Joy #3
The crowd parts around us, holding onto their flutes of champagne.
Startled. There were lots of conversations going on before.
All of them have been paused. Even the string quartet has stopped.
Their bow falls to the ground, belonging to a woman whose jaw is all the way on the floor. Everything is forgotten about.
Valerian stalks back to the staircase, picking the trembling man up by his shirt collar. Like he’s a dog.
“You’re fired,” he says to the man.
He releases his collar, sending him back onto the staircase.
When he turns around to face the audience, I can hear other peoples’ bones shaking. That’s how fucking scared everyone in this room is.
I am, too. The adrenaline is pounding through me. But it always comes hand in hand with arousal.
“There’s nothing to see here, ladies and gents,” says Valerian, his voice echoing from the walls. “Let’s continue the party.”
The musicians snap out of their trance, reaching for the bow. And the songs start up again.
I hear a bunch of women asking questions to my left. They have beautiful dresses, even more beautiful faces. That tells me they could be the wives of some of the Bratva men.
“What was that about?”
“That girl over there, the one in the blue dress. I think one of Valerian’s employees from the company was about to rape her.”
“Holy shit.”
“I know.”
“Why does Valerian care?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they’re fucking or something.”
“Or in love,” adds another.
“God, I hope not. Remember what happened last time—”
Valerian drags me away before I can listen to the rest of their conversation.
“What was that?”
My vision disappears again. Safe to say the alcohol has officially made its way into my bloodstream.
All I can do is laugh.
Valerian clenches his jaw. Sticks his face in mine. “This isn’t funny, Joy.”
“Have a sense of humor. It is a little.”
“No.”
“It looks like I’m not the one you need to keep an eye on.” I look at him pointedly. “Congratulations. Now everyone is gossiping about us. Maybe even the camera crew will—”
“The camera crew do what I pay them to do. I’ll make sure they don’t report this.”
“And how will you stop this information from getting out of the room?” I arch my eyebrow. “Pay for everyone’s silence? Like you paid your maid and butler?”
“Stop it.”
I tilt my head, trying to read his face. I’m good at reading faces, just like I’m good at reading books. But with Valerian, it’s different. He’s impossible to read. Which tells me he’s been protecting himself for years. Maybe even decades.
“Did you love her?”
Valerian works his throat, sighing. “What are you talking about?”
“You know who I’m talking about. Igor’s mother.” I narrow my eyes. My vision is starting to straighten out. “You never told me much about her, other than that she died. That’s it? What happened?”
“We’re not having this conversation, Joy.” Valerian takes one long look at me and disappears back into the crowds.
Fuck him.
I swallow the lump in my throat. His inability to talk about her means there’s still something there.
He’s still carrying the grief around.
And I’m not about to get involved with another emotionally unavailable man.
I’ve been there and done that. Got the T-shirt. Whatever.
The alcohol does laps through my system. I hold onto the banister, keeping myself stable as the room starts to spin again.
But when I gather composure, I don’t feel better. There’s a pit in my stomach and it’s growing in size by the minute. I watch Valerian shake hands, interacting with his guests. He cracks smiles, nods, listens to every word.
He has charm. Charisma. He makes every single fucking person in this room feel special.
Including me. But none of it will ever be real.
I have to get out of here. And my chance is now.
I watch the camera crew thread through the crowds, carrying packed up equipment.
It’s not home time for them just yet.
I rush back into the crowds, accidently knocking the woman.
“Oh my god.” I palm my chest as soon as she turns around. “I’m so sorry.”
She offers me a smile. “It’s fine, hun. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
“Nice jacket. That’s vintage Salamander, right?”
“Yes! How did you know?”
“Because of the material. May I?”
“Go ahead.”
I feel the leather suede.
“You take such good care of it. These jackets are from the sixties. They’re made in the North of England. Originally, they were designed as workwear for people who lived in and around the mines.”
The woman raises her brow. “Wow. How do you know all of this?”
“I’m a fashion journalist.”
“Wait.” The woman studies me. “Are you the chick who wrote a column about this once in the Catherine Harps magazine?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re what inspired me to get the jacket.”
Finally. We’re getting somewhere.
“You’re kidding?”
“We have to get a picture of you. My sister loves your style analysis articles. You did one last month. She said you’re the only writer who knows what she’s talking about.” The lady drags her eyes up and down my body. “Now I see why. That’s a gorgeous dress. It really compliments your skin tone.”
“Thanks,” I say.
I’m still hung up on the compliment she just gave.
The only writer who knows what they’re talking about?
That’s only the best compliment ever.
The woman snaps a photo of me. I pose with a hand on my hip. It’s a good angle. She’s getting everything in. The lobby. All the decorations. It should be enough for Mom and Lila to put two and two together and work out where I’m really staying.
“Feel free to post the picture. More people need to see this dress.”
“And more people need to see you,” says the woman, slinging the camera back over her shoulder. “It sounds like you have some awesome ideas. Who knows. Maybe you’ll design your own line one day.”
I laugh the thought off and wave the lady goodbye.
Success.
Until I turn back the other way and see who’s staring at me from the top of the staircase.
Ah, shit.