Page 49 of The Sheikh's Purchased Bride

The guy she would be meeting, Blake Howard, didn’t seem obsessed with hooking up, and it was obvious to Zoey that he’d taken the unusual step of actually reading her profile before he messaged her. None of his messages went along the usual line of Ember conversations, which generally boiled down to “when can we hook up?” He was handsome, intelligent, and soft-spoken, but a streak of mischief ran through him that Zoey had to admit she found exciting. She had enjoyed every one of their conversations, and was really looking forward to finally meeting him.

“Maybe all of this bullshit has a silver lining,” she murmured to herself, and the fossil sitting beside her gave her a strange look.

TWO

Even after all the time she’d spent on the train, Zoey still had six blocks to walk before she reached her mother’s building. The creepy guy from the subway could have been trying to follow her surreptitiously, so she walked directly toward the first NYPD officer she saw. He broke off his pursuit, and Zoey pointed him out to the police, before heading toward the miserable day that waited for her. She tried to focus her mind on her upcoming date, and cling to the tiny bit of hope it afforded her.

Eventually, she arrived at a block that was dripping with affluence. Every building featured impressive aesthetic touches; elegant hanging plants and outdoor torches. Each building had a clean, modern look that was somehow appealing, despite the fact that everything inside them was ungodly expensive. Zoey glanced at a fashion accessories store across the street from her workplace, wincing as she remembered, from personal reconnaissance, that the cheapest thing in there was priced at eighteen hundred dollars.

Zoey turned to face Melinda Forde Singles, a striking building fronted with gold-flecked black marble. The name was written in letters of burnished gold above the brass-handled glass doors. Zoey let herself in, determined to push through the day as fast as possible.

Inside, the agency looked a lot like the lobby of a boutique hotel. An intricately-patterned carpet, handmade by an association of women in Afghanistan, covered the floor along one wall. Generally, even the most conceited of Melinda’s customers couldn’t help commenting on its beautiful design, and as she passed it now, Zoey could see why.

On top of the carpet was a long white sofa that customers regularly reported was unbelievably comfortable. Round, glass end tables sat on either side of the sofa. These bore gorgeous porcelain lamps that shimmered in the artificial light they produced. A glass table was just in front of the sofa, standing on curved, brass feet.

The entire space gave an impression of sophistication, and even Zoey, who knew that an impression was all it was, had to resist being sucked in by everything. Despite the marble-topped receptionist’s desk and the oak-paneled walls, she knew she was walking toward her own little prison.

Along the rear wall, the paneling gave way to a frosted glass door with golden block letters placed at eye level. “Zoey Amelia Forde,” they proclaimed. “Senior Relationship Services Expert.” The title sounded official enough, but Zoey knew it was mostly bullshit.

She walked into her office and booted up her laptop, determined to get through her personal emails before her mother came through to spy on her.

Zoey’s computer sat on a smaller writing desk that was built into an elaborate wall unit made of handsome ebony wood. The cabinet doors were arched at the top, and a metal that looked like silver made lace patterns across the glass. Leather-bound books and dozens of curios filled the cabinets in neat arrangements. Very few of them actually belonged to Zoey, however—most of the books and trinkets were her mother’s idea of creating atmosphere.

She quickly logged in to her email account and began sifting through her inbox. She was happy to see a message from Blake confirming their date that evening. With a small smile she skimmed through the other emails, a mixture of thank you notes from her previous clients, charity appeals, and sales alerts from stores she had shopped at recently. She archived some of the messages and spent a few minutes replying to others until a sharp series of knocks rang out against the wooden frame of the door.

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