I smiled and tossed my phone down. The game was on.
Nineteen
Samantha
* * *
Jacques Bar, 10:20 p.m.
I swiped the wand of mascara over my lashes, leaning close to the mirror. When I was finished I stood straight and studied the finished product.
My dress was black, knee length, sleeveless, fitted. It was snug in the bodice with a low, square neckline, the suggestion of corset-like curves at my waist. There was a slit three inches up my left thigh and the whole thing fit me like a glove. It was a dress that cost more than even my considerable salary allowed, but today I had bought it anyway.
I’d accessorized it with a silver necklace, silver bracelets, and black heeled mules. I’d bought an expensive sapphire ring, and I put it on the third finger of my right hand. I had my hair up in the back, with large pieces drifting down in front and framing my face. Dark, smoky liner around my eyes. Understated gloss on my lips.
I never looked like this. I could dress properly, and I usually did, but this… this was entirely different. The dress, the hair, the ring—all of it was classy, yet somehow it was showy at the same time. The sort of look that said I’m a very rich woman, so rich I buy what I want. And although I had a good job now, I had come from very humble beginnings, so that woman was not me.
My smoke-lined eyes kept drawing my attention in the mirror. I was a professional, and though I never went out in public without makeup, I always kept it understated. Years of working for CEOs had taught me never to give anyone in the office the wrong impression. Too-short skirts gave the wrong impression, as did too-low tops and too-high heels. And fuck-me eye makeup definitely gave the wrong impression. So I never wore it.
But I was wearing it tonight. I was wearing all of it. And I felt… perfect. Free.
I flipped off the bathroom light and picked up my small purse. At the door of my condo, I paused for just the briefest second as the doubts came in.
He’s not going to be there.
He was joking.
He was horny and not serious.
He doesn’t think like you do, doesn’t want you the same way you want him.
He’s going to stand you up. On Monday it will be awkward, he’ll apologize, and both of you will pretend it never happened.
It was a test, just to see if you would do it. A dare, that’s all.
This isn’t going to work.
And most of all, again: He’s not going to be there.
The Jacques was one of the classiest and most expensive bars in the city, attached to a five-star hotel on the Upper East Side called the Lowell. I had never been there. To be stood up at the Jacques, after I’d spent a good percentage of my paycheck, would be embarrassing. Humiliating, even.
But the game was already in motion. If Aidan Winters—or whoever he was tonight—was going to stand me up, I would find out in the next twenty minutes. Taking a breath, I left my place and locked the door behind me.
It was ten o’clock p.m.
It was a beautiful bar. It was small enough to be intimate, large enough that couples could sit at the tables and talk without being overheard. The maitre d’ gave me a nod and a smile as I entered and told him I was going to have a drink at the bar. At first I thought he must recognize me from somewhere, but then I realized it was the dress. In the dress I looked like I belonged here.
There was only one available seat at the bar. I let my eyes sweep once across the backs of the other customers—he wasn’t here—and then I sat, silently admiring the dark brown and gold finishes, the subtle lights, the impeccable white jacket and black tie of the bartender. When he asked what I wanted, I ordered a martini. When he gave it to me I sipped it, letting the place soothe my excited nerves.
It was understated, but the other patrons here were rich. I worked for rich people, and I kn
ew them when I saw them. I also knew people who wore their wealth like a well-worn old coat, one they were comfortable in and never took off. Somewhere in their logical minds, these people knew that wearing a three-thousand-dollar blouse wasn’t real life for most people, but deep down it didn’t compute. It was real for them, and that was all that mattered.
They weren’t obnoxious, and they didn’t show off. Couples, most of them older, sat talking quietly, and a couple groups of suited men had quiet, intense conversations. Probably deciding the financial fate of the world as they sipped whiskey. Or maybe they were just talking about golf.
No one looked twice at me. No one told me I didn’t belong, that it would be best if I left. Even the bartender, who likely knew most of these people by name, didn’t give me the side-eye. I had spent years studying, and as a result I played my part well.
But it was ten twenty-five, and I was still alone. Then ten twenty-seven. Ten twenty-nine.