Wasted Love with You (Wasted Love 1)

In the evening, I drive to Target for an escape.

I push the red cart through the aisles, filling it with things that will undoubtedly earn a place in my trash can months from now.

As I’m deciding which boxed wine I want, my phone sounds with a new call.

Julie.

Ugh. I meant to block you yesterday. “Hello?” I answer.

“Oh, my god! I’m surprised you answered!”

That makes two of us. “What’s going on?”

“I know you’re in the middle of something good, so I just wanted to say that I love when people take my advice. I’m so happy you’re listening to me.”

She’s delusional, but I can’t help biting her bait. “What the hell are you talking about, Julie?”

“Okay, fine. Don’t give me any credit.” She laughs. “My hairdresser saw Nate getting you Outback to-go last night, and this woman I do Pilates with says she just saw you two walk inside Odette’s for their dark masquerade ball. She said Nate looks amazing and your mask is gorgeous.”

What? The hairs on the back of my neck stand at full attention. “Odette’s?”

“I’ve always wanted to get an invitation or know someone high up enough to party there,” she says. “Lucky you, huh?”

I say nothing.

Thousands of thoughts are running through my mind, and I can’t catch any of them. I’m still chasing the ones from yesterday.

“Anyway, I don’t want to hold you up. Call and tell me about it later? Maybe we’ll have another lunch at Juniper Cafe?”

I remain silent, and she ends the call as a cashier’s voice comes over the store’s speakers.

“I need a price check on lane five! A price check on lane five!”

Leaving my overloaded cart in the wine aisle, I rush out of the store and slip behind the wheel of my car.

I turn off the warning alerts for speeding and head toward the highway.

I don’t want to risk thinking logically at all during this drive…

End of Episode 3

Episode 4

Autumn

It’s nine o’clock by the time I make it to Odette’s.

The front entrance is teeming with men in bright red tuxedo jackets and security guards who are double-checking guests’ invitations and enforcing the “valet only” and “private party” rules.

From what I remember, thanks to the only night that Nate ever brought me here, this annual masquerade ball is only hosted by an A-list celebrity, a Fortune 500 company, or someone from the wealthy elite. Most of the budget is spent on surveillance and protection, and it’s impossible to get anywhere near the event without special clearance.

Tapping my fingers against the steering wheel, I drive to the east-side entrance, finding another barrier. Yet another private setup for valet, another hive for red tuxedos.

The scene is the same on the west and the south, and suddenly, my grand delusion of barging inside to confront my husband crumbles to pieces.

Is he bold enough to cheat on me publicly? Would he really do that to me?

Those questions replay in my mind as I circle the building, and I realize that I can’t let them survive unanswered. I can’t let him touch or talk to me again until I know for sure.

It’s not until I see a group of men standing outside in white chef coats when I decide to take a chance.

Pulling on a pair of oversized sunglasses after parking, I grab my purse and approach them.

“You’re on the wrong side, lady!” One of the men lights a cigarette. “The entrance is further ahead!”

“I think she’s in the wrong place.” Another guy coughs. “She’s definitely not dressed for this occasion.”

“I’m exactly where I should be.” I keep my voice firm since I have nothing to lose. “If I needed to borrow one of your coats to get inside, how much would that cost me?”

Silence.

They stare at me for a long time, and then they fall into a fit of laughter.

“I’m not joking,” I say, trying again. “How much to borrow one of your coats for a few minutes?”

No response.

They render me invisible and dispatch my presence away by turning their backs—returning to a world where I don’t exist.

Sighing, I head back to my car. I’m willing to sit across the street all night and wait for Nate to emerge red-handed if it comes down to it.

“Five hundred dollars,” a deep voice suddenly says from behind, making me spin around.

“What?”

“Seven hundred if you want my matching beret.” A young guy holds out his coat. “What’s it going to be?”

“Both.”

He holds out his hand for the money. “My break is over in like forty minutes, so you’ll need to bring this shit right back. If you get caught by security, I’m telling them you stole everything, and they’ll definitely press charges.”

Without considering the consequences, I rummage around in my bag and hand him the bills.

After counting them twice, he motions for me to follow him inside.

“The masquerade lounge is on the twenty-ninth floor,” he says, leading me through a busy kitchen, then an even busier prep room. “The masquerade ball is on the thirtieth.”