Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
JULIET
-no way you’ll see me crawl-
We head over to our assigned seats, Blake's hand a steady presence on the small of my back, guiding me through the throng of glittering guests.
The space has been transformed into a sea of elegance with towering floral arrangements of white orchids and calla lilies cascading from crystal vases on pedestal tables.
Their petals are luminous under the massive chandeliers that drip like frozen waterfalls from the vaulted ceiling.
The air is crisp and chilled, carrying the scent of expensive perfumes.
We greet a cluster of people, Blake's voice smooth and commanding as he shakes hands with a silver-haired man in a tuxedo.
"Senator Schumer, good to see you," he says, his grip firm, while I smile politely beside him, my heart racing as I recognize the face from countless news clips; Chuck Schumer, the Senate Majority Leader, his eyes crinkling with that practiced warmth as he nods at me.
"Mrs. Bessant, always a pleasure."
Nearby, a woman in an emerald-green gown laughs with a group, and I realize with a jolt it's Anne Hathaway, her dark hair swept into an elegant chignon, chatting animatedly. All around are people I've only ever seen on TV screens or magazine covers, and now they’re close enough to touch. It makes this world I’m temporarily occupying feel even more surreal.
In a way, it feels like I've stepped into a dream that's equal parts thrilling and terrifying. Any moment I could trip up and….
Blake pulls out my chair at our table. I sink into the seat, the silk of my gown sliding against the upholstered cushion, and he settles beside me.
"Want a drink?" he asks, his voice low.
Before I can respond, he reaches for a flute of champagne from a waiter’s tray.
It's a bit rude. His assumption of what I would want. The casual dominance makes me bristle inwardly, but I stop myself. Of course, he knows what Carolyn wants. I give him a small smile as I take the proffered glass. At any rate, he’s not mine, I remind myself, so there’s no need to rock the boat especially in this sea of watchful eyes.
I lift the champagne to my lips and take a tentative sip.
The crisp, effervescent bubbles burst on my tongue.
Ooo, delicious, and then it hits me like a cold splash.
Carolyn doesn't drink champagne. The memory floods back from the lessons, her voice in my ear during training: "I stick to red wine or scotch. Champagne gives me headaches."
Panic surges, my throat tightening as the fizz lingers, and I freeze, the glass hovering near my mouth. Oh God, should I push it away? Make some excuse? My mind races, nerves twisting in my gut like a knot I can't untie. Will he notice? Is this the slip that unravels everything?
I glance at him sidelong, seeing his eyes on me already, that intense gray gaze steady and probing, and my pulse hammers harder, wondering if he's on to me, if every little inconsistency is stacking up in his mind like evidence.
This makes me so nervous, my fingers trembling slightly on the stem, the whole charade feeling fragile under his scrutiny.
I think for a moment, shaking my head internally—no, don't draw attention; play it cool—and instead, I set the champagne down gently, reaching for a nearby bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon from Opus One, the label sleek and dark.
I pour myself a glass with hands that aren't quite steady, the rich ruby liquid swirling.
All the while, I can feel his eyes lingering on me, that unwavering stare making my skin prickle and heat bloom under my gown as I wonder again if he's piecing all the inconsistencies together, if my every move is screaming imposter.
The whole function makes me nervous. Overwhelmed, really.
My stomach churns as I scan the room, and spot more faces that belong on screens.
Dave Chapelle is at a nearby table, his easy smile flashing as he chats with a group of environmental activists, and across the hall, Governor Kathy Hochul is laughing and mingling with celebrities.
All of them are air-kissing and networking as if this is just another Friday.
I have no idea what I'm doing here, my mind blanking on the etiquette Carolyn drilled into me.
Do I laugh at their jokes? Nod knowingly at their references to Davos or the Hamptons?
Suddenly, I can't wait for all this to be over.
What started as an adventure now seems more like a nightmare than anything else.
The weight of my deception presses down, making a headache throb faintly at my temples.
Even the jewels at my throat now feel like a noose.
The function starts then. The lights dim as the orchestra takes the stage.
A chamber ensemble from the New York Philharmonic, their instruments gleaming under spotlights.
A grand piano at the center. They launch into a performance of Vivaldi's "Four Seasons," the strings swelling with vibrant energy, the notes cascading through the hall.
I lean back in my chair, letting the music wash over me, the violin's melody soaring high and sweet, evoking images of blooming gardens and gentle rains—it's beautiful, transporting, and for the first time tonight, I enjoy something fully, my nerves easing as the piece builds to its crescendo.
Applause ripples through the crowd when it ends.
The first course is served soon after. Waiters in crisp white and black uniforms glide between tables with plates of seared foie gras and rich torchon ham on top of tiny squares of brioche toast. The main course that follows is herb-crusted rack of lamb with minted pea purée.
The meat is tender and pink, its juices mingling with a Bordeaux reduction, but I can’t eat much on account of the dress, the fitted bodice constricting my ribs with every breath.
All I can do is push the food around my plate and take tiny bites that barely satisfy me.
Blake notices and leans in close, his breath warm against my ear over the din of conversation. "Are you back on your diet?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down my spine.
I smile at him, hoping it looks genuine, but being this close is nearly giving me a stroke.
My heart stutters as I feel the heat radiating from his body through the tuxedo, solid and commanding beside me.
The scent of his cologne, that intoxicating mix of tobacco and citrus, wrapping around me like a caress.
His eyes bore into mine, gray and intense, searching as if he can see straight to my core. I feel as if I am on fire.
I have no choice then, but to get up, and murmur an excuse. I need to collect myself.
“I uh… I need a moment,” I say and head towards the powder room.
I weave through the tables. The ladies' room is a sanctuary of polished granite and soft lighting.
Mirrors line one wall and there are fresh orchids in vases.
The air is scented with vanilla air freshener.
I splash cool water on my wrists at the sink, and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
My eyes are glittering and I look like I am coming down with a fever.
I will my pulse to slow to normal before heading back, but the headache pulses stronger now.
The auction and donations have started by the time I return.
The emcee, a well-known news anchor from CNN, announces pledges from the stage as the spotlights sweep the room and crazy amounts flash on the large screens.
The spotlight falls on Blake. He gives a gracious nod.
Five million dollars flashes on the screen.
I look at him, my eyes widening. What? Five million!
That money could let Emma and me escape the grind forever, and he just casually gave it away.
His impassive expression gives the impression that money is pocket change to him, but it does stir a mix of awe and unease in me.
My headache is throbbing behind my eyes now, but before I can tell him I want to leave, the lights dim further, and a short film about the charity's work begins on the screen. It’s archival footage of restored artworks, narrated in soothing tones.
He leans in then, his lips brushing my ear again, whispering, "This should be our song," he says as the soundtrack swells to Kovac, My love, the melody rich and strange filling the hall.
“No way you’ll see me crawl. Like a shark, I’ll be ripping you apart.”
I blush, heat flooding my cheeks anew. He knows.
He knows. And yet he stands and offers his hand.
His eyes are intense, and I accept. He can’t know.
I’ll just have to convince him that I’ve changed.
My fingers slip into his warm grasp. We stand together for a second, then we join the others on the dance floor, where couples sway under the great chandeliers.