Chapter 34 Amara
AMARA
I am thoroughly convinced there is only one thing that could possibly be worse than walking into a room full of millionaires all gathered for New York’s fanciest business dinner alone, specifically when you are in love with one of those men and he’s there with his wife.
Watching them kiss ices the cake.
I understand that they’re married. I understand that he didn’t want to marry her.
But it doesn’t change the way I feel when I see her lips on his.
Especially when the last time I spent time with him, he was finger-fucking me and refusing to let me come until I told him I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours.
I want to run. But I can’t do that. For one, I’d look ridiculous. It would be obvious that I am the other woman, though I think that’s pretty obvious, considering I’m standing here pregnant and she’s over there with her lips locked on his.
I make my way over to the bar, but not before Jenica’s dress sparkles under the chandelier, catching my eye.
We’re wearing the same fucking dress.
Of course we are. Except there’s one glaring difference—she’s in a size double zero and I’m in a size double wide. Because I’m a thousand months pregnant.
Okay, so I might be exaggerating a little bit. It’s only a size eight and it’s still a little loose, but that’s not the point. The point is I want to crawl under that bar instead of sitting at it. Especially considering the fact I can’t even have a drink right now.
Why the fuck did I even come?
“Buy you a drink?” a man asks. I turn to see a handsome blond in a navy blue suit smiling at me.
“Oh. I, uh…” I point at my belly, as if it isn’t obvious on its own.
“Right. Virgin, then?”
It takes me a second to realize he means the drink and not me. Obviously.
I also realize how this must look. He’s definitely with the other company and not Apex. If he was, it would be a death sentence to be talking to me. Though with the way Ransome is, it’s dangerous either way.
But when I look back at the main table, he’s not even paying attention. He’s engaged in a conversation with a man across the table who looks equally important. Meanwhile, Jenica is hanging all over him.
“You know what?” I say as I turn back to the man. “I’d love a drink. Something that tastes like margarita but without the stuff that makes it fun.”
The man laughs, another death sentence if someone across the room hears. “Looks to me like you’re plenty fun without it. Are you here alone?”
“It sure feels that way,” I say.
After a while, a couple other women join me, all wives of men whose conversations were boring their partners to tears. Rounds of drinks are ordered, including another margarita-minus-the-fun, compliments of Navy Suit Man who has lingered despite me turning my attention towards the women.
“You know what my favorite thing about these dinners is?” a woman with a Jamaican accent in a beautiful yellow gown asks, and we all turn to her. “Dressing up like a Barbie doll only to be ignored by Ken because he’s too busy talking to his buddies about overseas affairs.”
“Listen, I’d rather listen to them talk about faraway lands than golf,” another woman says, and a third woman agrees with her.
“Amen to that, sister. I have been married into this for fifty-four years. That is fifty-four years of overpriced, itchy dresses and bitter wine, all while listening to my husband huff about drivers and grass that’s too long.”
Everyone laughs, and to my surprise, the laughs are real. Apparently this is where the party is at—with wives who have been in the game for years.
“Who would have thought the Land of Milk and Money would be so boring?” the woman with the lovely accent asks.
“What’s that?” another asks.
“Just what my husband calls the oil field.”
Giggles erupt all around.
“Like the Real Housewives of O&G,” I whisper, and then realize they all heard me.
I stop mid-sip.
But when they all break out laughing, I take it that I haven’t offended them. Thank God.
“Which one is yours, dear?” one of them asks.
The one with the blonde leach latched onto his body.
Speaking of. He’s going to smell like her perfume now, no doubt. I make a mental note to have that suit sent through the cleaners twice.
“I’m not here with anyone,” I say. “I’m Mr. Rozanov’s assistant.”
Their eyes travel down to my belly. They don’t even have to say anything. I know what they’re wondering. Luckily, they’re ladylike enough not to ask.
“Well, you look stunning,” one of them says, and I smile.
“Thank you,” I say. “If I am being honest, I really just want to go home.”
“Is your boss really keeping you here?” one of them asks.
“Essential staff, unfortunately,” I say as my eyes slice over to Ransome again. “Assistants gotta assist.”
“Well, he doesn’t seem to need any assistance from the looks of it,” the woman in yellow says.
“You know,” the second one leans in. “I hear that Mr. Rozanov and his wife got married very hastily.”
“Is that so?” I ask, sipping the last of my drink.
She nods. “Some people even say they think it was arranged.”
“Arranged by who?” the third woman asks.
“His father,” she whispers.
“I mean, he doesn’t seem particularly affectionate towards her,” the second woman says, and I can’t help but smile.
“Maybe he’s holding a candle for someone else,” I say, and they all glance over to observe.
“Aren’t we all…” the woman in yellow’s voice trails off.
They finish their drinks and go back to their respectful seats, changing face and playing their parts as they must. In the meantime, my glass is dry and Navy Suit man is still here.
“Need another?” he asks.
“You do realize this is an open bar,” I point out.
“I do. But asking if you want a drink is a good way to start a conversation.”
I smile. The bartender sets another glass in front of me.
As I take a sip, the man smiles at me. But when I look over at Ransome, his eyes are locked on me too.
And he is very much not smiling.