Page 28 of The Unfluencer

Sold!

And that does the trick.

The way his thick, dark eyebrow lifts with alarm as I sashay away… Add in all the other collectors circling—shoot, even the hint that he might miss out on owning an exclusive, legendary work before it hits the masses in the Sunday issue of Ellswood Times tomorrow morning—and it lights a blazing fire under some of these folks.

“Let me get my next red dot sticker ready…”

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

My steps hold a little more bounce as I make a few more rounds, greeting guests, gushing over Corinne, constantly watching the door. But I’m determined not to focus on the golden unicorn. For now.

So I spend the next five minutes checking in on the champagne and hors d’oeuvres with the caterer, double-checking the guestlist—again—and making sure the lighting feels intimate, and not funereal.

It’s all in a day’s work.

Which is why the second I feel like I can breathe for more than two seconds without my momentum crashing, I make a beeline for my divas. They’ve been lingering in the back of the main exhibit room near the freestanding partition, expertly drawing the eye to a handful of stunning oil paintings displayed (because Harrington isn’t the only gallery that knows fine art). And my girls are dressed in full Divatante regalia—dark, elegant gowns, sky-high heels, preapproved face cards, just glowing.

I let out a deep sigh. Just knowing they’re here for me, my family, the tension in my shoulders starts to drain.

Until I get closer.

Chanel and Ebony aren’t smiling. Even Priscilla looks on edge. But then Tatiana glances at her phone, and suddenly, the four stunning-but-anxious mirrors reflecting back at me become glaringly apparent.

They think Warner isn’t coming.

Damn.

Instinctively, because I’m not about to let my divas think this man has any bearing on me, my artist, or my event, one way or the other, I perk up, prepared to give the performance of my life.

“Heyyyy!” My inflection rises unnaturally high, just telling all on me. At this point, though, I’m committed. Grabbing them into a huge group hug, I squeeze them, hopefully tight enough to temporarily block Chanel’s airways.

But alas, she’s too strong.

“Whit,” Chanel says, but it’s judgy, “I’m just going to say⁠—”

“He’ll be here,” I say confidently, cutting her off before she can even open her where’s-your-man mouth.

And, okay, I have no clue where the man is. Clive said someone name Cord RSVP’d by phone on his behalf the name night he hand-delivered the invitation. That’s about as straightforward as it gets. He’s either coming, or he’s not. I refuse to plan my business, or Corinne’s already smashingly successful preview night, around him.

Simple as that.

Aside from one tipsy dream—or three—Warner Easton has never been my man.

“Tonight is Corinne’s night,” I say, tone firm, looking directly at Chanel, whom I love down, but we’re not doing the next-day-delivery clone fantasy tonight.

Tomorrow, I’ll have all the choice words.

Chanel sucks her teeth and tosses a loaded glance to Ebony and Priscilla, who look like they want zero parts of this conversation.

“Oop.” Tatiana’s sculpted eyebrows lift to the invisible lacefront of her full, kinky, curly black wig, giving bombshell instigator.

“Listen…” Chanel drags out the word, holding my stare. “I was about to compliment your dress. But now…” She purses her lips, fluttering a full fringe of premium eyelashes.

And now I feel bad.

As much as I hate to admit it, I have been on edge. For at least the last half-hour.

I huff out a frustrated laugh, forcing a smile as I gather the draped satin of my dress. “I’m sorry, sis.” I laugh and pull her into my arms, squeezing until she hugs me back. “I’m stressed, and I just thought you were about to bring up⁠—”