Part I
It All Started At A Masquerade In Manhattan
Chapter 1
Natalie
Elizabeth,
We met last month at Trinity for Jane Devney’s club opening in Midtown. I was wearing a one-of-a-kind Cunningham Couture piece, and I’m reaching out to you today at your insistence. I will be attending Jane’s New Year’s Eve Masquerade and want something to blow everyone away. Something no one else has seen. And you’re the only one I’d go to for this.
I’ll be back to the city for a fitting the day of, but you already have my measurements. Have your assistant reach out if you need anything.
Best,
Natalie
“I’m still shocked you had the balls to send that,” Amy muttered. “You sound like an entitled brat.”
“Reality check, Ames. That’s the level of confidence and bravado she’s used to dealing with.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m impressed. You didn’t even give her an option to say no.”
I chewed on my bottom lip. No, I hadn’t. I’d rewritten the email about a hundred times before I got the tone right. The self-righteous, take-no-bullshit attitude that demanded and didn’t request. While also including enough flattery that Elizabeth would give me a chance.
A chance was all I needed anyway. Because without Elizabeth’s business card, I wouldn’t have a dress. Unless I asked Jane, and I wasn’t ready for that yet.
“Well, it worked at least,” I said to Amy.
“Fuck yes, it did.”
I’d been afraid it wouldn’t. Either Elizabeth’s assistant hadn’t bothered to check with her before agreeing to the dress or, as I’d suspected, she and Katherine Van Pelt weren’t as close as family just because they were now both married to Percy men.
I didn’t care which it was. Either was good for me right now.
We took the elevator to Elizabeth’s studio and strode through the glass door as if I owned the place. I’d thought that it would be a disaster zone, as it had been backstage for the fashion show at Trinity. But without the models, the studio was a well-oiled machine. Elizabeth’s assistant barked out orders like a drill sergeant. Sewing machines hummed. Fabric covered the space. Final details were being sewed onto mannequins. Row after row of purple Cunningham Couture garment bags hung on racks, and a half-dozen sumptuous gowns were still waiting for final approval.
I cleared my throat. “Excuse me.”
Amy shot me a look and mumbled under her breath, “One more time with feeling.”
Jesus, she was right. I couldn’t half-ass this first encounter. I had to make them believe it. But this came about as naturally to me as it did Hermione pretending to be Bellatrix Lestrange when they infiltrated Gringotts.
“I’m here for my fitting. Let’s get this over with. I have a busy day ahead of me,” I snapped.
Elizabeth’s assistant jerked his attention toward us. His look of annoyance immediately shifted to a welcoming mask. “Miss Bishop, you made it.” He strode across the busy room and took my hand. “Pleasure to meet you again.” He shook Amy’s hand next. “I’m Pierre, executive assistant to Elizabeth Cunningham. Come right this way. We secured a private room for you to check your dress before the event tonight.”
“Perfect,” I said.
We entered a brightly lit dressing room.
“Make yourselves comfortable. I’m going to bring the dress in. Elizabeth picked out an exquisite piece for you.”
Amy and I exchanged a look. So, Elizabeth did know. Interesting.
Pierre exited back to the main room, leaving us alone to investigate. Champagne chilled in an ice bucket on a table filled with finger food and tiny French pastries. Amy helped herself. In a second, I had a mimosa in hand. I left her to the indulgent treats that I probably needed to forego if I wanted to fit into this dress. A full week of nothing but cake frosting straight from the container was probably not going to help my figure. Though it had helped my mental state.
I held my glass aloft as I stepped onto a pedestal before a trifold mirror. The figure looking back at me showed my thin face, baby-blue eyes, and pink lips, the Cupid’s bow as prominent as ever. My silvery-white locks flowed down over my shoulders, covering my breasts in the plain white T-shirt and black jeans I’d donned for the occasion. Amy had done research and decided that was what models wore to these sorts of things.
And while I saw myself looking back, I didn’t feel like myself.
A week ago, I’d been dating Lewis Warren, hoping against hope that we had some sort of future in this messed up Upper East Side world. Instead, it turned out that he’d kept a file on me that revealed how he’d manipulated me into dating him and then stalked me. He’d photographed me back home in Charleston, purchased my building here in New York, watched video surveillance of my apartment, and most demoralizing, gone behind my back to read my manuscripts. Something I found beyond unforgivable. When we’d broken up, he’d gone even further and ruined any chance of my dream career as an author. I was blacklisted.