Page 70 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
It takes me a second to drag my attention from Jenna back to him.
"Marina's here?"
CHAPTER 21
Jenna
If there's one thing I've learned in my years of mingling with the rich and powerful, it's how to control what you—mostly unconsciously—project to others.
The moment you walk into a room, eyes are on you. Judgmental eyes. Everyone's trying to guess where you're from, what you do, how much you're worth, and where in their social hierarchy to place you—whether you're a higher-up to flatter and court, an equal to befriend or challenge, or a lower-down to ignore with disdain.
I walk with a confident stride and a broad smile into the reception room, wearing my beautiful, shimmering emerald-green Dior gown, complemented by the diamond-studded necklace Grayson chose for me—a combination that works perfectly with the low cut of the dress, leaving just enough space for the diamonds to glitter against the skin of my décolletage. I know full well that the combination of my companion's status and the outrageous cost and daring cut of my gown will cause a stir, but I also know that the massive diamond on my engagement ring will truly set the fox among the hens. If society wasn't aware of Grayson Wolfe's engagement before tonight, they certainly will be after.
But for all the power of a strong entrance, how I conduct myself from this point forward is what decides whether I'll be dismissed as mere arm candy—or recognized as someone worth knowing in her own right.
That's why I leave Grayson to mingle on my own.
I walk tall, head high, taking slow, deliberate steps, meeting people's gazes levelly and coolly with my own, and letting them feel seen and evaluated even as they evaluate me.
A few blank me.
Some smile.
One or two bolder ones approach me to introduce themselves, though most wait for me to make the first move.
It's all a mind game—mental chess played in three dimensions by a thousand players at once.
Pretend to be someone important, someone with the luxury of choice, and people will crave being chosen by you.
I don't gawk at the designer clothes, the famous faces, the endless plates of Russian caviar, the Cristal champagne. Instead, I look and act like I mingle with these sorts of people every day of my life. I make sure I approach everyone with a warm look and a thoughtful compliment, but without ever crossing into over-effusive flattery, or acting in the least subservient. This is a game of hunter and hunted, of kill or be killed, and the winner takes all.
I talk to one person at a time, charming them enough to be introduced to someone else, and then another. Eventually, I build a small, diverse group around me, giving the impression of someone who is both in demand and in command. Someone worth getting to know.
I didn't learn this from any guru or self-help book. It comes from years of experience.
Working the room, I manage to create my own little circle. Among others, it includes the CEO of a diaper company, afashion designer, and a celebrity chef I happen to know from a past project. We chat about the weather, fashion, New York traffic, and motherhood, then trade amusing anecdotes about our work—some of which have us all laughing until our sides ache.
Of them all, it's probably Gina Rockson—the diaper company CEO—whom I naturally warm to the most. Even though her father owns an oil empire and she's been wealthy her entire life, she's down-to-earth and unassuming. The other women are pleasant too, and I begin to relax. The night is going well. I'm surprised to find I'm actually enjoying myself—and even enjoying showing off my engagement ring, telling the carefully rehearsed story of how Grayson proposed.
Everything is perfect—until a server spills a tray of red wine down the front of my dress.
From a casual onlooker's perspective, it probably looks like an accident. But I saw what really happened, and I know it was no accident at all. Just as the server approached, I caught a glimpse—out of the corner of my eye—of a tall blonde woman stretching out a leg and giving the server a small shove in the back. The push made her stumble, sending the tray upending onto me.
Ha.
To her credit, the poor server recovered well, managing to keep hold of the tray and not fall to the floor. But the damage was done. The wine splashed across me, soaking through the delicate green silk, the deep red stain spreading like a wound and leaving me drenched in the sour smell of alcohol.
"What on earth?" Gina gasps.
"Oh my God." The server freezes, staring at me in horror. "I'm so sorry. I don't know how it happened… I must've tripped." Tears well in her eyes; she looks absolutely mortified.
"Oh, how horrible." Alison Hubert, the celebrity chef, glares at her. "You idiot! You've ruined her dress."
"I'm so, so sorry," the server squeaks—but I'm not looking at her or Alison. I'm looking past them, at the woman standing slightly behind the server, wearing a smug, self-satisfied smile.
She looks familiar. I'm almost certain she's a model or an influencer of some kind. I've seen her before—with Grayson—in the tabloids.
I meet her eyes and let her know that I know exactly what she did. She arches an eyebrow, silently daring me, her expression saying loud and clear, What are you going to do about it?
