Page 54 of Babies for the Big Shot
I’m on Nick Ashford’s arm.
In public.
In satin.
We are almost a couple, and it’samazing.
This rare air of curated elegance and whispered stock tips isn’t my world, but it’s fun. Mostly because Nick’s hand is warm on the small of my back. His thumb brushes my bare skin every time we shift direction, grounding me, branding me. Our chemistry hums between us in a way that’s impossible to fake. And the way people look at us, they think I belong here. Because he looks at me the same way.
And I let myself enjoy it.
Even just for one night.
I excuse myself for another bathroom break—something about champagne and Spanx makes it necessary—and as I make my way through the crowd, I spot her.
Someone I recognize.
But why? Who is she?
It takes me a moment, but then it hits me.
I saw her in the office lobby. One time. And she was a little… strange.
She asked me if I was new… but I’ve never seen her again.
My stomach dips. What is she doing here?
Is she from work? Oh shit… what if she’s some executive’s wife or worse… someone from HR? Someone who candefinitelyrecognize me and report that I’m here on Nick’s arm like… like this.
I freeze for a breathless second near the marble fountain, gripping my tiny clutch bag as if it’s some kind of shield. My mind races.
My heart’s thumping so hard it’s a wonder my dress isn’t pulsing with it.
No. Nope. Not tonight. I can’t deal with this tonight.
I pivot on unsteady heels and push through the crowd toward the restroom, moving with a forced ease that hides the chaos thrumming beneath my skin. Every step pounds with urgency, my breath catching in tight, uneven bursts. Panic hangs thick in the air around me, even if no one sees it.
The bathroom is blissfully empty when I burst in, heart still galloping in my chest. Cool marble, soft lighting, and the faint scent of expensive hand soap. I grip the edge of the sink and stare at myself in the mirror.
Get it together, Sara. Breathe.
Maybe I imagined her. Maybe she’s just someone who looks familiar. Maybe…
The door creaks open behind me, and I jerk in alarm.
But it’s not her. It’s someone else.
She leans against the marble counter, owning the space. The bathroom, the gala, the entire building revolves around her presence. Blonde, sleek, stunning in a blood-red dress.
“You’re braver than I was,” she says lightly, as if we’re old friends catching up.
My stomach knots. “I’m sorry?”
She doesn’t smile. Her brow arches sharply, a single raised line that carries equal parts judgment and amusement. “Coming here with Nick. It’s… bold.”
Oh.
Okay. This is happening.
