The Hunt Masquerade - Milly Taiden Page 0,10

sordid tale because she had been childhood friends with Jeremy Winslow, a great-great-grandchild of the eldest son. The son from the mistress, the woman George Henry had chosen in the end.

The people gathered in the hotel tonight were exactly who Chantal needed to rub elbows with to make her career.

The driver drove down the long laneway, turned down a narrow road, and toward the hotel's back. It was the service entrance because — of course, it was. The man rushed around the car to open the door for Chantal and Margie before heading into the hotel. Loaded down by her fashion emergency care package, they tried to follow along quickly. But once they entered the service door, there was a bustle of activity. The driver was nowhere to be found.

“Are you the designer?” A short, petite and frazzled looking young woman asked between pulls from an e-cigarette.

“Um, yes?” Chantal eyed their surroundings. There were so many people passing by, all in a panicked sort of way, it made her want to run away. Why was everyone looking so terrified? Was it really that stressful to host one of the most talked-about parties of the year?

Probably.

Chantal would have expected a place like the Winslow Hotel to be used to the kind of privileged hubbub. Apparently not.

“This way,” the woman said without even bothering to check if they were following. “Ms. Marsdale is in quite a mood, so please keep your answers short and concise. Did you bring what you need to fix the dress?”

“Yes?” Chantal answered.

The woman turned with such force, Chantal nearly stumbled onto her ass. “You need to be sure. Why does it sound like you’re unsure? You keep answering with an uncertain tone. This doesn’t please me. It will stress her out.”

It became clear that whatever happened with Chantal, this lady knew she would have to deal with the outcome.

“I’m not sure what the issue is,” Chantal admitted. “The dress was fine two days ago.”

The woman laughed. It was a sardonic laugh. “You poor little doe. She is going to eat you alive.”

“Hey!” Margie snapped. “That’s not nice.”

The reply was met with narrowed eyes that were downright predatory. Chantal grabbed the garment bag from Margie’s arms.

“It is probably best if I do this alone. Like a professional,” Chantal added before Margie had time to argue. “Go back to the car and wait for me there. Do not crash this party and ruin my chances here.”

“You run that risk either way,” the woman quipped.

Yikes. Just what the hell had Chantal gotten herself into?

—

There was absolutely nothing wrong with the dress. Chantal knew that for a fact. The pearl silk hung off Gwen’s body in an elegant wave of shimmery material. The neckline dipped low, nearly to her navel. The long, thin chain of a silver necklace traced the eye down to the flat, smooth stomach. The capped sleeves framed Gwen’s slender shoulders flawlessly. The sequins that ran down the back of the dress, down onto the small train were like dancing stars.

Gwen Marsdale looked perfect. Absolutely perfect.

“It is just wrong,” Gwen Marsdale whined, nearly stomping her feet like a two-year-old begging for candy at the grocery store’s checkout.

You’re a grown woman, Chantal wanted to point out. She didn’t, though, obviously. She needed the exposure, and she was not about to shit on this fantastic opportunity. Besides, she had to get used to dealing with wealthy patrons. That meant getting used to their temper tantrums. Even though Chantal knew that the dress was perfectly fine, she folded her face into a frown.

“Is it? What isn’t working for you?” The insanely expensive imported silk? “Are the sequins uncomfortable?” Like Chantal had warned Gwen they would be. “What if we put a slip skirt under?”

Gwen narrowed her eyes at her. “Are you fucking crazy? A slip would make the dress way too tight. Why is it wrong? What did you do?”

Chantal sighed. This sort of reminded her of Margie.

Right before big fashion gigs, Margie always got freaked out. Margie’s hair wasn’t right, or her shoes didn’t match enough or whatever else her swirling mind could come up with.

With a calming touch and a smile, Chantal reassured her best friend that she was beautiful and the clothes were perfect. It worked enough to get the tall model onto the runway before a meltdown.

On a whim, and hoping she was right, Chantal gave Gwen a simple, warm smile. She hoped the panicking woman would see the understanding there.

“Is tonight a very special night for