In reality, Sloane had been bankrolling our happy hours for the past six months. She put the work in workaholic.
“Although I disagree with Isabella’s advice seventy-eight percent of the time, she’s right. You have to talk to him before you move in.” An elegant shrug. “There’s an art exhibition at Dante’s house tonight. You should attend.”
Dante owned a notoriously impressive art collection rumored to be worth hundreds of millions of dollars. His annual private exhibition showcasing his latest acquisitions was one of the most coveted invites in Manhattan.
We were technically engaged, and my lack of an invitation would’ve been embarrassing had I not been so relieved.
After I move in, I’d have to spend every night with him, so I was clinging to my freedom while it lasted. The prospect of sharing a room, a bed with Dante Russo was…unnerving.
An image rose in my mind of him sitting behind my father’s desk, eyes dark and posture arrogant, with tendrils of smoke curling around that boldly charismatic face.
An unexpected heat ran between my legs.
The press of his thumb against my lip, the smoky glint in his eyes when he’d looked at me…there’d been a moment, just one, when I thought he would kiss me. Not to show affection, but to dirty me up. To dominate and corrupt.
The warmth curled low until the heavy expectancy of my friends’ gazes pulled me back to the present.
I wasn’t in my father’s office. I was in a bar, and they were waiting for an answer.
The exhibition. Right.
A cold rush of reality doused the heat.
“I can’t show up uninvited,” I said, hoping they couldn’t see me blush beneath my alcohol-induced redness. “It’s rude.”
“You’re not a random party crasher. You’re his fiancée, even if you don’t have a ring yet,” Isabella countered. “Plus, you’re moving in soon, anyway. Consider it a preview of your new home—which you can’t move into unless you talk to him.”
I sighed, wishing I could rewind time by a month so I could mentally prepare myself for what was coming.
“I hate it when you make sense.”
Isabella’s cheeks dimpled. “Most people do. I would go with you because I love a good party crash—er, house tour, but I have a shift tonight.”
By day, she was an aspiring erotic thriller author. By night, she served overpriced drinks to overgrown frat boy types at a dive bar in the East Village.
She hated the bar, its clientele, and its creepy manager and was actively looking for another job, but until she found one, she was stuck.
“Sloane?” I asked hopefully.
If I were to confront Dante tonight, I’d need backup.
“I can’t. Asher Donovan crashed his Ferrari in London. He’s fine,” Sloane said when Isabella and I gasped. Neither of us cared about sports, but the famous soccer star was too pretty to die. “But I have to put out the media fire. This is the second car he’s crashed in as many months.”
Sloane ran a boutique public relations firm with a small but high-powered client roster. She was always putting out fires.
She motioned our server for the check, paid the tab, and made me promise to call her if I needed anything before she disappeared out the door in a cloud of Jo Malone perfume and platinum blonde hair.
Isabella left soon after for her shift, but I lingered in the booth, debating what to do next.
If I were smart, I’d go home and finish packing for my move. Nothing good would come of crashing Dante’s party, and I could call him tomorrow if I really wanted.
Pack, shower, and sleep, I decided.
That was my plan, and I was going to stick to it.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’re not on the list. It doesn’t matter whether you’re Mr. Russo’s mother, sister, or fiancée…” The hostess raised a brow at my bare ring finger. “I can’t let you in without an invitation.”
My smile didn’t falter. “If you call Dante, he’ll confirm my identity,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure he would. I’d deal with that bridge when we got there. “This is simply an oversight.”
I’d gone home as planned after happy hour and lasted a total of twenty minutes before I caved to Isabella and Sloane’s suggestion.
They were right. I couldn’t sit around waiting for Dante when my move-in date loomed so close. I had to suck it up and see him, no matter how much he annoyed or unnerved me.
Of course, in order to see him, I had to get into the party.
The hostess’s face reddened. “I assure you, there was no oversight. We are meticulous in—”
“Vivian, there you are.”
An aristocratic British accent cut smoothly through our standoff.
I turned, surprise coasting through me when I saw the handsome Asian man smiling at me. His flawlessly chiseled face and deep, dark eyes would’ve almost been too perfect were it not for the simple black frames lending him a touch of approachability.
“Dante just texted. He’s looking for you, but you weren’t answering your phone.” He came up beside me and retrieved an elegant cream invitation from his jacket pocket. He handed it to the hostess. “Kai Young plus one. I can bring Ms. Lau in so we don’t bother Dante on his big night.”
She glared at me but offered Kai a tight smile.
“Of course, Mr. Young. Enjoy the party.” She stepped aside, as did the pair of unsmiling, suited guards behind her.
Unlike nightclubs or bars, exclusive events like this rarely asked for IDs. The staff was expected to memorize and pair the guests’ faces with their names on sight.
I waited until we were out of earshot before I turned to Kai with a grateful smile. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”
Kai and I weren’t close friends, but we often attended the same parties and chatted whenever we crossed paths. His thoughtful, reserved demeanor was a breath of fresh air in the narcissistic jungle of Manhattan high society.
“You’re welcome.” His formal tone made me smile.
Born in Hong Kong, raised in London, and educated at Oxford and Cambridge, Kai’s mannerisms were a clear reflection of his upbringing.
“I’m sure your absence on the list was an oversight on Dante’s part.” He whisked two glasses of champagne off a passing server’s tray and handed one to me. “Speaking of which, congratulations on your engagement. Or should I say, condolences?”
My smile blossomed into a laugh. “The jury is still out.”
From what I’d heard, Kai and Dante were friends. I wasn’t sure what Dante told him about our engagement, but I was erring on the side of caution.
As far as the public was concerned, we were a happy, loving couple who couldn’t be more thrilled to be engaged.
“Smart. Most people treat Dante like he walks on water.” Kai’s eyes sparkled. “He needs someone to remind him he’s mortal just like the rest of us.”
“Oh, trust me,” I said. “I don’t think he’s a god.”
More like the devil sent to work on my last nerve.
Kai laughed. We made small talk for another few minutes before he excused himself to talk to an old college friend.
Why couldn’t I have ended up with someone like him? He was polite, charming, and rich enough to meet my parents’ standards.