CHAPTER 3: The banquet
1350 Words
Maya
Saturday. 6:47 PM. A car I cannot afford is waiting outside my apartment.
The dress was gold.
Of course the dress was gold.
I stood in front of my full-length mirror, smoothing my hands down the silk fabric for the twentieth time, trying not to hyperventilate. The gown was backless. Completely backless. It fell from my collarbones to just above my ankles, with a slit that went dangerously high on my left thigh.
I looked like a movie star.
I looked like someone who definitely did not live in a one-bedroom walk-up with a wine-stained rug.
A car service had delivered the dress two hours ago, along with a velvet box containing diamond earrings and a note in handwriting I recognized even though I'd only seen it once.
You're paying for these, right? I'd texted Julian.
You're worth it. He'd replied.
I still hadn't decided if that was romantic or terrifying.
My phone buzzed.
Julian: Car is there. Don't make me wait.
Maya: You've waited 34 years. You can wait five more minutes.
Julian: Four.
I grabbed my clutch, took one last look in the mirror, and walked out the door.
---
7:12 PM. The Fairmont Olympic Hotel.
The car pulled up to a red carpet.
A literal red carpet.
There were photographers. Reporters. A velvet rope separating the plebeians from the people who mattered. I'd seen galas in movies. I'd never attended one.
"Maya Chen," I whispered to myself. "You sent a thirsty text. Now you're living in the consequences. Breathe."
The car door opened.
A gloved hand appeared.
I took it, stepped out, and immediately forgot how to walk.
Because Julian Blackwood was standing at the end of the carpet, waiting for me.
He wore a black tuxedo. Perfectly tailored. His dark hair was swept back from his forehead, and his grey-blue eyes were fixed on me with an intensity that made my stomach drop.
He looked like a man who owned the world.
And he was looking at me like I was the only thing in it.
I walked toward him. The cameras flashed. Reporters shouted questions I couldn't hear over the blood rushing in my ears.
"You're staring," I said when I reached him.
"You're gold," he replied.
"That's not an answer."
He offered his arm. I took it. His bicep was hard under my fingers.
"The board is watching," he murmured, leaning close enough that his lips brushed my ear. "Smile like you like me."
"I don't like you."
"Then smile like you tolerate me for my money."
I laughed. Genuinely laughed. The cameras flashed again.
"There," Julian said quietly. "That's the one they'll use."
We walked inside.
---
7:30 PM. The ballroom.
Crystal chandeliers. White flowers everywhere. A string quartet playing something classical and expensive. I'd never been in a room that smelled like money before.
It smelled like vanilla and desperation.
"Julian!" A woman's voice, sharp and commanding.
I turned.
An older woman in a navy gown approached us. Her hair was silver and severe, her cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. She looked at me the way a hawk looks at a mouse.
"Margaret Henley," Julian murmured. "Lead board member. Smile but don't engage."
"Julian, darling." Margaret air-kissed both his cheeks. "You actually brought someone. I'm shocked."
"I told you she was real."
"Real and…" Margaret's eyes swept over me from head to toe. "...young."
I extended my hand before Julian could speak. "Maya Chen. Marketing associate. Third floor."
Margaret's eyebrows rose. She took my hand but didn't shake it. Just held it, like she was examining a piece of fruit for bruises.
"Marketing," she repeated. "How… quaint."
"I like to think of it as essential," I said, still smiling. "Someone has to convince people your product isn't boring."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Julian made a sound that might have been a cough or a laugh. I couldn't tell.
Margaret released my hand. "Interesting," she said slowly. "Julian, you've found yourself a feisty one." She turned and walked away without another word.
I exhaled.
"You just insulted the most powerful woman in the room," Julian said.
"You said smile but don't engage. You didn't say anything about being a doormat."
He looked at me for a long moment. Then his mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile but wasn't not a smile.
"Gold dress," he said. "Feisty mouth. You're going to be trouble."
"I sent you a thirsty text. You blackmailed me into fake dating you. Trouble was inevitable."
He offered his hand. "Dance with me."
"That's not a question."
"It wasn't."
---
7:45 PM. The dance floor.
His hand settled on my lower back. Bare skin. His palm was warm.
The other hand held mine, fingers interlaced, thumb tracing slow circles over my knuckles.
We swayed. The quartet played something slow. I tried very hard to remember how to breathe.
"You're tense," Julian said.
"You're holding my spine."
"It's a waltz."
"It's a violation of workplace ethics."
He pulled me closer. Just an inch. But it was enough to feel the heat of him through his tuxedo.
"Three months," he reminded me. "Then you never have to see me again."
The words should have been comforting.
They weren't.
"Why me?" I asked quietly. "There are a hundred women in this building who would have said yes without blackmail. Actresses. Models. The former princess Margaret mentioned. Why the junior marketing associate who accidentally objectified you in a group chat?"
Julian was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, "Because you looked at the orchid."
"The what?"
"The orchid on my desk. You looked at it twice." His eyes met mine. "No one else ever has."
"That's…" I swallowed. "That's the reason? A flower?"
"It's not a flower. It's the only living thing in my office. Everyone else walks in and sees the glass and the gray and the cold. You saw the orchid." He spun me slowly. When I came back to him, his face was softer. "You see things other people don't, Maya. That's dangerous. For me."
"Dangerous how?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he dipped me. Just slightly. Just enough to make me gasp and grip his shoulders.
"Careful," he murmured, pulling me back up. "The board is still watching."
"You're enjoying this."
"I'm tolerating it."
"You're a liar."
His thumb traced my knuckles again. "Yes," he said quietly. "I am."
---
10:15 PM. The balcony.
I'd escaped for air.
The gala was beautiful and overwhelming and every five minutes someone new approached Julian to talk about things I didn't understand—mergers, acquisitions, stock prices, something about a hostile takeover that Julian dismissed with a wave of his hand.
Every time, he kept his hand on my back. Every time, he introduced me. Maya Chen. She's with me.
She's with me.
Fake. It was all fake.
But his hand felt real.
The balcony overlooked the city. Seattle glittered below me, all lights and rain and ordinary life. I leaned against the railing and let the cold air hit my face.
The door opened behind me.
" hiding," Julian said.
"Observing."
"From the dark?"
"The dark is honest." I didn't turn around. "Lights lie. In the dark, you can't pretend to be something you're not."
He came to stand beside me. Close, but not touching.
"I owe you an apology," he said.
I turned. "For what?"
"For the way I handled the text. The ultimatum. The desk comment." He stared out at the city. "I should have just deleted it. Pretended I never saw it."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because I'm selfish." He looked at me. "And because I've been thinking about you for three months, and this was the first excuse I had to do something about it."
The words hung in the air between us.
"Julian…"
"I know." He stepped back. "It's fake. Three months. I remember." He opened the balcony door. "Come on. Margaret wants a photo of us together. Proof of life."
He held out his hand.
I took it.
And for one stupid, dangerous second, I wished it wasn't pretend at all.
- Writer
