Page 174 of Sexting His Assistant

“What’s this gala actually for?” I ask, because talking is easier than thinking about his hand.

“The Meridian Foundation holds it every year,” he says. “Officially, it raises money for pediatric trauma centers and surgical units. Unofficially, it is where half the city comes to be photographed giving money they already planned to deduct.”

“That is the most cynical explanation of charity I’ve ever heard.”

He shrugs.

“Are you donating?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Enough that they put my name near the stage.”

I glance at him. “That sounds like something a villain says before funding an orphanage.”

“Hush now, don’t call me a villain in front of photographers.”

“So I can call you one inside?”

“Quietly.”

A laugh almost slips out of me, but the cameras are still flashing, and I remind myself to look composed.

I’ve seen this moment before in my head.

That’s the part that makes my chest ache.

For the past year, I planned Luka’s evenings with other women. I chose the restaurant if he was too busy to care. I confirmed dress codes. I made sure cars arrived on time. I sent the address, the timing, the table number, the security instructions. Sometimes I even looked up the venue photos so I could tell his date what kind of dress would work best without sounding like I was doing her emotional labor for free.

I used to imagine it despite myself.

Just a stupid little daydream that came when I was tired and annoyed and forced to type another message to another woman with perfect hair.

I imagined stepping out of a car beside him.

I imagined his hand at my back.

I imagined the cameras turning.

I imagined being the woman people looked at and wondered about, the woman close enough to Luka Kazan that he lowered his head to speak near her ear.

And now I’m here. Actually here.

In his hand. In his car. In a dress bought with his card, walking into the light beside him while the same kind of women I used to schedule are probably somewhere inside, waiting to look me up and down.

The thought makes me dizzy.

Then we reach the entrance, and reality fixes itself in the most humiliating way possible.

A concierge in a dark suit steps forward with a tablet and a practiced smile. “Mr. Kazan. Good evening. We’re honored to have you.”

“Good evening,” Luka says.

The concierge glances at me, polite but uncertain. “And your guest?”

Luka’s hand remains at my back.