Million Dollar Devil

19.

I stumble up the stairs like a war survivor, stilettos dangling from my fingers like the weapons that betrayed me. My toes are screaming and my calves have declared mutiny.

The front door swings open, and there it is. My dress. My beautiful, untouched dress hanging in the corner like a ghost of the night I thought I was going to have. I sigh. A heavy, soul-deep kind of sigh, and toss my keys onto the dining table like I'm throwing in the towel on the rest of my twenties.

I peel out of my clothes and into my softest pajamas, the ones with the Tweety Birds that Dominique swore she'd burn if she ever caught me wearing in public. Sorry, Dom. The heart wants what it wants.

I collapse onto the couch. My bones practically sigh in relief as I sink into the cushions. This is it. This is where I live now. On this couch. In this pajama set. With my canceled plans and my inflated sense of betrayal.

Just as I start to melt into a solid puddle of self-pity, my phone buzzes.

Reminder: Trash Day.

I roll my eyes. "You've got to be kidding me," I mutter, letting out a breath of frustration before I punch the pillow next to me a couple of times.

With the last shred of energy, I force myself up from the couch, stomping over to the trash can without a single care for my downstairs neighbors. I throw the oversized bag over my shoulder and march outside, looking like a ragged Santa Claus.

The bag hits the dumpster with a satisfying thud. At least something in my life is going where it belongs.

The sound of my bare feet slapping against the concrete echoes in the silence as I head back upstairs, instantly regretting my decision. My feet sting with every tiny pebble I step on.

"Fuck me," I mutter as a sharp rock finds its way into the tender arch of my foot. I pause at the top step, balancing on one leg like a disgruntled flamingo and massaging the injury.

"Lillian?"

My head snaps up, and my eyes widen in shock. There, standing in front of my door, is Mr. Hayes looking every bit like a supermodel in his perfectly tailored suit as if he is the reason tuxedos were invented. I can't help but feel a pang of jealousy. I can only imagine how many women were trying to get a dance with him tonight.

I quickly compose myself, pulling my foot away and awkwardly wiping my fingers on my pajama shorts. I immediately feel self-conscious about the fluffy, tweety bird-patterned shorts. Goddamn it, Lily.

"Excuse my language," I stammer, a nervous chuckle slipping from my lips. 

I twist my fingers together awkwardly as I step closer to him. It's then that I notice the bouquet of flowers in his hands. My heart skips a beat. 

I glance at the flowers. Then back at him. Then back at the flowers.

He follows my gaze and, noticing my surprise, clears his throat. "The staff gift," he says flatly. "Everyone got one."

"Thank you," I say, voice higher than it should be. "For the delivery."

A beat of silence. Then another.

"You weren't at there tonight," he says. It's not a question. It's an accusation dressed up in cashmere.

"Yeah..." I clear my throat. "Something came up last minute."

He raises an eyebrow. Just one. And it says everything: Liar.

The space between his brows tightens, and I can practically hear the disapproval radiating off of him. 

"Something came up?" He repeats the words under his breath, dripping with sarcasm. His lips twist into a tight smile, but it's cold, almost mocking. He shakes his head.

"You understand that you're my assistant, right?" His voice is sharp now, the annoyance clear. "An event like tonight wasn't optional." The last bit hits me like a gut punch, draining every ounce of confidence I had left.

"I know," I whisper, my voice small. "And I'm really sorry. I promise this won't happen again." I feel the discomfort crawling up my spine as I try to explain myself.

"I'd sure hope not," he says curtly, stepping back as if to make his exit. 

His eyes meet mine one last time, but I can't hold his gaze. I quickly glance down at the floor, shrinking under his cold, unwavering stare. Without another word, he turns sharply and walks away.

"Thanks for dropping this off," I murmur, my voice barely there.

He pauses. Just enough to make it hurt.

"Don't read into it," he says over his shoulder. "Your apartment's on my route home."

I stand there in my ridiculous tweed bird pajamas, feeling smaller than ever. The cold air sends a shiver down my spine as I shuffle back into my apartment, collapsing onto the couch once more.

Of course the receptionist posted fifteen stories. Of course the lighting is perfect and the champagne is endless. I tap through them like I'm flipping through a scrapbook of all the ways tonight went perfectly, for everyone but me.

 Her camera pans around the room, and I pause each time I spot Mr. Hayes.

There he is, surrounded by beautiful people, deep in conversation. But his face betrays him. Lips tight, eyes distant, like he's somewhere else entirely. He's so predictable. It's the most beautiful gala of the year, and he looks like he's sitting at a DMV waiting room.

I keep scrolling, trying to convince myself that I'm not looking for him. But deep down, I know exactly what I'm searching for. 

With each story, I see him again. He either came alone, or he's a horrible date, but I hope its the latter.

I finally throw my phone onto the pillow with a deep sigh, unsure of what makes me feel more ridiculous: Mr. Hayes showing up at my door or the pathetic stalking session I just put myself through.

I glance down at the bouquet of flowers he left behind...lilies.