Eighteen – Eliza
EIGHTEEN
ELIZA
Harrison
Have Harold drop you off at Le Calme for brunch, and wear one of the Chanel dresses.
And heels.
I swear this man has a hidden switchboard in his brain. It oscillates between three settings: Human aphrodisiac, cocky nightmare, and grade-A asshole.
Unfortunately, he’s decided to restart the lessons in mode three. Outside of a curt, “The heels are non-negotiable,” he hasn’t said another word to me.
It’s like our kiss at the bar never happened. Like he’s wiped it from his memory and locked it in a vault on another planet.
Like I’m just a job.
You are just a job to him, Eliza…
The moment I step under the awning of Le Calme, Harrison parks his Audi at the curb.
“Good afternoon, Miss Hart,” he says. “How was the ride over here?”
I say nothing. He’s being civil now—charming even—which means he’s entered Dr. Jekyll mode. So Mr. Hyde must be just around the corner.
“I found out that this place was hosting a private get-together for a few people who will be attending the conference,” he says. “I figured it’d be a good opportunity for you to see what you’ll be dealing with in real time.”
I reach for the ticket, but he doesn’t hand it over yet.
“There was only one spot left,” he adds. “So I’ll pick you up after and see what you gleaned from them.”
“Oh…” I blink. “That’s it? Surely there’s more I should know before walking into a den of strangers.”
“Just focus on what I’ve taught you, and you’ll be fine.”
“Okay, stop.” I fold my arms. “Can you pick a mode and stick to it, please?”
He blinks. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not used to dealing with your type, and I can’t take much more of this.”
“My type?” he echoes, voice low.
“The type that can compartmentalize things like they didn’t happen. One minute, you’re attracted to me, the next?—”
“There’s never been a minute I wasn’t attracted to you,” he says flatly.
“Then why do you act like you can just flip it off?” My voice rises. “I’m used to people being honest. Through and through. Consistent. So?—”
“I’ll be honest with you, then,” he interrupts.
His voice drops, velvety and lethal. “I want to fuck you, Eliza. I want to take you home, push you against my windows, and take you from behind while forcing you to look out at my city— my city—and see how much of it belongs to me. I want you to come on my cock, again and again, screaming my name so loud you can’t speak for days.
And then, I want to do it again. And again.
Until you tell me no one else will ever be inside your pussy except me. ”
I freeze.
“Honest enough?” he asks.
I’m too flushed to respond. My throat locks, my legs nearly buckle, and I feel heat creep into places I shouldn’t acknowledge in broad daylight.
“I’ve never been around someone I can’t be consistent with,” he adds, voice back to calm. “So I guess we both have a problem.”
He steps closer, finally pressing the ticket into my hand. “But I do know that if we start fucking, we won’t stop. And as incredible as I’m sure it would be, it wouldn’t get you and your brother’s resort anywhere. So the mode I’m on is blue balls and professionalism from here on out. Fair?”
I nod. “Yes. Fair.”
“I thought so. Enjoy the brunch.”
I step into the café and immediately feel a tightness in my chest, like I’ve walked into a room where I don’t belong.
It’s the same ache I felt weeks ago, the first time I came to New York for a meeting and realized I had no idea what power was supposed to look like until it was staring me in the face.
This place doesn’t flaunt its wealth—it radiates it. It’s in the starched linens, the gleaming brass sconces, the hush that settles over the room like reverence. Everyone here already knows they belong.
Sunlight pours through arched windows, catching on crystal flutes filled with chilled rosé and something lavender-infused. It’s too early for this much makeup, this many diamonds, and this many polished smiles. Name tags are pinned to designer dresses like medals.
Mrs. Annelise Danforth — Wife of Andrew Danforth, Co-founder of the Hudson River Art Collective
Mrs. Marigold Benton — Wife of Peter Benton, Patron of the Young Philanthropists’ Society
Mrs. Catherine Ellison — Wife of Barron Ellison, Chairwoman of Homes for Wealthy Widows
Every single one of them is someone’s wife, someone’s co-founder, or someone’s plus-one to power.
There’s not a single woman in sight, and my tag simply says, “Guest.”
I lower myself into the only remaining seat at the table, trying not to wrinkle the fabric of my dress. A waiter pours water into my glass, and I thank him with a nod—but he doesn’t look at me.
Across the table, a redhead with cheekbones sharp enough to slice cake raises her glass.
“To women who don’t need their husbands to build their empires.”
A round of laughter follows.
My stomach sinks lower and I look for a way to slink away and escape.
The woman beside me—tan, toned, and drenched in Chanel—leans in. Her perfume is floral and overwhelming.
“So,” she says, dragging the word, “what do you do?”
I straighten, forcing out the words that Harrison has hammered into me. “I help manage a luxury farm resort in Tennessee. Family-owned.”
“Oh.” She looks more interested in her wine glass. “How... fun. A farm like with chickens and pigs? Or a farm with like… Your husband runs it, huh?”
“No, it’s actually…” I stop talking when I see her glancing at my left hand and pursing her lips. She turns to the woman at her other side and starts a new conversation.
Perfect.
The waiter returns with four bottles of wine, setting them down in front of us without a word.
I scan the tasting card. I know these wines. Harrison drilled me on them all week—flashcards, phonetics, nightly quizzes. I’ve repeated them aloud so many times the names should come out like second nature.
But when it’s my turn, my tongue stumbles.
I lift my glass and say, “I think this one is a... Coat Rotty?”
A beat of silence.
The woman beside me chokes on a laugh, covering it with her napkin.
“It’s C?te-R?tie,” she says sweetly. “It’s French. Most people wouldn’t know unless they’d actually visited the region.”
Snickers ripple down the table. One woman sips her drink to hide a smile. Another arches an eyebrow and glances at my name tag.
Heat scorches the back of my neck. I take a sip of the wine to disappear into the glass, but the dryness clings to my mouth like chalk.
Time crawls. I cut my croissant too loudly. I nod too much. I keep folding and unfolding my napkin. My dress feels too tight under my ribs. My heels pinch. I try to subtly shift in my seat, but my heel snags on the tablecloth.
As I tug it free, a blonde woman across from me leans in, her voice deceptively soft.
“Oh, by the way,” she says, pointing delicately toward my back. “Your dress still has the tag on it.”
I freeze.
“You may want to tuck it in... unless you’re planning to return it later?”
My hand flies to the back of my dress, but before I can fix it— ripppp!
The entire side seam tears open with a pop that echoes louder than the clink of silverware.
The table falls silent for one perfect, horrifying beat.
Then comes the laughter.
I don’t even need to look. I feel their delight. Someone mutters something in French. Another lifts her phone slightly under the table, angling it—not quite taking a picture, but not not either.
My skin goes cold. Then hot. Then cold again.
“I—” My voice catches. I clear my throat. “Excuse me, please.”
I rise too fast, nearly knocking over my chair. I don’t look back.
I won’t give them the satisfaction.
Not one tear.
Not one word.
I walk as quickly as my ruined dress will allow, chin high, stomach in knots, and disappear into the marble-lined hallway.
I feel like I’m in high school all over again—drawing the ire of the girls with the perfect hair and impossible standards. Except this time, my dad isn’t here to tell me I don’t have to go back. That I could finish the year from home.
Don’t you dare cry, Eliza. Don’t you dare fucking cry.
I rip a wad of paper towels from the dispenser and press them against my face—not because I’m crying, but because I won’t. I bend over the sink and breathe. In. Out. Again.
My reflection doesn’t crack, but it doesn’t look brave either.
I ignore the woman drying her hands at the far sink. As soon as she leaves, I head to the door to lock it behind me. I just need a minute. Maybe two. Then I’ll leave.
But it swings open before I can touch it.
Harrison steps inside and closes the door behind him, flipping the lock.
“I hate you for making me come here,” I say quietly, not turning around.
“You have far better reasons to hate me than that,” he replies.
“You knew I’d embarrass myself in front of all those snobby-ass people, didn’t you?” My voice cracks. “Didn’t you?”
“Eliza—”
“I hate the way you say my name.”
“How would you like me to say it?” he asks, stepping closer.
“Simple. Pronounce it like: You can go back home. I’ll talk some sense into your brother.”
“Eliza.” His hands settle on my waist. “For the umpteenth time, going home is out of the question. Take a deep breath.”
I do. He tells me to take another. I obey again.
“What happened?” he asks gently.
“I learned that I hate snobby people.”
“Besides that.”
“They love talking about themselves,” I mutter.
He nods. “Good. How did they make their money?”
“I don’t think they did.” I shrug. “They just married well.”
“Exactly,” he says. “You noticed.”
“How the hell does that help me? Their husbands are?—”
I stop, the realization hitting mid-sentence.
“Their husbands are in the industry, aren’t they?”
He nods.
“Get an in with them and you’re halfway there.”
“But didn’t I already ruin my chances?”
“No.”
“They’re probably talking crap about me right now.”
“One of the waitresses spilled an entire tray of bellinis, so I doubt anyone even remembers the tag on your dress.”
I try not to smile.
“The next time they see you,” he adds, “you’ll be an entirely different person. And if all else fails, they’ll give you a second chance anyway.”
“What makes you so sure about that?”
He looks at me for a long beat.
“Because, with the exception of myself... everyone loves a good fairytale,” he says. “Especially a Cinderella story.”