NOT YOUR GIRL

Chapter 2

By six o’clock, the ballroom is full and the reservation list is wrong.

I stand beside the entrance with a tablet in one hand and a phone in the other while guests in dark suits crowd the check-in desk. A waiter squeezes past with a tray of champagne. Someone near the bar laughs too loudly. The string quartet keeps playing as if none of us are one missed name away from a scene.

“Mr. Bell says he has a table for eight,” the host tells me.

“He’s on the list for six.”

“He says he confirmed it with Damien.”

I look at the screen. The table beside Damien’s is set for six, as planned. Mr. Bell has arrived with eight guests and an expression that suggests that in some world, the extra two are my fault.

“Let me check the floor plan,” I say.

The event planner, Lydia, is across the room speaking with the hotel manager. She has spent the last hour making sure every centerpiece is straight and every name card is spelled correctly. She is good at her job. She also has a gift for appearing wherever the photographers are.

I scan the seating chart. There’s an empty table near the back, meant for two executives who canceled that afternoon. I can move Mr. Bell’s party there, but he wants to sit close to Damien.

“Could we add two chairs?” I ask the head waiter.

“Not at that table. The fire lane is too narrow.”

“Then use the canceled table and move the two guests from Bell’s party to the adjoining table. We can shift the company directors one seat down.”

He checks the chart and smiles at me. “That’ll work.”

I call Lydia over before the host has to tell Mr. Bell no. She takes one look at the plan and nods.

“Eva found a way to fit everyone,” she says. “We’ll make it look like it was always arranged.”

The host exhales. Mr. Bell gets his seats. No one raises his voice.

I return to the entrance and find Damien speaking with two investors. He wears a black tuxedo and has the calm smile he uses for people who might put money into the company. When he catches my eye, he tilts his empty glass toward me.

I find a waiter and send over another drink.

The next problem arrives wearing a silver dress and carrying a phone.

“Mr. Wolfe’s car isn’t outside,” she says. “I’ve been waiting twenty minutes.”

“Who are you here with?”

“Mr. Denson. Damien invited him.”

I check the arrival schedule. Denson’s driver was meant to wait at the hotel entrance, but the car has been sent to the underground garage. I call the transport company. The driver says he’s been circling the block because the street entrance is closed.

“Tell him to use the east gate,” I say. “I’ll have someone meet him there.”

The woman in silver looks at her watch. “This is ridiculous.”

“I’m sorry for the wait. Your car will be at the east gate in two minutes.”

She walks away without answering. Rude. But I guess by now I should be used to that. Unfortunately.

I call the hotel doorman, then message Denson’s assistant with the new pickup point. By the time I reach the ballroom again, the reporter near Damien has moved closer.

“Mr. Wolfe, can you confirm the company is trying to sell its Westbridge division?”

Damien’s smile instantly goes stiff. “We’re here tonight to recognize the people who helped build this company.”

“But the lender review is next month. Are you planning layoffs?” the reporter pushes.

I take a step toward them. The reporter sees me coming and lifts her phone.

“I’m not asking for a comment from you,” she says.

“You’re blocking the entrance to the dining room,” I say. “Please move aside.”

“I’m talking to Damien.” She states, as if it’ll make me backoff.

“He’s hosting a private dinner. You can contact the press office tomorrow.”

She shifts to keep Damien in view. “So, you’re refusing to answer?”

Damien opens his mouth.

I get there first. “The company has no announcement tonight. The press office can arrange an interview if you send your questions through the proper channel.”

“I don’t need permission to ask a question.” She eyes me.

“No one said you did.” I retort back.

She keeps filming. Damien’s jaw tightens.

“Eva,” he says.

I meet his eyes. “The guests are waiting.”

For a second, neither of us moves. Then he turns back to the reporter and says, “Please send your questions to communications.”

I guide the reporter toward the lobby. She asks one more question on the way, but I don’t answer it. At the doors, hotel security takes over. When I return, Damien is already greeting the next guest.

“Thanks,” he says, passing me his empty glass.

I hand it to a waiter.

The dinner begins late, but it begins. I stand by the wall with the seating plan and keep track of speeches, dietary requests, and the company’s chief operating officer, who has misplaced his reading glasses. I find them beside the podium.

Lydia gives a short welcome and thanks the hotel staff. Damien raises a glass to the event team.

“Lydia pulled this together in a week,” he says. “We’d be lost without her.”

Applause fills the room. Lydia stands and smiles.

I look down at the tablet in my hands. I don’t need my name announced. I tell myself that as I cross the room to quietly let the kitchen know that one guest has a shellfish allergy.

The dinner runs long. By the time the last speech ends, my feet ache inside my shoes and a pin has come loose from my hair. Guests drift toward the bar. Damien stays near the table, talking to a lender and one of the board members. I make sure the cars are in place before I let myself leave.

Outside, the night air is cool. My ride home is a bus and a walk home. I loosen the straps of my shoes as soon as I get through my apartment door.

Ava, my best friend and platonic wife, is sitting at my kitchen table with a takeout container open in front of her. She looks up from her phone.

“You’re late.” She deadpans.

“Company dinner.”

“I know. You sent me a picture of the ballroom at four.”

“I sent you the flowers.”

“You sent me a picture of the flowers because they were taking over the room. I assumed you were still trapped there.”

I drop my bag beside the chair and plop down into a chair beside her. The soles of my feet throb when I take off my shoes.

Ava slides the container toward me. “Eat.”

I pick up a fork. “You’re a good friend.”

“I’m a hungry friend. I ordered too much.”

I roll my eyes at her and dig in.

She watches me take a bite. “Did the dinner go well?”

“Mostly. A reservation was wrong, a car went missing, and a reporter tried to corner Damien.”

“Did he thank you?”

I keep my eyes on the food. “He thanked Lydia.”

Ava leans back. “And you ran the whole room. As usual.”

“She planned the event.”

“Did she find the extra seats? Move the car? Get the reporter out of Damien’s face?”

I set down the fork. “I don’t need a medal Ava.” I don’t know if I’m trying to convince her or myself.

“I didn’t say you did.” Ava picks at the edge of the takeout container. “But you keep acting like being useful is the same as being seen.”

The words land harder than they should. I reach for my phone instead of answering.

There’s a missed call from an unknown number and a voicemail. I play it on speaker.

“Eva, this is Elena Reyes. I’m calling from the office of attorney Samuel Park. I need to speak with you about your great-aunt’s will. Please call me tonight if you can. There’s a condition in the document that cannot wait.”

The message ends.

Ava watches my face. “Your great-aunt?”

“I haven’t seen her in years.”

“Call them back.” She says excitedly.

I put the phone out of her reach and look at the time. It’s late, but the number is still there. My thumb hovers over the screen.

Then another message appears.

It’s from Elena.

Eva, please don’t tell Charles yet. He’s already asking questions.