Page 1 of Tempted

PART 1

As I looked around the party, I couldn't help but feel out of place. Clients and colleagues were all dressed in expensive clothes, dripping in fancy jewelry, and talking about their portfolios.

Someone had decided that Vivaldi was too stuffy, and Beyoncé was too progressive, but the string quartet version of Hypnotize by Biggie Smalls was perfect.

For the fourth time, a laugh bubbled up in my throat and I had to stuff that bitch down.

Biggie took what the world gave him and made something out of it. He used his pain to create music. I would’ve bet my bonus that no one in the room understood that. There was a gorgeous nuance of struggle and passion. They turned that into some one-percenter distortion and there I was, forced to pretend it was nice when a client asked about it.

I cleared my throat and focused on my feet. Not because it made me feel more grounded and at one with the earth, but because they hurt like a bitch and if I focused on the pain, I could focus on how great it would feel to kick them off in a little less than an hour.

Thankfully, I’d already worked the room and connected with all my clients. I even introduced a few that I knew would benefit from the expertise of other founders.

The sprawling ballroom was covered in galaxy-inspired artwork. Women wearing hoop skirts covered in cosmiccocktails floated by as entertainers dressed as various planets in our solar system worked the crowd.

It didn’t escape me how odd it was for me to be wearing a thousand-dollar dress with eight-hundred-dollar shoes, holding a glass of champagne so expensive that it could’ve covered a month’s worth of groceries for me five years ago.

This was the job I’d fought for, that I’d bled for and now in this room with billions of dollars, I wasn’t excited. The extravagance and opulence, they just felt – odd.

Clients, on the other hand, were living their best lives. I watched them dive headfirst into everything the buffet had to offer.

“Cotton candy! I can definitely fit that in my bag, come on,” a blond woman to my right squealed, grabbing someone’s hand and making a run for the cotton candy vendor. She opened her bright purple Hermes handbag, which was already full of lamb skewers and roast chicken.

As I watched these people falling over themselves, I wondered if this was a life that I truly wanted for myself or if I was being blinded by the paychecks.

Taking a large sip, followed by another, I emptied the champagne flute and headed for the bar. Clearly, I was too sober and morose for this shit.

“Already heading back to the bar, Denny?”

I turned to see my plus-one traipsing up to me. Late. As. Fuck.

Morose was gone. It was quickly swallowed up by anger as I looked over Curtis, the man I’d been dating for nine years.

He’d thankfully chosen the suit I’d laid out for him and not whatever hoodie and jeans he could find lying around the closet. Normally I wouldn’t give a shit what the man wore, but this was work, and Work Denny couldn’t be caught looking unpolished,let alone arms linked with some low-rent B-Rabbit straight from the 8-Mile set.

“They say when the champagne is a hundred dollars a glass, demolish it,” I said, pasting on a pleasant smile.

Curtis laughed and leaned in close.

“Is that what they say?” he asked.

“It could be. I haven’t heard anyone say it tonight, but I’m sure it will catch on in this crowd.” I chuckled, albeit hollowly, because who the fuck shows up two hours late to their girlfriend’s work party.

I coolly led the way towards the bar, feeling the warmth of his guiding hand through my dress. I wasn’t arguing in front of these white folks, especially the ones that signed my paychecks.

“Champagne, please. And he’ll take a sparkling water.”

The bartender turned to find glasses, and I dropped my used flute on the bar. Curtis raised his eyebrow, and I raised mine in silent conversation.

His eyebrow was asking about the water, mine was a reminder that he volunteered to drive us home, and he was far too late to have one drink if I was going to be out of these shoes in an hour.

“Denise!” I turned to see the one person I had hoped to avoid heading straight for me.

A fresh glass of champagne hit my hand as the Wicked Witch of the East air kissed my cheeks. Thank God the woman didn't come in for a hug, she smelled like oranges and musty leather.

“Gloria. Hi, I hope you're having a great evening.”

She grabbed my arm.

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