“What’s the difference between the two?” I ask as he ushers me into a freight elevator.
“Seems like you should already know that.” He hits the top button and the doors shut, sending the car up at a frantic speed.
When the doors glide open on twenty-nine, they reveal a cracked grey wall and nothing more.
Confused, I step out and follow the soft sound of laughter and clinking glasses. Right as I’m approaching a stairwell, a man in a red tuxedo rounds the corner.
Shit.
“May I help you, Miss Junior Chef?” he asks.
“No, I’m fine.”
“You can’t be. You’re in a restricted area for guests when you should be serving or cooking in one of the kitchens.” His voice is flat. “You’re also wearing unauthorized sunglasses. Bring me your staff badge.”
“The guy didn’t let me borrow his badge.”
“What?” He narrows his eyes. “What did you say?”
I don’t answer or attempt to explain. I rush back to the elevator as fast as I can and punch the ‘close door’ button like my life depends on it.
Thankfully, there’s no hesitation in the doors shutting, but I can hear the guy’s heavy footsteps echoing in the hall before the car rises to the top level.
When the doors open this time, I’m instantly welcomed into a world that still looks as spellbinding as it did when I first experienced it years ago.
The dimly lit room is draped in velvet-curtained walls, accented with shiny silver chandeliers that hang high above its marble floors.
A full symphony orchestra, dressed in all-white, plays at center stage, serenading the room of masked guests with a beautiful overture I vividly remember playing in high school.
It takes ten seconds for me to place the notes and remember precisely where they fall on the sheet.
Libertango by Astor Piazzolla.
My fingers are suddenly itching to handle a bow—to return to when times were simpler—as I slowly move around in search of Nate.
He’s not holding up the wall or chatting with the other businessmen, and for a moment, I feel foolish for ever letting Julie send me on this wild goose chase.
I’m definitely blocking her number tonight.
My eyes roam the room again, and just as I’m about to abandon my search, I spot him.
I spot him being the exact opposite of the ‘husband’ he is to me.
He’s the masked man at the center of the dance floor, the very man who is stealing everyone’s attention while he holds another woman in his arms.
I can’t believe this shit.
I dissolve into the walls for several seconds, watching as he seductively sways her to the strings, taking in every frame of this scene.
He’s dressed in an immaculate black suit and matching leather shoes—the same outfit he wore for my “birthday dinner”—and his date is dazzling the audience in a champagne-colored gown that clings to her hips.
Possessively gripping her waist, he keeps his eyes locked on hers between every twirl. She smiles whenever he pulls her body against his chest, whenever he teases her lips with a gentle kiss.
From the cherry-red stain that’s sitting on the edge of his collar to the way her perfectly manicured fingers are digging into his neck, it’s clear that they’re fucking. They’ve been fucking.
It’s also clear from the length of this woman’s dark brown curls and her petite, curvy frame that anyone who knows “us” would probably assume that she is me.
So, he’s beyond bold.
During the interlude, Nate slips his tongue between her lips and claims her mouth for what feels like hours, and I’m unable to watch anymore.
I can’t stomach another second.
Unsure how to feel, I follow the signs for the restroom and splash my face with water.
Don’t you dare make a scene right now, Autumn. Be strategic and think this through.
As I’m grabbing a dry cloth, the golden-dressed mistress steps into the room. She takes her place at the sink next to me, so close that I can touch the pearls of her necklace.
Pulling down her feathered mask, her green eyes meet mine in the mirror.
“Hi.” She smiles. “I mean, good evening.”
“Good evening.” I don’t return the joy.
There’s no glint of recognition in her irises, no glimmer of shame or remorse.
She has no idea who the hell I am…
I search for something else to say, but my breath is cut short as she lays her mini wallet against the porcelain. Her driver’s license is face up in the plastic, the words “Under 21 until” scream at me in red.
“Are you enjoying the party?” I barely manage.
“Yeah. All the food that your team has brought out to serve has been wonderful, especially the chocolate-covered truffles.” Her cheeks flush pink, and she shakes her head. “Wait, sorry. My boyfriend told me to never take off my mask or talk to anyone while I’m here. You won’t tell him about this, will you?”
“No,” I say. “I won’t tell your boyfriend anything.”