Is this what Menlow’s life has always been like? Surrounded by people who only see him as a means to an end?
The thought makes me sad for him. And grateful that he chose me. That, out of all these polished, perfect people, he wanted me.
“You’re frowning,” he comments once the woman in red finally drifts away.
“Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“About how exhausting your life must be.”
He tilts his head, considering. “This is just a normal Tuesday.”
“That’s exactly my point.”
“It’s less exhausting with you here. You make it almost bearable.”
“Almost?” I tease.
“Don’t push your luck.”
Before I can respond, another group descends on us. More names. More handshakes. More champagne. I smile until my cheeks ache and make conversation until my brain feels like mush. But I don’t complain. Menlow went to bat for me at that meeting on Monday. He defended my reputation in front of the entire company and dared anyone to challenge my qualifications. The least I can do is play nice with his business associates for one evening.
Besides, I’m starting to get the hang of this. The rhythm of it. Ask about their work. Compliment something specific. Let them talk about themselves. Nod at the right moments. Laugh at jokes that aren’t funny. It’s not unlike navigating a particularly tricky negotiation, just with more champagne and fancier clothes.
By the time we’ve made a full circuit of the room, my feet are screaming in my heels, and my bladder is threatening mutiny.
“I need to use the restroom,” I tell Menlow.
“I’ll come with you.”
“To the ladies’ room?”
“I’ll wait outside.”
“Menlow, I can pee by myself. I’ve been doing it for twenty-five years.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he nods. “Don’t be long.”
“Yes, sir.” I give him a mock salute and make my way through the crowd.
The restroom is mercifully empty. I take care of business, wash my hands, and spend a moment eyeing my reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back at me looks so put together. The emerald dress Menlow bought me fits perfectly, and the simple diamond studs in my ears catch the light when I turn my head. I look like someone who belongs at events like this.
Funny how much can change in a few weeks.
I touch up my lipstick, smooth down a flyaway strand of hair, and head back toward the main event. The hallway is quieter, with the noise of the gala muffled by distance.
“Mrs. Karpov!”
I turn to find a man approaching from a side corridor. He’s tall, maybe six-two, with dark hair graying at the temples and a smile that doesn’t quite look friendly. His suit is charcoal or maybe dark navy—expensive, clearly tailored—and he carries himself with the easy confidence of someone used to getting what he wants.
“I’m sorry, have we met?” I ask.
“Not officially.” He extends his hand. “Congratulations on your marriage. I just heard the news.”
I shake his hand briefly. His grip is firm. Too firm. Like he’s trying to prove something. His palm is cold despite the warmth of the venue.
“Thank you. And you are?”
