The lobby is deserted when I walk through, but the bored desk attendant has returned to his computer duty. I wonder if he was reprimanded for ignoring us earlier. By his lack of attention now, I guess not. The music leads me forward until I’m at the entrance of the grand ballroom. It sounds like a serious after-party on the other side of these doors. I look around, my heart racing, and then push my way inside.
There is, indeed, a party. And not a few drunken late-night castoffs, either. I spin, trying to take in all the sights at once. The room is three stories tall, with massive chandeliers, golds and yellows splashed through the room, heavy deep-red drapes framing the doorway. On the walls are panels of intricate tapestries, gold frames. There are private alcoves with benches carved into the wooden walls, guests sipping from fancy glasses. All around me are sequins and bow ties. On the low-rise stage a distinguished-looking older man plays the black baby grand piano while a woman in a gold dress sings along. The words seem slightly familiar, although off somehow. But the singer’s voice is amazing—haunting and soul scratching. I want to people-watch, so I go to find a space in the alcove, smiling as the world twirls around me.
A server in a black tux comes by and offers me a drink, bending low so I can take the glass from his tray. He smiles at me, much like the valet, and then disappears back into the crowd. This must be how celebrities live—all-night parties, free drinks. I sip from the glass and the champagne bubbles tickle my nose. My father would kill me.
I stop. Would he? Would he even care at this point?
“Is it casual Friday already?” a voice asks. I turn just as a guy about my age sits down. He’s wearing a sharp gray suit, and when he crosses his leg over his knee, I see his shoes are impossibly shiny. He’s not smiling, not like the others, but there is a definite hint of flirting in his amber-colored eyes.
“Not technically,” I respond, sipping from my drink in a movement that I hope looks natural. “But as it turns out, formal wear at four a.m. on a Tuesday is kind of douchey.”
The guy laughs, genuine and hearty, and I like the sound of it. In my world of constant faking, he’s showing me the first authentic joy I’ve seen in a while. I sip again, wondering how much champagne I’d need to forget everything but him.
“You win,” the guy says, uncrossing his legs to lean forward. “And I have to tell you, I’m quite charmed by your lack of party attire.”
“Well, that’s good, because I’m super impressed with the fact that you own a suit.”
He laughs again, and the skin crinkles around his eyes, his dimples deepen. His smile is absolutely disarming in the most wonderful way.
“Elias Lange,” he says, holding out his hand.
“Fancy,” I tease, and slip my hand into his. Rather than shake it, he brings my fingers to his lips, kissing them politely. The heat of his mouth nearly makes me swoon, and when my hand falls back onto my lap, I’m entirely self-conscious of it. As if Elias has brought that particular body part back to life. He smiles and gazes out at the party, seeming to realize his effect on me.
“I’m Audrey,” I say. “And I didn’t know there was a party tonight. What’s the occasion?”
“Same party every night. It’s what we do here.” He loosens his tie and then reaches to grab a glass from the tray of a passing server.
“We? Do you stay here a lot?” I ask.
He sips, looks at me, and sips again. “I do. Want me to show you around? I’ve about mastered the trust-fund-kid tour. Promise it’s more fun than this.”
I plan to tell him no because I don’t typically run off with complete strangers after a three-second conversation, even if he does own a suit, but my response is cut off.
“Eli,” a girl calls loudly, and then pauses to stand in front of me. She pretends I don’t exist as she speaks. “I thought we were going to dance,” she says. Her pink lips pout in a childish way I find obnoxious, and from his lack of attention I’m guessing Elias does too. Despite her behavior, the girl is stunning, a vision in a white, sparkly dress, with snow-blond hair framing her face.
“You know I don’t dance, Catherine,” Elias says casually. “I’m sure Joshua would love to take a spin with you. Would you like me to ask him?”
Catherine’s small blue eyes tighten to slits. She spins to face me as if I’ve spoken. Her glare shoots splinters of ice, stabbing me all at once. “Who are you?” she asks.
Wilting, I try to take a sip of my drink without letting my trembling hand spill the champagne. “I’m Audrey,” I respond. Elias shifts next to me like he’s about to step in. I hope he does before this girl scratches my eyes out.
“You weren’t invited here, Audrey,” Catherine says dismissively. “Now leave.”