14. Stella
14
STELLA
T he ballroom buzzes with quiet excitement. Shadows dance across the polished floor, bathing throngs of people in half darkness as they mingle. Normally, I’d sink into the recesses of the crowd, avoiding all human contact until I could go home, but my refusal to leave empty-handed drives me deeper into the belly of the beast.
Every patron is dressed elegantly, their expensive silks and cashmere soft against my bare arms as I sweep past. Catering staff cut through the party with silver trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres, occasionally pausing in offering.
Idle chatter continues around me, and I force myself into a few small conversations—mainly about the weather and how a storm is moving in quickly. Still, I catch snippets about some royals in attendance and the name Reaper a handful of times.
Other than that, I’m mostly a ghost. It wouldn’t bother me, really, if Val’s words from earlier weren’t blaring like a siren in my head.
Be seen and heard. Network with the other attendees.
That’s not a role I’m used to playing, though. Stella Ricci was hidden away at these kinds of events. My parents didn’t think I was capable of contributing, so they’d often shut me in a room until the gathering was finished.
Back then, I didn’t mind so much because it meant I wasn’t party to the expectations of abusive criminals. My parents’ shame mostly felt like a favor. Now I’m wondering if I didn’t claim some of it subconsciously, as I find inserting myself into these conversations incredibly daunting.
My mind flickers back to my roommate. Valerie Van der Vorm demands attention. She gets what she wants.
If I’m ever going to obtain that promotion and make a real example of myself, that’s who I need to emulate.
But first, I need alcohol.
I make a beeline for the bar on the opposite side of the ballroom, noting a few vaguely familiar faces among the lingering crowd. Wealthy socialites like Juliet Bryson—a beautiful brunette, and someone who definitely overlaps in the Van der Vorm circle—crowd the balcony overlooking the room. I steer clear of her and the two men she’s speaking to, just in case.
At the bar, I order a lemon-drop shot and down it quickly, letting the liquid heat my insides. The bartender quirks a brow, and I nod toward them, taking the second glass they slide in my direction.
Just as I press the rim to my lips, a voice startles me, and the alcohol dribbles down my chin instead.
“Oh, quelle pauvre petite chiot . Are you nervous?”
My gaze swivels toward a tall woman with striking brown eyes, pale skin, and jet-black hair. Her deep-red gown does nothing to hide her lithe form and curves, and she gives me a feline smile over a martini glass as she openly ogles me.
Her assessment is warm, and I feel it somewhere in my chest.
As people pass by, they can’t seem to help staring at us—at her . She oozes sensuality, and a low heat simmers in my abdomen as she slides closer, her grin widening as she seems to tower over me.
I will a response past my lips, wiping them with the back of my hand. “What makes you think I’m nervous?”
She cocks a brow. “Aside from how quickly you just took that shot?”
My chin lifts slightly. “Okay, maybe I needed a little liquid courage.”
“Ah.” My new companion nods as if she’s already come to the same conclusion. “Let me guess: you’re a scorned lover who thought coming to an A-list party might make you feel better about your shitty love life, but you’ve quickly realized how out of your element you are. That even if your former paramour is here, they might not even care that you are when there are so many other options.”
As if to punctuate the accusation, a couple several feet away from us twists into a corner, their hands disappearing beneath their clothing as class and elegance devolve into something heady and dark. The air shifts in puffy clouds around us, growing thick as I rip my gaze from the sudden display.
At my side, the woman gives a low chuckle. “Now you’re wondering how long you have to stay before you can slip out unnoticed.”
“Something like that.”
“Well, I hate to break it to you,” she continues, her voice like pure honey, “but unnoticed won’t be possible. Not with this crowd and not with someone like you.”
“Is that so?” I purr, leaning in. I’m not adept at flirting, but she seems to be eating it up as she moves closer. “I haven’t seen any double takes, and no one is lining up to buy me a drink.”
Our hands rest next to each other on the bar top.
“They wouldn’t dare try to deny me an opportunity.” A pause as she once again sizes me up. I wonder if my cheeks are as bright as they feel. “If you know any of the people here, rest assured they know who you are, too. Even if everyone is pretending not to notice, you’re an impossible sight to look away from.”
My eyes narrow slightly as I return her sultry gaze. That almost sounds like a threat.
“You’re very forward,” I note.
Her grin widens. “‘Forward’ is synonymous with progress. How would anyone ever get what they want by standing still?”
“Ever heard of the long game?” With each word that comes from my mouth, my nerves tangle together like a cluster of fine rope.
There’s no doubt she’s out of my league.
“Are you suggesting you need to be courted?” she asks.
“It might be a nice change of pace.”
She watches me silently for several beats. Distantly, music floats toward us, winding around our bodies until it feels like it’s pushing us closer. My toes curl against the tips of my heels.
Finally, she reaches out, dragging two fingers up my forearm. Compared to the length of the rest of her nails, these two are cut short, and a delicious shiver works down my spine at the clear message.
“Look,” she says, edging closer. Spicy perfume wafts in my direction, seizing my senses. “You can stand around, waiting for someone to sweep you off your feet here. Eventually, one of these wealthy fuckers is bound to pay attention to you. Maybe they’ll opt for a marriage proposal instead of something they can purchase tomorrow.”
My brows furrow as she plucks the drink from my hand.
The woman pauses again, and then I feel those same two fingers graze my side, my hip, the curve of my waist. My gaze flies to hers, and I swallow over the sudden flare of nerves bursting low in my abdomen.
“ Or …” she continues, her eyes hooding as she leans over and into me. She’s warm, hot even, and I wish I had another drink so I could quench the thirst now claiming me. “We could slink off to one of the little outbuildings on the property, and I could spend the night devouring you.”
Oh my God. My pulse skips a beat, hammering in my neck. I can barely hear over the cacophony of drumming and chatter around us.
I swallow again, every muscle in my body drawing taut. Sweat beads along the expanse of my skin.
It’s been so long since I felt an inkling of anything sexual or romantic for anyone that I’m not entirely sure what to say.
She lifts a brow, beckoning an answer.
It’s clear this is not a woman used to waiting.
“I don’t even know your name,” I tell her. I don’t know what I’m saying or why I’m saying it. It’s not like I’d really do anything with this stranger— right ?
You’re married, Stella.
Which is true, in reality, but my husband has kept his distance for seven years. I’m not stupid enough to think he can’t find me, so maybe the problem is he honestly doesn’t want me.
For some reason, that almost deflates the balloon of warmth bubbling up inside me. As if I find that prospect disappointing even though it’s what I’ve always claimed to want.
“Genevieve Deveraux,” she answers immediately. Eagerly. “But if you want, for the night, you can call me ‘Mommy.’”
Jesus.
Head spinning, I steal a glance around the room. Other attendees mingle, oblivious to the seductress in their midst—or biding their time, just like me.
My options are limited: make small talk with strangers until the auction, or stow away into a dark room with this woman who promises a night of grandeur and passion. Maybe if I go with her, I can get a look at the orchid up close.
Excitement thrums through my veins at the image of being in the same room as such a powerful little prize.
“Fine,” I say after a moment. “But I want you to take me to the viewing room.”
Genevieve’s dark brows arch. “What makes you think I have that sort of access?”
The bartender shoves a third shot in my direction and then gives her one as well.
I hold the glass up, gesturing at her with it. “You look like an important woman. I’d venture a guess that even if you don’t have access, you can probably get it.”
“I suppose showing you won’t hurt. You’ll see it all tomorrow anyway.” She takes her shot, brings it to her mouth, and runs her tongue along the rim once before swallowing in one gulp. When she slams the glass back on the counter, she snatches my drink from me and finishes it off, then grabs my hand and yanks me from the bar.
Seconds later, she’s dragging me out of the ballroom through an arched doorway and into a narrow, dimly lit hall. To our right is a foyer with a massive split staircase, and guests continue to enter past the primly dressed concierge stationed at the front door.
We veer left, down the hall and through a connecting corridor, take a couple of steps, and then she shoves me toward a dark room. Several Black Rose Auction guards stand outside, stone-faced, even as she approaches. Flipping her hair off one shoulder, Genevieve flashes a card at them, and one of them nods, reaching for the handle and pulling the door open.
Inside, a few glass cases make a circle in the middle of the room, each object housed within illuminated by soft white lighting.
My eyes find the orchid immediately. It’s a large specimen with an eight-inch diameter and bright white petals that appear to glow purple, depending on how the light hits it.
It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. There’s this magical quality, like it might actually possess the power to aid in more arduous cancer treatments as some sort of super drug, like the reports all say.
A hand curls around my biceps, halting my progression. Genevieve steps up, turning me to face her.
Our chests brush as I right my footing, and she loops one of the accent pieces of hair framing my face around her index finger. My breasts feel heavy and tight.
“You’re in the viewing room. Now, what’s in this for me?” Her eyes seem to glow, deep brown burning red as she looks down into mine.
“What do you want?”
“Well, we’ve already established that much.” She plucks at my bottom lip with her thumb and then slides her palm along my jaw. “I’m just curious if you taste as sweet as you look.”
Sweat slicks my palms, and I press them to the sides of my thighs as she leans in, tilting my head so it spins and spins and?—
“Do you often make a habit of kissing other people’s wives, Mrs. Deveraux?”