Chapter 1 #2
Since it's the first showcase of its kind—new for them as well as for me—I've had no blueprint. I'm flying by the seat of my pants with just my own creativity for guidance. I'm going with extravagant but tasteful, artistic without being gauche. My signature balancing act.
It has to work out. It just has to.
The Ritz-Carlton is the location for the first party.
It's a venue that I am very familiar with, since I recommend it for many of my clients' events, to the extent that they've even issued me with my own staff ID badge.
By the time I finally reach the place, sweat is trickling down my back, despite the cool weather.
It's probably due to all the errands I've been running today.
Sure, I could delegate, but sometimes I like doing things myself.
Keeps my head clear. More importantly, it means I know it's been done properly. One less thing to stress about later.
The event suite has its own brass and oak revolving door, next to the main hotel entrance. The doorman stops me as I trip lightly up the marble steps.
"Identification," he says, deadpan.
I roll my eyes. "Really, Ricky? We do this every time."
He grins. "Sorry, ma'am. Policy. You know they're always watching." He nods toward the CCTV camera. I wedge my phone between my shoulder and ear, dig out my ID badge.
"Did you make it home on time for your little girl's party last week?" I ask as he hands my ID back, remembering how he stayed late to help us set up for a previous event a few weeks back.
"I did. She loved the dollhouse I got her with the hundred bucks you slipped me."
"Well, she better have loved it."
In truth, that hundred bucks hurt when it left my pocket, but I don't begrudge him it.
People like Ricky look at me and all they see is a successful businesswoman.
What they don't see is that in reality I've barely a few hundred bucks to my name, and every client I win is part of my fight to survive.
No silver spoon for me. My parents were as poor as church mice.
It's just that I've learned how to look and act the part.
It's been like that since private school, when I had to blend in with kids whose parents never thought twice about dropping thousands on designer labels. To avoid sticking out, I learned to hustle, to mold myself into whatever people expected.
It's the same skill that's made me successful now. Fake it till you make it is pretty much the motto I live my life by.
There's only one person I think sees through me.
Grayson Wolfe.
I'll never forget the one time we met face-to-face. How much his piercing gaze unsettled me, like he could strip away every carefully curated layer to spot the scared little scholarship kid underneath. Like he knew I don't belong to his realm of privilege and power.
An interloper in a world of self-confident, self-obsessed narcissists, who mostly seem to believe they are better than everyone else, simply because daddy has money.
Maybe that's why he's made it his mission to make my life hell. Maybe he thinks I don't deserve this job.
Maybe he's right.
If I screw it up, it won't just ruin me professionally, it'll prove him right. This event is bigger than anything I've ever handled, and imposter syndrome has been clawing at me for weeks. I force a smile to my lips, and cling to my positive thinking mantras.
I adjust my face to project my very best confident smile, and step through the swing doors into the hotel lobby.
It's the epitome of luxury. Polished marble floors. Crystal chandeliers that look like they belong in the Palace at Versailles. Crown moldings, walnut paneling, Persian silk rugs. Money drips from every surface, and every person lounging in the cushy seats radiates it too.
I straighten my shoulders and walk directly across the marble floor like I own the place, even as curious eyes follow me.
My Jimmy Choo knockoffs I'd bought in Hong Kong last year make a loud click-click as I walk.
Confidence is an illusion. If you wear it well enough, no one can tell you're just pretending.
But when I reach the conference hall, I can tell something's wrong even before I go in.
The jewel-toned orchids I ordered for the entrance are missing.
Odd, but fine. I can fix that. My hand pushes buttons on the keypad, and I open the door.
And freeze.
My jaw drops.
Everything is gone.
The florals. The stage. The custom seating. The art. Every detail I'd slaved over—all vanished, as if it had never been there at all.
What's left are bare white walls and soulless gray stands. Matching gray metal chairs that look like they were borrowed from a community college complete the new look. If that's what you could call it.
A bellboy pokes his head in. "Ma'am? Is everything alright?"
"No," I whisper, legs trembling as I steady myself against the wall. "Nothing is alright."
I can barely breathe. Rage and disbelief knot in my throat.
"Call the cops," I manage. "We've been robbed."
His brows knit. "Robbed?" Then he realizes. "Oh, no, ma'am. The cleanup crew moved everything to the basement. They said the owner of the event wanted it gone."
My head snaps toward him. "Under whose directions?" I snarl.
"The hotel crew said Mr. Wolfe gave the order."
Shock crashes over me. "I'm the event planner, and no one told me a damn thing."
The man shrugs weakly and backs away with a murmured apology, probably not liking the look on my face. I can't say I blame him. I'm trying to remain calm, but I don't think it's going to last long.
Fury surges hot in my chest as I stab Wolfe's secretary's number into my phone.
"Hello, this is Mr. Wolfe's private line; to whom am I speaking?" she answers in her usual bored, sing-song tone.
"What's going on, Carissa? I just walked into the Ritz and everything's gone. They said the order came from you."
"Oh yes, but not me—the boss. Mr. Wolfe hated the décor. He had them remove it for something more… tasteful."
Tasteful? Those ugly-ass chairs are his idea of tasteful?
"Why didn't he call me and say he wanted changes?" I bite out.
"I don't know. You'd have to ask him." She still sounds bored. "If that's all, I have another call waiting."
Click. She hangs up.
I'm shaking. Boiling. Hours of work, thousands of dollars, an artist's one-of-a-kind stage—all tossed out like garbage.
Sure, I can bill the company for it, but it's not about the money. It's the utter disrespect for my time, my energy, my creativity, and for all the effort I've put into bringing everything together to deliver a fantastic event for the ungrateful little bastard.
It feels like a violation. Like he walked into my home, tore the clothes out of my closet, and set them on fire just to see me squirm.
"Who the hell does this asshole think he is?" I glance around, not sure if I said that out loud, and if so whether anyone heard me. I tell myself to stay calm, to swallow it. That it doesn't matter, but I can't. I just can't take it anymore.
There's no way in hell I'm letting Grayson Wolfe humiliate me like this. Not in front of my team. Not in front of the whole damn city.
Carissa can't fix this. She's a puppet. A gatekeeper. Only one person holds the strings, and I need to talk to him. If I can't get through to him on the phone, I guess I'll just have to try the old-fashioned way.
The journey to his office is a blur. I take a cab, and my anger turns everything into a kaleidoscope of colors.
I sit in the back of the yellow cab, practicing my yoga breathing techniques, but it's going to take a lot more than a few minutes of chakra balancing in the back of a taxi to fix this outrage.
Calm down, I tell myself. Don't lose your shit, just relax.
I finally get to the glittering glass and steel tower that dominates the Manhattan skyline and where his company occupies the top three floors.
I take the special elevator that goes straight to the topmost floor.
Carissa isn't at her desk—thank God—so I storm past the reception desk and head down the corridor, aiming for the dark mahogany double-doors to his private office, and throwing them open dramatically.
There he is.
His broad form sprawls behind his oak desk, frowning down at an iPad, his body lithe, but relaxed, yet somehow still dangerous, like a panther that hasn't been fully tamed.
Even as mad as I am, I can't help the shiver of desire that shoots through me. Sheer lust collects at the base of my stomach and between my legs, my clit echoing the pounding of my heart.
God, he's so dangerously handsome it's not funny.
Even just sitting there, he robs me of my breath. The high cheekbones, the hard jawline, and the cut of his body underneath his immaculate Armani suit.
No, no, this will not do.
I can't allow myself to go into simpering woman mode. I'm stronger than that. I've come here for a purpose, and I need to be thinking about how much I want to wring his neck, not how hot it would be to hate-fuck him across his desk.
His sharp eyes finally move from whatever he's been reading, and flicker unconcernedly up to me.
Casually, and seemingly without the slightest concern for politeness, he lets his eyes sweep up and down my body, resting for a slight moment on my heaving décolletage in a way that doesn't even pretend to be polite, before continuing onwards to meet my eyes with a strong, all-seeing, slightly mocking stare.
He gives me a faint smirk and raises an eyebrow as if to say "Well? "
He's playing games with me. I know this, but I still react. I'm even more irritated with him now than I was before, and he hasn't even opened his mouth yet.
"Hello, Mr. Wolfe," I hear myself say, my voice sugar-sweet, but laced with venom.
"I hope you're having a good day. Because I'm not.
I just walked into the Ritz and found out they've trashed my entire setup, apparently on your personal orders.
If this didn't come from you, then I apologize in advance for what I'm about to say, but if it did… "
I inhale, fury burning hot through every nerve.
"…then I need to know—do you have any idea how much time, effort, blood, sweat, and tears it's taken me and my team to get that place ready for your event?"
His eyes never leave mine as he listens, his expression calm, confident, a faint smile on his lips, like he finds something funny about the situation. This only serves to make me even more mad.
"In short, Mr. Grayson goddam Wolfe, how fucking dare you ruin my work?"