Globetrotter Ingrid gets a fabulous fresh start when her job takes her to Melbourne, Australia. Here she meets wise and sweet Oliver, who makes her forget she doesn't have a heart.
This successful stability prompts Ingrid to accept an invitation to...
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August, 2018
Ingrid drew the last breath from her cigarette and exhaled smoke at the night sky. Barely nine PM, but Australian winter meant early August sunsets. Six PM early. She shook her head at a plane twinkling star-like in the dark. Five months in Melbourne and she still hadn't come to terms with the climate flip.
"You're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy," she muttered to herself, crushing her burnt stub against the bin, "so get a fucking grip."
Summoning her saleswoman smile, Ingrid gathered up her gown and walked up to the club. The bouncer held the door open for her. Nina Simone's Feeling Good spilled out on the pavement, giving her pause. Spicing up her smile. She clutched her skull-topped cane tighter.
It was definitely a new dawn. And she'd better be feeling fucking good.
"Compliments of Mr Lewis," a server intercepted her inside, with a martini glass on a silver tray. "Welcome to The Royal."
"Oh?" Ingrid picked up the drink. "Maybe I could personally thank Mr Lewis for the warm welcome?"
The server pursed her lips into a tight smile.
"Or not," Ingrid deduced. "Thanks, anyway."
The server bowed and left. Ingrid watched her disappear into the overdressed crowd scattered on the dancefloor. The gilded exuberance of The Royal made it popular with patrons who not only liked to spend, but also to be seen spending. Not seldom, this included gangsters, politicians, and celebrities.
According to Mr Tran, the very solicitous Roy Lewis provided private lounges for these VIP clients of his. Even though this was her first Royal rave, Ingrid nursed a faint hope that she might snag a VIP summons already. Roy could be persuaded to extend their agreement into a continent-wide contract, if she made an impression on his deep-pocketed patrons.
"I wouldn't drink that," a familiar voice derailed her deliberation.
The glass stopped just below her lips. Ingrid lowered her hand and turned around. Behind her, in all his careless-chic glory, stood Hitoshi Nakamura with his hands in his pockets and his shirt collar unbuttoned. Three burly bodyguards had created a perimeter around him.
"Well, well, well..." One of her eyebrows arched above her frown. "I thought we were supposed to never see each other again."
Hitoshi grinned. "Is that why you're wearing the dress I bought you?"
"Oh, this silly old thing?" Ingrid glanced down at her silk-and-tulle gown. Forest green, to match her eyes. Not that it mattered under the disco-ball flashes. "Was it from you? I don't remember." A nonchalant shrug. "Rich fuckboys buy me dresses all the time."
He rolled his eyes with a smirk.
She faked an exaggerated gasp. "Did you put a tracker in the dress?!"
