Constance
Things took a turn then.
After my tense exchange with Tyler, just when we’d parted ways, Dorian’s security informed me that he would be occupied for the rest of the evening.
You were supposed to take me upstairs, I’d protested, weakly.
He’ll find you when he’s ready, Omar had said flatly from his towering height.
So I was back at Hotel de Gloom, surrounded by every snack the vending machine had to offer.
I liked to pretend I was the kind of sophisticated, independent woman who wouldn’t think twice about taking herself out to lunch—table for one, phone face down, feminist bravery plastered on—but I couldn’t do it.
I ignored everything: Julie Lillie’s increasingly snide comments about the cheap-looking accessories I’d suggested for her and how we really needed to have a serious conversation about her vision for the rest of her Cannes outfits, the look on Tyler’s face when he’d mentioned that story, the emails from the designers who were badgering me about when they were going to see their wares in the media and on whom.
I was too busy checking my phone every five seconds, looking for signs of Dorian.
Dorian, who hadn’t felt the need to “find me” yet.
I was angry. There, I said it. Why is it so shameful, as a woman, to admit that you’re so absolutely fucking enraged?
That you shouldn’t have to feel bad for wanting what you want and for going after it.
That it’s okay—more than okay—to believe a man like Dorian Fisher might want to be with you for real.
But I’d never admit to myself that he might be doing something wrong.
I did what I always did when I was mad at the world.
I put on a fresh outfit, loose navy pants in a flowy fabric and a white tank top.
I added my hoop earrings and slid into my new leather sneakers, the only purchase I’d allowed myself during my months of unemployment.
I put on a full face of makeup. I told myself that this didn’t count as waiting for Dorian.
And now, I wanted to eat. There was nothing left of interest in the vending machine; I’d already singlehandedly pillaged the thing. I headed down to the lobby anyway, if only to pass time.
I was about to exit the elevator when a couple staggered toward me.
The woman was Laila, giggling loudly. Her cheeks were red. The guy was younger, holding on to her waist. His eyes shined like a predator’s.
“Connie! You! Are! Here!” Laila exclaimed in a fit of giggles, punctuating every word.
She wasn’t just drunk. She was past good decisions. I got out of the elevator to get closer to her.
“Samuel is walking me back to my room,” Laila scream-whispered to me. “There was a party. On a boat. With a lot of champagne. And no water anywhere.”
She cracked up, then twisted her neck so she could look at him. He was holding on a little too tight and his smile was strained.
“Wait, there was water,” she added conspiratorially. Then, lowering her voice even more, “There was water all around the boat. So much water. It was very blue.” She was almost moved to tears. “Do you like blue, Connie? I think you do.”
“I like blue.”
The guy, Samuel, cleared his throat. “What floor are you on, Laura?”
“I got it,” I said.
He didn’t even know her name.
His smile faded a little as he made a move for them to get in the elevator.
“It’s all good,” he said.
I held onto Laila’s elbow.
“Enjoy the rest of your day,” I said to him so pointedly that he slowly let go of her.
He was still well within earshot when Laila said, “Is he cute or is it the accent? That’s the problem with French guys, you can’t always tell.”
He made a face as he left, probably realizing he’d dodged a bullet. Because, as soon as the door closed on us, Laila bent over and threw up all over my sneakers. The acid stench of her bile made me retch, too, but I managed to keep it all in. My new sneakers were ruined.
“Where did he go?” Laila asked two minutes later outside her room, as I fished around her clutch for her key card.
Then she pursed her lips. “Do I have his number?”
“I don’t know,” I said annoyed.
She wiggled out of my hold. “I have to get his number!”
“No, you don’t!”
She tried so hard to shove me away that she elbowed me in the face.
“Stop telling me what to do, Mom!”
I got the door open just as Laila threw up again.
This time I managed to shuffle off target, but the vomit hit the inside of the room.
After that she let me drag her to the bed, where I lay her down with some effort.
Laila was small, but so was I. I got her a glass of water from the bathroom along with a towel that I’d run under the tap.
I was being a good friend. I was going to make sure she was okay on her own, that she had everything she needed.
I was even going to clean up that patch of regurgitated champagne.
And then I would leave.
That was the plan. And I did do most of those things.
Except I didn’t leave. Not right away. Because once Laila was drifting off to sleep, I took in her room.
Her clothes were neatly tucked away in the closet—silky tops, matching skirts, an impressive collection of designer shoes and bags, the kinds that one could definitely not afford on whatever she was making at her job.
The rest of the room was a mayhem of Clapard shopping bags and black boxes in various sizes.
They were on every surface and all over the floor.
“Thirsty,” Laila called from the bed. She sounded half-asleep already.
I got her another glass and helped her sit up to drink it, avoiding a glance at my shoes, which I was desperate to take off. The smell was awful, but Laila didn’t seem to notice.
“Saw Dorian Fisher in the marina,” she slurred almost inaudibly, “getting on a yacht with a girl.” Laila sighed. “A woman. Not a girl. But young.”
My spine tingled. “Who?”
Laila broke out in a laugh.
“Who?” she said, mimicking the urgency in my tone.
I wanted to slap her a little bit. Remember, her liquid lunch was soaking through my shoelaces. And yet, somehow, it still felt like Laila had the upper hand. She knew things about Dorian that I could only dream of finding out.
“Oh, Connie…” She lay back down and rolled to her side, facing me.
“You’ve always had such horrible taste in men.
Why do you keep doing this to yourself? You’re so smart and talented, but then you go and ruin your life for the promise of a good fuck.
” She clasped her hand against her mouth. “Whoops.”
She mumbled a few more things, but I couldn’t hear her anymore.
How did she know? What did she know? And why was everything she’d just said so fucking true?
Look, I know who I am. It doesn’t make sense that women can be independent, bright, have their shit together and still be completely defenseless in front of guys who give them too much attention.
But it wasn’t just any guy, okay? And not everyone gets to grow up in a loving family with so much fucking money.
Fury rose within me; Laila couldn’t get it. She was used to men fawning over her, treating her like a princess. I felt the urge to unleash on her, but she’d stopped moving. A soft snore came from the pillow she’d buried her face into, the only indication that she was still alive.
I got up, trying to avoid looking at all the Clapard boxes.
I knew they didn’t belong to Laila, but I had so many reasons to be mad at her.
She had this job. She was wealthy and cool and successful, always.
My mind went to Julie Lillie, who had complained about the jewelry options I’d presented her with increasingly specific insults.
No one cares about a Hungarian brand that makes earrings out of recycled metals melded by nuns! Silver is for basic bitches!
I imagined the look on her face if I told her about all the Clapard pieces that would never be lent—let alone gifted—to someone like her. I peeked inside the first bag, but it was empty. All the black velvet boxes I opened were as well.
I rummaged around the tiny wardrobe, confused. That’s when I saw the safe. It was at the bottom, covered by a silk blouse that had slipped down from its hanger. And the door wasn’t even closed.
It couldn’t close because it was stuffed with black velvet pouches.
Inside one, I found the bestselling Clapard bangle, the one you saw on the wrist of every celebrity from LA to London.
It also adorned the wrists of every wannabe It Girl who could swing the $7,000 price tag.
And that was for the entry-level model in plain gold.
Because silver, as Julie Lillie had correctly pointed out, was for basic bitches.
Inside another velvet pouch, I found the ring version.
And in another, a matching necklace. Julie Lillie’s final Cannes event was the following night.
She’d already implied that would be the end of our “collaboration.” She’d only paid me half my fee, and I wasn’t holding my breath about seeing another dollar from her.
Unless… Unless I told her that a Clapard representative had lent me those specifically for her.
I studied Laila’s unconscious body. I could have asked her when she woke up. Who knows, she might have agreed, as a favor. But now that the idea had settled in my head, I couldn’t go back. I needed these pieces. I needed to do at least one thing right.
I glanced at Laila again.
I wished her no harm, seriously.
I would return these, obviously.
I wasn’t stealing anything, technically.
There were dozens of pouches in that safe.
The safe that was left open. These pieces were nothing to Clapard.
Laila was a junior employee; they wouldn’t leave anything too valuable with her.
Though if you added up the cost of every piece in here…
Maybe that was still nothing to Clapard, or they really should have put Laila up in a better hotel.
If I grabbed a handful, no one would notice they were missing.
And I turned out to be right about this.
I was very, very, wrong about a lot of other stuff, but I was right about that.