Page 32 of I Would Die for You

Left alone, Cassie alternates between watching them disappear behind a display case and staring at Ben as he holds court among a bunch of aging executives and what looks to be a gaggle of their wide-eyed daughters.

Wearing a red blazer over a black vest and a smile that could power the whole of South Kensington, Cassie’s heart feels as if it’s about to take flight—along with a hundred others, no doubt. But she’ll wait her turn—play it cool while he works the room, getting to her when he’s sweet-talked the suits and charmed every other girl along the way.

“A vol-au-vent?” asks a waiter, shoving a tray under her nose.

Too polite to refuse, Cassie takes a pastry cup and instantly regrets it, not knowing how she’s supposed to negotiate a glass and an hors d’oeuvre while maintaining any degree of decorum.

Her face must say it all, as when she looks up, Ben is staring straight at her, smiling, as if he can read her innermost thoughts. Her cheeks flush with a red heat that grows hotter the more she tries to stop it.

“Oh, hi,” comes a voice from behind her. “Weren’t you at the party the other night?”

As much as Cassie is thrilled to be recognized—a sure sign that she’s been initiated into the inner circle—she is equally horrified when she turns around to find Kimberley Banks standing there, holding a cigarette up to her painted pink lips.

“Oh,” is all she can think to say, her brain feeling like a ten-ton truck has slammed into it.

“Have you seen Micky about?” asks Kimberley, looking around.

“Er, no,” says Cassie, sticking to single words for fear that she’llinadvertently divulge that he’s currently screwing Amelia behind the eight-foot-yeti exhibit.

“OK, cool,” says Kimberley, turning toward the bar. “I guess I’ll have to amuse myself until he is, then.”

Cassie holds her breath as she watches Kimberley veer dangerously close to the glass cabinet, before she’s thankfully thwarted by Luke. Whether he does it because he knows what’s at stake, Cassie’s not sure, though she imagines the band are more than used to covering for Michael’s indiscretions.

By the time Cassie’s turned her attention back to Ben, he’s whispering to a girl with a blond poodle perm and too much electric-blue eyeliner. She knows he has to talk to people—it’s a networking event, after all—but seeing the two of them being unnecessarily intimate makes Cassie’s chest tighten.

She needs another drink and takes the opportunity to head to the makeshift bar closest to where Ben’s standing, hoping she can catch his eye. If he gives her a sign, she’ll happily go to his aid—he looks like he could do with rescuing. But just as he looks up, a glass smashes, shattering the atmosphere—and her illusion.

“What the fuck?” someone screeches.

There’s a commotion across the hall, and as Cassie joins everyone else in looking to see where it’s coming from, her heart sinks.

“You fucking bitch.”

Cassie instinctively moves toward the fracas, needing to see what’s going on while simultaneously hoping that she won’t get dragged into the mêlée. A wail like a banshee rings out around the cavernous lobby, echoing off the brick ceiling that curves high above them.

Fists fly as Kimberley and Amelia fight for their man, while he stands by, watching them with an amused expression, his inflated ego enjoying the sideshow.

“Babe, it’s not what you think,” he offers half-heartedly.

Kimberley laughs sardonically as a security guard pulls her off a bedraggled-looking Amelia.

“You’ve just lost the best thing you’ll ever have,” she yells at Michael, her face contorted with rage and humiliation.

“Baby,please…” he begs, as if it’s suddenly just dawned on him that she’s serious.

“You’re welcome to him,” she spits at Amelia, who’s struggling to right herself. “Good luck—you’re gonna need it.”

She slings her white handbag onto her shoulder with as much dignity as she can muster and storms toward the doors.

Cassie can’t help but put herself in Kimberley’s position, imagining what it would feel like if she were to discover Ben in such a compromising situation. She knows there’s temptation around every corner, but she’d hope that he wouldn’t sacrifice something so special for a sticky moment like Michael’s just done.

“OK… testing… testing…” comes a booming voice through the speakers, a little sooner than Cassie would imagine was planned. “Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention…”

The address pulls the eyes of rubberneckers away from the fray at the back of the hall to the stage, where a man is tapping the microphone head. “OK, I hope everyone can hear me. My name’s Paul Jacobs and I’m the managing director of Tramline Records.” He holds his hands up in faux modesty as a smattering of applause ripples around the room. “It’s my honor to have Secret Oktober sign to our label and deliver an album that I believe is going to define their career. It has all the sounds you’d expect, but with an edge; it’s new, it’s exciting, and I just know that the world won’t be able to get enough of it. But don’t take my word for it, decide for yourselves… Ladies and gentleman, I give you Ben, Michael, and Luke—Secret Oktober!”

The boys make their way to the stage, Michael unsurprisingly the last as he straightens his shirt and checks his fly.

“Jesus Christ,” wheezes Amelia, patting her hair down.

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