The Best Venture (Driscoll U Diaries #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

EMMA

End of July - London - One month before the fall semester of Senior Year

If that man doesn’t take his cocky, greedy, and nauseatingly arrogant stare off me, I’m going to scream.

Michael leans in and whispers something to the redhead next to him, and it is so hilarious that she throws her head back laughing. His spiteful eyes catch mine once again, and he smirks. My lips thin as I keep a straight, bored-looking face.

This man-child has been trying to provoke me at every party we’ve run into each other this summer, and it’s honestly pathetic.

We are ancient history, as I’ve made clear multiple times.

But somehow, he can’t let it go. He’s an arrogant ass who’s mad that I dumped him four years ago when we weren’t even together… not really anyway.

Looking away, I take a sip of champagne that I wish were a vodka soda, but all they serve at the annual London masquerade ball is champagne, white wine, gin martinis, and old-fashioneds.

Taking one more swig of my champagne, I set the flute down to smooth out my light blue satin gown.

Facing forward, I straighten my white mask lined with pearls, a gift from my grandmother.

I’ve attended four of these balls, and it’s the first time she’s found a comfortable mask and let me choose my own dress and hairstyle: a bun that lets my curtain bangs hang and is easy to undo once I decide to leave.

Checking the new dainty silver watch my parents gave me for my birthday, I see that I only need to be here for another hour, which feels like an eternity.

My grandparents—who are complete snobs—expect me to act properly and demurely by saying my hellos and goodbyes to all the right people I’ve met countless times but can barely remember. I may be twenty-one, but I’ve learned it’s easier to please my grandparents rather than rebel. So, demure it is.

God, I hate that word. Demure. Who the hell says that on a regular basis?

And they expect me to find a boyfriend here, too. Ha, as if. Not one of these men is my type.

Poor little rich girl, I can’t help but think and take another large swig of my champagne, refilling my second glass without bothering to wait for the waiter to make his stop. The alcohol begins to hit me, but the big dinner helps soak it up.

Luckily, I’m alone at the table and have been for a while now, while most couples are either on the dance floor or standing, deep in conversation.

I already took care of what I needed to with the people at my table.

We ate, talked about other social events we’ve attended this summer, I answered their questions about my classes at Driscoll University… blah, blah, blah.

God, I miss my mom and dad. They might come from old money, but they’re good and funny people.

And now I sound like a baby.

A softer version of “Masquerade” by Lindsey Stirling begins to play, and I see Michael asking the redhead to dance. The annoyance I felt before increases. I may not want to dance with him, but goddammit, I love this song.

My friends back home think I don’t know how to dance, and although that’s partly true because I can’t sway my hips like my best friend does, when it comes to ballroom dancing, I’m not half bad.

Not that they need to know that. I had no choice but to learn this style of dancing for these kinds of events I’m dragged to every summer.

After all, it is my duty as a Haywood and Brighton to maintain decorum and stay active in the community.

Although I only go by Haywood for privacy reasons.

I cringe. My parents don’t give me crap as my grandparents do, and they encouraged me to pursue my journalism career when I decided I wanted nothing to do with either of the family businesses. Still, they have an image to uphold.

They married each other out of love, but in their families’ eyes, it was also a business transaction.

My parents were just lucky enough to fall in love with the right person, who also benefited them and their families financially, but they’re amazing parents and extremely humble. My mother’s parents, on the other hand…

Just thinking about marrying someone they set me up with disgusts me. They gave up on trying to set me up with their friends’ sons long ago when I’d become stubborn to the point of driving them and all those eligible sons insane.

Michael meets my eyes again and seems to think he’s achieved something, as if he’s come out victorious by dancing with another girl. He twirls the redhead and suddenly moves closer to my table than before.

Ew, no.

Enough is enough.

“Fuck this,” I murmur to myself.

I grab the bottle of champagne that’s mostly full and stomp out of the banquet hall.

Passing a group of familiar faces, I give them the bright smile I usually wear and say hello in the posh voice I’ve learned to use at these events.

The second I round the corner of the exit and enter another hall, I roll my eyes and allow myself to slouch.

This champagne isn’t nearly enough to get through tonight.

Wanting and needing some space, I continue down the hall until I find one of the rooms usually used by grooms to change in before the weddings hosted here. Opening the door, the room’s lights are dim, but I spot the leather couch I’ve become very familiar with over the past couple of years.

I hop onto the couch while taking off my white stilettos and place the champagne on the side table.

“God, my feet are killing me,” I huff. “If only I could take these damn pasties off, but then Michael and half the men in that room would be looking at my nipples,” I groan.

My bun falls as I carefully remove the pins one by one, letting my blonde hair cascade down my back. I massage my scalp, then release a loud sigh as I finally allow myself to collapse.

“Shit, I forgot to take off the mask.” I exhale sharply. “Whatever. It’s just nice to be alone.” I close my eyes and sigh once more.

“I’m sorry to say that you aren’t.”

My eyelids fly open, and I sit up, heel in hand. “Who and where the fuck are you?”

A low chuckle sounds, then there’s a click from the left corner.

There sits the brown velvet chair I forgot was in the room, with the bright lamp beside it.

My eyes take a moment to adjust before a man in an impeccable classic suit and tie, wearing a dark blue-and-black mask, appears.

The mask covers his face well, just like mine does.

He sits with his ankle resting on top of his other leg. One hand holds what appears to be a drink with whiskey, while his other is under his chin. His perfectly groomed light brown hair shines in the light.

He smiles slightly at what I assume is me staring at him. I can’t help that the guy is hot.

“Who are you?” I ask, pointing the tip of the stiletto at him.

He looks down at my weapon of choice and then back up to me. The man pauses to study my face. “I could ask you the same thing.”

I shift my hip to the side. “I’m the girl in the room with a man who was just silent for an entire five minutes while I was making myself comfortable. So, I’ll ask one more time. Who. Are. You?”

He clears his throat and adjusts himself in the chair.

“I’m someone who was here first. I didn’t follow you into the room; it just so happens I needed some alone time, too.

And I only stayed quiet because you were too preoccupied talking to yourself, which was highly entertaining, by the way.

The most exciting thing I’ve seen all night. ”

Feeling slightly embarrassed, I raise an eyebrow. “Well then…” I reach for my other heel. “I’ll leave you be and find another place for myself. Good night, whoever you are.”

I’m about to grab the bottle of champagne when he says something else with an inviting tone of voice. “Or you could stay and tell me who Michael is.”

Turning back around, I assess him. I can tell he’s older than me—maybe late twenties or early thirties, if I had to guess.

Definitely older than my usual type. He doesn’t look malicious, although you can never be sure.

I can’t say that he isn’t piquing my curiosity, but what is a good-looking man like him doing hiding in a room instead of out on the floor with a date?

“Are you a serial killer?”

He smirks. “No, but if I were, do you think I’d tell you?”

I pretend to mull over his question. Shrugging my shoulders, I set my heels back on the floor and decide to stay. I grab the bottle of bubbly and lie back down on the couch. This time, I face Mr. No-name.

“Michael’s the guy I lost my virginity to four and a half years ago.

” My lips curl upward at the sound of him choking on his drink.

The champagne might’ve made me a little tipsy.

I’m usually private about my sex life, even with my friends, but it helps that he’s a stranger I’ll never see again.

“He’s still not over it and is trying to make me jealous by sleeping with half the city, making sure the info gets back to me. ”

“And is it working?” The man’s voice is low and gruff.

Continuing to look up at the ceiling, I say, “No. It’s frustrating and pathetic. I’d feel bad for the guy if he weren’t such a pompous ass.” That brings a short laugh from him. I sit up a bit, leaning my back on the edge of the couch. “So, now you know why I need some alone time. Why do you?”

He takes a sip of his drink, eyes flickering with curiosity, hesitation, and a kind of fire. “Hiding from certain people.”

My lips straighten. “Seriously? I just told you who I lost my virginity to, I’m sure that earns me something more than ‘certain people.’”

He lets out a deep breath. “Fine. Certain people are trying to buy some property of mine.”

I let out a sarcastic laugh. “You’re hiding from people who are trying to give you money?” If only that were my problem.

A subtle grin overtakes his features, and he looks at me intensely while sipping his whiskey. I squirm under his gaze. He sure knows how to make a woman feel seen.