truffles dusted with gold, I wonder how much they spent on renting this castle . . . or if they own it and all this décor was added simply for the show of it all.
I don’t belong here for one very important reason. My family is broke, but no one knows it.
The Constantines have money . . . so much more than we do. Which is why PR informed me that I must be present, I must stand out, even, to ensure that stream of money continues to flow into my father’s business ventures.
“Miss?” I attempt and fail to hide my shock at the innocent voice at my left. The man dons a simple black mask that only covers his eyes and down to the tip of his nose. All the waiters are wearing them to match their black tuxes. “Champagne?” he offers, and clearing my throat as politely and ladylike as I can, I graciously accept a glass. I’d love about three of them, but I settle on just the one.
“Beautiful mask,” he compliments me before nodding and quickly moving on. I don’t even have time to thank him. With his back to me, my gaze wanders, but it’s quickly diverted when I meet the gaze of a group of men. With their masks on, I’m not sure who is who, but I’m certain they’re aware who I am. My mask doesn’t conceal my identity in the least. By design of course. I must be seen. The dark red ribbon of lace is hardly a mask at all.
I’m a seductive red rose from head to toe. The designer whispered it with a delighted smile on her face. I could only offer her the same smile and thank you I offered the waiter knowing how much my father needs this.
The champagne is rather bitter on the first sip.
Keeping my clutch close to my side, I walk easily to a lone table and try to decipher who is who. It’s impossible, though, with the masks. The vibration against my hip alerts me to a text from my father.
How is it going?
I’m to be the ambassador of sorts for my father. He’s older now, and it’s simply better to have my face in front of the crowd. Even if they are all older men. Businessmen supposedly, but I’ve run the books for my father long enough to know.
I’m to look pretty but not speak . . . with that thought in mind, I graciously sip the alcohol. And then a bit more. I’m certainly going to need it.
I’ve just arrived. I answer him, then silence the phone, slipping it back into the clutch we can’t afford. If he wants me to mingle and drop his name and the investments, I can’t be on the phone with him.
“Another glass, Miss?” A second waiter, or perhaps the same, they look so alike, holds out his silver tray.
“Thank you.” At least I can offer my gratitude this time around.
“I’m so very sorry for your loss,” he adds, before dipping slightly.
My heart does a tumble, and my lungs stay still, just as surprised as I am.
“Thank you,” I repeat the words spoken in exchange for a glass of champagne as he walks away. They’re the only words I seem to know tonight.
My throat is tight, and the next sentence doesn’t come. I appreciate your condolences. That’s what I should say, and I’m aware, but they’re too professional . . . too cold. Even though my father and I knew it was coming . . . well, you can never prepare for something like that. My mother’s death wasn’t sudden, but it was brutal.
As the waiter leaves, a group of three men walk past me, nodding their greetings and hushing whatever conversation they were having.
“Hello, gentlemen,” I offer and tip my champagne to them, memorizing their masks and noting that they’re at least friendly enough to approach later. I don’t know a number of the men here, although some of them are somewhat familiar.
Time ticks, and the crowd thickens. I stay where I am, gathering my composure and forming a plan. Approach, laugh, be conversational, but when the time is right, mention the investments.
I only get one glance around the room, searching for someone who’s off on their own, before seeing a face I certainly recognize.
Without the mask, he stands out more than the others. Ever since the books a few months ago. Six to be exact. When my mother became too ill, I took over the