“Naturally. You don’t miss anything in this town, I imagine,” Duchamp said, clearly trying to please her, to placate her. “You will attend this ball this evening. And, as you might expect, our dear friend Enrico Fonti will also be in attendance.”
“And surely, he’ll already have a date for it,” Aimee murmured. “There’s no way I can intercept that.”
“Don’t worry about that for a moment,” Duchamp replied, a sneer in his tone. “We’ll take care of her. At any rate, Enrico probably doesn’t remember the girl’s name. She’s just another on a long list of flings he’s had since arriving in Monte Carlo. You, of course, know that all too well, even if you didn’t sleep with him.”
Aimee swallowed, her brain fizzing with anger at having such a private moment discussed in such a blasé way. But she trudged on. “So. You’re making sure his date won’t be there. And then what?”
“You’ll be there, my dear. Looking beautiful as ever. And you’ll become Enrico’s impromptu date, just like that.”
“You make it sound so easy,” Aimee said, leaning her head back. She felt the sun’s reassuring rays upon her cheeks, toasting her skin. “But these aren’t the usual circles I mix in—I don’t even own a single dress that could work for such a grand occasion.”
“Don’t you worry about that, either” Duchamp said, his voice overflowing with confidence. “I anticipated this very fact, and I’ve arranged for my people to bring something elegant for you—sized precisely for your body. They’ll arrive at your place at six p.m. Be watching for them.”
“And then what? I’m just supposed to force Fonti to take me up to his room?” Aimee whispered, anxiety fueling through her. “I was drunk last time; it wasn’t like I planned it.”
“Aimee, you’re a woman of the world. Do whatever you think is best to get what you want.”
The phone clicked as Duchamp hung up, leaving Aimee with a sour taste in her mouth—a mix of black coffee and disgust. She felt she was on a conveyer belt, being pushed to the next stage of her life without a moment to leap off. She’d stitch herself into a grand ball gown and fabricate a new persona—one that would woo Enrico and allow her to betray him.
***
Aimee hustled back to her apartment and, on her computer, closed the tab where she’d been searching for apartments in Seattle. That reality was over, cinched off, done. She paced around the room, too harried to eat, too nervous to take a nap, sipping anxiously on a glass of red wine, waiting as the clock ticked toward six.
The rap at the door came precisely as the clock struck. Aimee darted from the sofa and opened it, finding the crooked, grey-faced man from the previous day before her, holding a garment bag with two creaky hands. He held it out to her, wordlessly.
“Thank you—” she mumbled, but he was already heading back to the car that waited with blacked-out windows, leaving her alone with her humming thoughts, her anticipation, and the enormous, heavy ball gown. She heaved the bag onto her bed, then unzipped it, bit by bit.
When she first caught a glimpse of what was inside, she could hardly breathe. Air caught in her throat, and she sat down on the bed, her fingers tracing the subtle beading on the dark green, floor-length gown, the neckline of which would dive down her sternum, beyond her breasts, toward her belly button. She pushed her yellow sundress from her shoulders and went into the bathroom to scrub herself down, to curl her hair, to apply fresh makeup. When she’d met Enrico the week before, she’d been sloppy, post-shift, her eyeliner smudged and her curls winding haphazardly down her back. Tonight, the night of the ball, that kind of insouciance just wouldn’t do. Enrico would dismiss her with a condescending laugh, and he’d move on to the next woman—to one who actually belonged there.
But as she swiped foundation over her forehead and powdered blush over her cheeks, Aimee saw the emergence of a stunning woman in place of the tired hotel clerk she was used to viewing in the mirror. The light that filtered in through the window highlighted her fine cheekbones beneath her soft, tanned skin.
Excitement began to course through her and, if only for a moment, she fantasized about Enrico taking her back to his penthouse, throwing himself over her and kissing the tender skin of her neck, whispering sweet, Italian nothings in her ear as she wrapped her arms around his muscular back.
She stepped into the dress, zipping it up the back with one swift movement. The dark green made her hazel eyes glow, and she paired it with silver heels and her best jewelry—a matching earring-and-necklace set of silver stars, from her mother. She checked for any lipstick on her teeth before grabbing her purse and rushing out the door.
As was expected, a limousine awaited her, humming outside the door. She tapped toward it on her heels, hesitant. The grey-faced man appeared from the driver’s position wearing a chauffeur’s uniform, and he opened the door for her, gesturing.
“My lady,” he said, his tone sneering. His eyes didn’t meet hers even once; they kept darting around, making the air between them uncomfortable.
Aimee slipped into the back and tucked her dress beneath her legs, watching as the grey-faced man shoved the door closed and rushed to the front seat, whizzing them from the street corner toward downtown. She clung to her knees, her stomach tying in acrobatic knots as she watched familiar sights zoom past them.
As they neared the ballroom, Aimee was struck by a feeling that everything she’d known in her life, her very sense of self, was about to change. She was diving down head-first, unable to see the bottom, hopeful only that she would come up for air on the other side, with enough strength to follow through and save her father’s hotel.
SEVEN
They reached the venue, and the grey-faced man pulled up against the curb, slamming on the brakes, and causing the car to shudder to a stop. The jolt made Aimee gasp, and she put her hand to her mouth, staining her fingertips with red lipstick.
The man made no apology; he only flung himself from the front seat and pulled Aimee’s door open. The orange-tinged sunset crept into the backseat, and Aimee blinked into it, accepting the doughy hand of her driver. With surprising strength, he pulled her from the vehicle and onto her teetering heels. He gave her a final, jolting nod, before gesturing forth, toward the entrance of the ballroom.
A long, thin red carpet descended from the ancient building, which was nearly castle-like, with large, deep-grey stones and flags flapping from the top in the gusty evening wind. Aimee hesitated, listening to the wheels of the limousine squeal as the grey-faced man spun away.
With no other option, she took tentative strides, following a long string of billionaires in tuxedos, all of them with scantily clad women on their arms. Their hair gleamed orange in the sunset, their perfume thick in the air around her. It was the very glamor Aimee had grown up surrounded by—the very kind she hadn’t been welcomed amongst. She lifted her chin higher, her nervous eyes darting around the scene. She had to find Enrico.