Chapter 27
intoxication built fascination
Brooklyn
My pulse tripped as I took a steady, controlled breath, entering the rooftop venue where the Cherry Popped Lounge was located.
Activation events like these were exclusive, merely for VIP members of the brand, the true inner circle.
Of course, that included celebrities and highly publicized figures.
Influencers fell squarely into that category.
Most of the people surrounding me had more acclaims by the time they had walked for graduation than I did in my entire life.
ARA was unveiling a fine jewelry line, which would be in addition to their regular collections of engagement rings and wedding bands.
This was meant to serve as a lead-up to the launch.
The genius marketing ploy it was, the rooftop was sizzling with excitement and eagerness.
Bartenders were flitting about, offering crimson drinks with an array of cherries floating on the tops.
Cherry sofas littered the space.
There was even a photo area with cherry balloons that was slowly becoming a spot for guests to chitchat.
Cherries maintained a symbol that was creative and familiar but also interesting and luxurious. They were flirtatious, evocative, and intimate. To be played with confidently, effectively, and seductively. As a way to get what you want and also speak your mind without uttering a word.
It wasn’t one of the most delicious fruits out there, in my opinion, but between the notes and deeper meaning of it, an argument could be made that they were indeed intoxicating.
And intoxication built fascination, something that lent itself to brand recognition, just as it would with ARA. A brand that was only for those already in love—out of reach for so many, but also coveted by them just the same—was shifting their focus and expanding into one of innocent desire.
Car horns sounded below on the streets of one of the busiest cities in the world, but it was faint and unimportant up here, where reality wasn’t at the forefront.
Instead, it was a distant memory. Like when you had your cherry popped in the back of the quarterback’s car even though it was too small and gross.
Things like virginity didn’t matter in the space they had created.
Running a clammy hand over my neck, my fingers came into contact with the twisted flame topaz and multi-carat diamond necklace I wore.
The striking piece had made me a victim to siren calls…
its siren calls, as it lured me in, promising to remind me of Marco.
To feel like he was wrapped around me, with me, wherever I went.
It also reminded me that while it was vibrant with an impressive ability to withstand tough times, it wouldn’t last forever, and one careless knock could fracture it.
Durability didn’t mean anything in the grand scheme of things.
Man, why was I doing this to myself? I needed to focus on how far I’d come. Old Brooklyn would have never entertained the idea of attending this event. Let alone hoped attending it would lead to something more, something far greater than she could have ever imagined.
Old Brooklyn would have remembered she didn’t have time for things like being an influencer—or trying to get to that place—because she had other responsibilities. Ones that were time-consuming. All in the name of her family. Who had done everything for her to get her to this place.
Or she would have made her best attempt to fantastically mess this up, smearing her selfishness all over the invitation and destroying any semblance of a possibility she had in building a life. For herself. Not one that was forced upon her but because she had made it this far, and she deserved it.
But Old Brooklyn hadn’t been ready to be a wife and mother because she still hadn’t spotted the irreconcilable differences between duty to her family and independence for herself.
My hand inadvertently collided with my belly as someone bumped into me coming off the elevator. I locked my eyes onto their back, having lived in New York long enough to know people didn’t turn around or apologize, they just kept walking.
Only, the woman turned around, her long, dark-brown ponytail that no doubt was only long because of extensions, whipping around her. “Brooklyn Deluca, right?” she asked, sincerity in her voice as I placed her.
Bianca Morelli.
She fluttered her lashes, and I noticed the smudged eyeshadow, which was an excellent touch with the subtle nude lip. Very je ne sais quoi. Although I wouldn’t have expected anything less from her.
Technically, she was wrong, but that was the intention, and most days, it felt that way anyhow, so I nodded, pursing my lips. “Yes.”
Running a hand along the side of her chocolate-brown deep plunge, long-sleeve dress, she sighed, glancing around. “Quite a vivacious crowd, wouldn’t you say?”
I shrugged, looking off to where her gaze had gotten stuck.
I’d seen the man before in the press. Rocky Lombardi.
He was a PR nightmare, who refused to acquiesce to the terms of being the face of his family’s fortune.
Although, these days he was more popular in Europe.
Supposedly, the last publicist he had wasn’t on top of the things she should have been.
Rather, she favored being on top of him.
Not exactly the worst place I could’ve imagined being, but definitely not the way to keep a job when her employers happened to be his parents.
That wasn’t even including all of the scandalous rumors that flocked around him like children to an ice cream truck on a warm summer afternoon.
“You’d probably know better than me. This is my first event,” I admitted, bringing my attention back toward her.
Doing the same, she broadened a smile that had been teasing her lips since being drawn to Rocky.
I happened to have it on good authority that her relationship with her husband was as rock-solid as it got.
So, she couldn’t very well have been interested in him for the usual reasons.
In fact, if I knew anything, it likely had to do with business.
After all, Bianca had climbed the ranks, becoming one of the most sought-after dress designers in the industry.
She had started with bespoke wedding dresses, but these days she was garnering quite a bit of attention with her evening gowns.
It was women like her I most aspired to be like. Someone successful and humble with a husband and daughter. She had managed to crack the code on something I had been foggy on for quite some time.
Up until now, I wouldn’t have been surprised if, and actually expected, everyone thought I couldn’t do this. That I was going to muddy the waters somehow. I had given them every reason to think that.
Her cherry earrings dangled from her ears, the rubies and diamonds glittering under the shadow the moon cast on the evening.
“Your first event? That’s exciting. As is…
that,” she said, her hands doing as much talking as her mouth.
She waved a hand in front of her, and she brought it up and down for emphasis on my baby bump, which was definitely noticeable in the red pantsuit I had chosen to don.
The dress code was “cherry casual,” and while I didn’t exactly have a rule book to follow for these events, I relied on common sense. “Marco must be happy.”
The facts surrounding my pregnancy came into focus, and I decided to be discreet about it. Just as I had been and always would be. While she seemed like a lovely woman, she wasn’t privy to everything. “Over the moon,” I replied simply.
“So, he’s overprotective and wishes you were home with him instead of here?”
I didn’t answer because I had a feeling she was projecting her own situation onto me. However, we weren’t close enough by any means for me to inquire. I had to admit, though, she wasn’t too far off.
She moved her ruby-clustered handbag to her other hand, shifting her weight as well. “I picked up on it in your voice. Plus, I’m intuitive.”
Two women passing by with drinks in their hands laughed, one of them loudly interrupting as they couldn’t be ignored. “Have you tried the cherry butter sculpture?” they asked, shock and appreciation surrounding their words. Like they were silently approving the addition to the event.
Shaking my head, I swept a hand across my forehead, brushing loose hair out of my face.
Angles were both great and annoying. I couldn’t imagine the horror of bangs.
While, in theory, I had always wanted them, I hoped I never got any grand ideas, and it stayed a theory only.
“He’s actually really supportive of me doing this.
I’m trying to get an agent, so I can attend more events like this. ”
Despite the way my mother had handled things, leaving everything up to my father as she insisted I needed a pony for equestrian lessons or a new swimsuit every summer or a personal driver, I had a different vision.
She and my father agreed it wasn’t a good idea, but I was beginning to see things differently.
Bianca rolled her lips and held a finger up. “Greta Geller is mine. She’s the best in the business, and that’s not even me trying to brag about her. That’s just the truth.”
“Actually, I believe it.” I tucked a hand into my jumpsuit pocket, grateful I opted for ballet flats instead of the usual heels or stilettos I typically preferred. “She’s actually who I’m here to meet. Capri Deluca set it up. She’s my best friend. I guess it pays to have friends in high places.”
She shook her head. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re in high places too.”
I wouldn’t have said that. “No. I mean, Marco is, but I’m not.”
“You might as well be one and the same. You’re married, aren’t you?” Not exactly, but okay. “And yours is not a conventional marriage,” she said much to my surprise.