Page 35 of Stolen Omega

He doesn’t come far enough into the suite to catch a glimpse of the bedroom, choosing to stay close to the door he’ll be escorting me out of in a few minutes, while I dart into my room and open the closet. My ‘personal’ wardrobe is full of ‘on brand’ outfits from trendy designers and shoes that are only slightly easier to walk around in than my stage costume heels.

I’m already in a cute dress and short sleeved jacket combo that I picked out after I showered, but I completely forgot to take out the shoes that complement the outfit. I’m not usually so scatterbrained, but I doubt my memory’s going to do much better than this while I’m trying to adapt to having a boyfriend that no one can know about.

Seems like secrets take up a lot of headspace.

At least I don’t have to use up too many braincells looking for the right shoes.

Everything in my closet has been organized into sets, with numbered hangers that correspond with numbered boxes. It’s as foolproof a system as the woman who curated my wardrobe items could make it, and I’m seriously grateful that it’s so easy to grab what I need when I need it.

I kind of wish I could wear something that’s more like my personal style, but I guess chunky sneakers and oversized T-shirts are too casual for my brand, whatever that’s supposed to mean.

Sighing, I pull out the box with the shoes that are supposed to complement my outfit.

The dress and sleeveless jacket are in lavender denim, so it’s entirely possible the shoes could be something more comfortable than stilettos. I cross my fingers for wedges or a chunkier heel.

Opening the box, my hopes are quickly dashed.

The heels are maybe four inches high instead of five, but they’re stilettos with a pointed toe.

On the bright side, the sliver purse they’re boxed with is big enough to fit my phone.

I take it out of the jacket’s only pocket, where it was hanging a little precariously.

Russ gave me his number, and Archer’s number, before he left.

I have them stored under old school friend’s names I never talk to anymore, just on the off chance my mom decides to randomly go through my phone again the next time she’s around. Maybe it’s a bit paranoid, but considering how much the woman loves an unexpected visit, I really don’t think I can be too careful.

I put the phone into the purse and pick up the shoes in my other hand.

When I leave the room, I close the door firmly behind me.

I dart across the room, and Saturday guy raises an eyebrow at me.

“You’re not going to put those on?”

I shake my head. “I’ll put them on when we get down there.”

He seems confused as he knocks on the door for the guard on the other side to let us out.

“You’re really not putting them on?”

The door opens and he holds it for me.

I step out into the hall. The carpet out here is just as thick and soft as the suite carpet. Maybe if I wasn’t in a luxury hotel with impeccable cleaning standards, I’d put the uncomfortable shoes on before I left the room. Or at least if I had my mate’s arm to hang on while I walked, not that I can do that in public any time soon.

“I’m really not putting them on,” I tell Saturday guy as he comes out of the room and frowns at my bare feet.

I check, but my pedicure is still perfect. My toes are a shimmery shade of lilac, with no chips in the polish. The disgusted look he’s giving my feet is clearly entirely based on my lack of shoes.

“Don’t question our client’s choices,” Hallway guy tells Saturday guy.

I smile at Hallway guy.

Yeah, I seriously need to start learning their names.

In the beginning, I used to ask. That was before I realized the vast majority aren’t interested in becoming friends with someone they see as a client. I’m a walking dollar sign to most of them.

“Thanks,” I tell him.

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