Page 109 of Bastian

When a man dressed in all black nears me, I tense but then remind myself that there’s a lot of security here tonight, and although the gala is highly publicized, the media inside the event is regulated. Hell, they even forbade everyone in attendance from posting on social media for security purposes.

I pose, trying to show every angle of this masterpiece of a dress. I noticed some celebrities took the theme and ran with it. While some look ridiculous but if they feel good, then more power to them. I, for one, feel just like my baby, Ella, described me.

A billion bucks.

The gold dress fits me like a second skin showing my curves and a bit of cleavage, making me look exotic but not trashy. And when the flashes of the cameras hit my dress, it makes it look like liquid gold.

You’re solid gold… Sebastian’s words from so long ago play through my mind as I stand there for the country to judge me based on what I am wearing. Nothing matters, though. I could care less if tomorrow I wake up to have made the worst dressed list because that man–the man I should despise but clearly can’t, made me feel like the most beautiful queen in the world, and he is not even here.

Sebastian makes me feel like royalty, and to a woman like me, that for so long felt like she didn’t measure up, it means the world.

I stand for ten minutes posing for the cameras when I see her.

When I see a ghost from my past. Well, technically, she’s been very present lately since her face is plastered all over this country, almost as much as Sebastians’.

The heir to the Valentina Co. empire.

Turning, I remain stoic as I watch Andrea Nicolasi standing tall and elegant. Looking like a picture-perfect, life-size barbie dressed in a see-through red gown and her hair pulled back in a high ponytail, looking stunning as always and secure in her skin. Looking at her, I notice how everyone gravitates toward her like the sun.

But who wouldn’t?

Her smile is warm, and her posture is graceful and inviting. A total contrast to myself.

It’s funny how we kind of look alike–apart from me being a few feet taller–yet on the inside we couldn’t be more different. Whereas my eyes are the color of emeralds, hers are the same golden shade as my dress. Her eyes twinkle with happiness, and her smile is genuine while I am the queen of the RBF. Resting bitch face.

I should turn my back and head to the spot set up for interviews as they told me to do once I finished the carpet, but instead, I stand looking at a person I did wrong. A person who reminds me of all the ugly parts of me.

At this instant, I wish I were like most women.

Kindhearted women would approach and make amends with Andrea, but I’m not that type of woman. I don’t hold grudges, but I just don’t care to pretend to be someone I am not. Feeling eyes on her, she turns her head and the smile falls from her face, for a second before she recuperates and puts her A-game face on. Cameras flash all around us while celebrities waltz past us getting their pictures taken hoping to make the best-dressed list tomorrow.

Andrea’s eyes grow big when she spots me standing on the other side of the carpet, then she hides her shock with a smile but is not friendly, just cordial. I, on the other hand, just nod, acknowledging her.

There’s a silent understanding between us.

We will never be friends, but at least from what I saw in her eyes…we are not enemies either.

I turn my back to her, but not before, I catch a glimpse of her confused expression. What? She thought I was going to walk over there and throw my arms around her as if we were good friends. As if I wasn’t the bitch who told a gossip site her mother’s cause of death?

I am not a hypocrite.

I am a lot of things, yes. Cold? Yes. Bitchy? That, too. But a hypocrite? Nope.

Slowly making my way towards the sidelines, where fashion correspondents are holding the interviews, I plaster a friendly smile on my face and hope to all that is holy that it doesn’t translate as being fake. That’s the last thing I need. So, instead of pretending, I think of someone who makes me smile with pure joy. Ella. I think about how she’s probably back at the White House watching me on her tablet with Benjamin and Shaw. That does the trick because the next thing I know, the interview is going excellent. The correspondent, Suzanne, from Vogue, starts with questions about me and me only, which I appreciate. She asked me who I was wearing, and I told her House of Arnault, and she went crazy when I did. I guess she’s a fan of the Frenchman and his brand. I bet she’s mostly a fan of the man more so than the brand. Can’t really blame her, though.

She then moves to ask me how it feels to be featured on Business Magazine’s most successful women of this year, and I tell her how it still hasn’t sunk in. Honestly, I am trying to be humble, but it’s utter bullshit. Yes, it is a dream come true for me. All of it, but I’m damn proud of myself and all I have accomplished on my own and all I have done with the help of my partner, Quinne, and my tyrant, Sebastian. I don’t tell her that because most people dislike overconfident women and try to make them look conceited and frivolous. Because that’s the world we live in now. They expect us to celebrate our wins in silence, and if we dare share our accomplishments, some might take it as bragging.

The girl carries on asking me more questions about how someone as young as me started a newspaper and magazine company in such a small amount of time. She asks in disbelief, not in a bitchy and envious way, which I appreciate because then I don’t have to be rude or cold towards this girl that could very well trash-talk me on the magazine she works for.

Before, I did not care if what came out of my mouth offended anyone, but with the company, I know it’s not wise or a good business move, at least not yet.

“You are not only successful and brilliant, but you’re so stunning, girl!” I cringe at her overly friendly tone but quickly mask it with a blinding smile. “But apart from all that, you seem to be all over social media lately with your involvement with president Kenton. Have you seen what the media is calling you?”

I don’t want to talk about Sebastian with this girl. With anyone, really, but how do I get out of this without letting my usual bitchy attitude loose, which typically gets me out of plenty of uncomfortable or unnecessary situations.

Leaning forward and with a smile on my face, I reply the best I can. “The president and I have a long history together, but tonight is not about him.” I keep a fake smile. “If you don’t mind, I don’t–”

“Come on, Ari. Can I call you Ari?” She laughs, still with her overly nice act. Shit, I feel the bitch inside of me coming to the surface, wanting to tell this girl that, yes, I do mind her calling me that. How horrid. I had a feeling the interview would go south soon enough. They always want more than what you’re willing to give. It comes with the territory and this business, I understand it too well, but I am not giving anything away. Not about him or our complicated history and relationship.

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