Page 17 of Gilded Princess

Like most places Blaire frequents, there’s a dress code. I decided on one of my favorite summer dresses today. Spaghetti straps angle toward my neck and crisscross over my back, leaving my shoulders bare to the summer sun. It’s a modest v-cut that falls to the tops of my sandaled toes. Gray and white flower peony blossoms break up the blue, giving the dress a summery vibe. It’s lightweight and breezy while still falling within the restaurant’s guidelines.

I open the heavy door to the restaurant and step inside. The air conditioning is going at full blast, the force enough to send an avalanche of goosebumps racing down my body.

Everything inside is decorated in rich golds and deep matte blacks. A wall of detailed glass extends up all three floors. It looks more like a piece or art than just a standard window. It’s frosted, so minimal light shines in, furthering the ambiance of the space.

It’s moody with rich fabrics covering the chairs and booths. Textured tapestries hang from the walls, serving as volume control and decor. Golden sconces light up the space with dim light every so often and gold chain-link chandeliers hang over the booths.

As I make my way to the hostess station, I can’t help my wandering eye. I’m looking for him without even really giving myself permission.

But how will I recognize a man I only saw in the dark—and in a mask?

“Madison!” Blaire calls as I reach the hostess stand.

“It seems my party found me already.” I flash the hostess a small smile as I wave a hand at Blaire. She’s waiting on the second-floor landing with her purse in hand. Surprisingly, she’s not surrounded by her usual posse. They either didn’t arrive yet, or she’s late. Considering Blaire thinks five minutes early is ten minutes late, I doubt that’s the case.

I take in her appearance as I close the distance between us. She’s dressed in a tight black pencil skirt with a subtle texture print and an off-the-shoulder teal shirt. Her favorite red-soled shoes pull the look together, but it’s oddly casual for her. Usually, she uses every opportunity to dress to the nines when she’s in public.

“Hey, babe. You okay?” I ask as I ascend the stairs.

“Fine, why? I’m just working on that friend thing.” She looks over the first floor as she talks, but I don’t miss the slight pink in her cheeks.

The other thing Blaire confessed to me last year? She doesn’t have any real friends. The girl’s been groomed to be a gossip monger her whole life, so it’s not hard to understand why. And even though I don’t trust her like I do Lainey or Mary, I think we’re slowly building a friendship. A real one, not that fake stuff she has with those other girls where they secretly gossip and one-up each other all the time.

“Good,” I tell her with a twist of my lips.

No sooner than I stand on the landing does she link her arm with mine. “Let’s go. I’m famished.”

* * *

It’s been an hour, and still, I don’t see him. I find myself staring at every new face milling around. Blaire said this was a lunch, and it’s my fault for not pushing it further, but it feels more like some sort of function.

Small plates are placed around various two-top and four-top tables at random inside the small hall usually reserved for banquets or parties. It reminds me of a round robin, only you’re encouraged to go from table to table to chat and eat.

I sip a peach Bellini as I scan the room again, looking for any familiar—or unfamiliar—faces. I’ve eaten a few things here and there, but most of the people here are backstabbing assholes who’d rather talk about one of three things: parties, gossip, money.

It’s all just so predictable and . . . boring.

With a realization that feels like one of those lightbulb moments you see in cartoons, I come to terms with the fact that I’m bored here. And maybe with the majority of these people. I almost expect to see a hand drawn lightbulb above my head.

All the parties and petty gossip and comparing net worths. It’s exhausting.

And total bullshit. It’s so bland and fake that it makes my ears bleed. Where’s the passion? The genuine interest?

Maybe it’s just a phase—or the closing of one phase, perhaps. I’m in a transitionary period. My morning horoscope told me as much.

Or maybe I don’t fit in with these people anymore. Maybe I never did.

An outlier.

With that thought heavy on my heart, I excuse myself to the restroom. Not that anyone in earshot cared too much—the girls kept on chatting about the newest teacher at St. Rita’s and rumors of her hooking up with a teacher from another school.

The hallways of The Grasshopper are dimly lit and quiet in this part of the building. I guess this is mostly original architecture back here, and since it was built in a time of narrower specs, the hallways are tighter than I’m used to. It’s a good thing I’m not particularly claustrophobic, or this ornate hallway might be an issue.

Large, gold thick-framed paintings line the wall, breaking up the salmon-and-cream thick-striped wallpaper. Renaissance-style depictions of people I’ve never heard of watch me walk toward the ladies’ room at the end of the hallway. There are only two additional doors in this hallway apart from the restrooms, and they’re both small conference-room-sized spaces used for private dinners.

I’ve attended dinners and functions at The Grasshopper before. I guess you could say it’s a favorite amongst this crowd.

I’m halfway down the hallway, idly humming a song I’ve been practicing for our next open mic night at O’Malley’s Pub, when I sense it. The unmistakable feeling of being watched.

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