now seems more like a nightmare than anything else. The weight of my deception presses down, making a headache throb faintly at my temples. Even the jewels at my throat now feel like a noose.
The function starts then. The lights dim as the orchestra takes the stage. A chamber ensemble from the New York Philharmonic, their instruments gleaming under spotlights. Agrand piano at the center. They launch into a performance of Vivaldi's "Four Seasons," the strings swelling with vibrant energy, the notes cascading through the hall.
