Think Outside the Boss - Olivia Hayle Page 0,3

ask, watching him through the slitted eyes of my mask. “Are you planning on introducing yourself?”

2

Freddie

His lips quirk like I’ve made a joke. “Eventually,” he admits. “Though talking is often one of the less enjoyable pastimes at these events, comparatively speaking.”

I wet my lips. “Not if it’s done well.”

“Which pastime?” he asks, amusement an undercurrent in the rich baritone of his voice. “Doing things well is one of my favorite hobbies.”

“Being modest is not, I’m guessing?”

He turns, and I have to look up to meet his dark gaze. “Modesty is forbidden at the Gilded Room.”

“Is that in the rulebook?” I ask. “I think I missed that point.”

His lips curve into a crooked smile. “I don’t think you’ve read the rulebook at all, considering it’s your first time here.”

“What makes you think that?”

“You asked me if I was planning on introducing myself.”

“And that gave me away?”

His smile widens. “There are only two iron-clad rules at these parties. The first is complete anonymity. The second? Women initiate. Men can’t speak unless spoken to.”

Oh. Women wield all the power. Right.

Groaning, I lean back against the wall. “I gave myself away that easily, did I?”

“Not yet, you haven’t,” he says, amusement glittering in his eyes. “What are your thoughts so far?”

“Of the Gilded Room?”

He inclines his head in a yes.

I look out over the mingling guests. People are shifting into separate corridors and rooms, and on the stage, one of the women is now—oh. Wow.

She’s going down on the man tied to the chair. His head is thrown back in pleasure as hers moves in a practiced rhythm.

“I had no idea what to expect when I came here tonight. Didn’t know how… controlled the hedonism would be.” I tear my eyes away from the choreographed performance. “I’ve also come to the sad realization that I probably think I’m more open-minded than I actually am.”

He raises an eyebrow, faint crow’s-feet fanning out around his eyes. Thirty, perhaps, or thirty-five. No more than a decade older than me. “Not used to seeing other people have sex?”

“Not in person,” I admit.

He smiles at my words. “There are no musts here. You could spend your first time just admiring the scenery. Enjoying a few drinks. Making conversation.”

My expression of dismay must have been clear, because he raises an eyebrow. “That doesn’t interest you?”

“Well, I don’t think I like the idea of being a voyeur. It seems intrusive, somehow.”

He turns his face, but I catch the smile. “Most people here enjoy being watched. A closed door means off-limits, but open ones mean anyone is free to watch or join.”

“Another one of the rules I don’t know,” I say, taking a sip of my champagne. Now that I’m here, now that I’m talking to this man… I’m not nervous anymore. It’s like an out-of-body experience, and the Frederica Bilson who should be nervous doesn’t even know she’s here. I left her out in the corridor.

“There aren’t many rules.”

“Enlighten me?” I ask. “I’d hate to embarrass myself further.”

He smiles, a slow and wide thing that makes my stomach tighten. The dim lighting casts shadows over his face. “It would be my pleasure,” he says. “You already know the first one, and the most important one.”

“Women initiate conversation?”

“Yes, as well as sex,” he says. “Men can suggest it, if they’ve been spoken to, but it’s considered more proper for the woman to speak the words.”

I swallow against the dryness in my throat. “The Gilded Room is big on consent, then.”

“It is, not to mention security. You won’t see them, but there are guards stationed throughout the party.”

“There are?”

Slowly, giving me time to react, he reaches over and puts his hands on my shoulders. They’re warm and steady as he turns me toward the opposite corner. “The man in the back. Masked, wearing a leather loincloth?”

“That’s security?”

“Yes. See the earpiece?”

I narrow my eyes. His hands are still on me, hot through the thin fabric of my dress. “No. He’s too far away.”

“Well, it’s there. And you should get your eyesight checked.”

“Hey, that’s not nice.”

His chuckle is hoarse as he turns me toward the bar. “One of the men sitting down, nursing a scotch. He’s wearing a suit.”

“They drink on the job?”

His hands slip from my shoulders. “It’s likely apple juice. No one here wants to feel guarded, so they blend in. All part of the illusion.”

“The illusion?”

“That we all just happened to be here tonight, that this is a real party, that we’re not vetted and screened.”

There’s truth to that, I suppose. Security