Million Dollar Devil

27.

By the time the last meeting wraps, I'm five minutes away from launching myself across the boardroom table like a live grenade and two clicks away from Googling "how to fake your own death in a five-star hotel."

Hours of watching men talk in circles about portfolio strategy, valuation metrics, and "synergy opportunities" has left me bleary-eyed, bone-deep tired, and approximately one bullet point away from spontaneous combustion. I gather my things as the men trickle out.

"Intense," a voice says near my shoulder. I turn.

Alex.

He stands a few feet away, leaning casually against the edge of the long table, one hand in his pocket, the other spinning his Rolex like he's waiting for something to amuse him. His smile just shy of arrogant. His tie is loosened, his jacket draped over one arm like he was born in a cologne ad.

"You looked intense in there," he says again, nodding toward my empty seat. "Focused. I think you even scared one of the older guys into silence. Impressive."

He smiles. It's that grin again.  A little crooked, a little dangerous, like he's got a secret and he's wondering whether to let you in on it.

I give him a polite smile, "I've developed a survival instinct for synergy talk. It's a form of self-defense."

He grins. "Corporate combat. Sexy."

I raise an eyebrow. "You say that like you've never suffered through a synergy meeting in your life."

"Oh, I have," he says. "I just never looked that good doing it."

It's shameless. Smooth. Delivered with just enough irony to keep it from veering into sleaze.

Still, I cross my arms loosely, playing it cool. "You always this flattering post-earnings report?"

He shrugs. "Only when it's deserved."

For a second, he studies me, his smile still there but tempered now, more curious than charming. His eyes flick to the conference room doorway, then back to me, and something shifts in the air, just slightly.

"I get it," he says casually.

I blink. "Get what?"

"If you worked for me," he says, voice dropping just a notch, "I'd keep you close too."

It's casual, tossed out like an offhand comment. But it lands like a stone in water.  I search his face, looking for the joke but he's already pushing off the table, already turning away.

"See you at the gala tonight," he winks. "I'll be cashing in on that dance you owe me," he calls over his shoulder

I rush out of the room as soon as I can, my heels hitting the floor at record pace. 

I shut the hotel room door behind me and lean back against it, letting the echo of it closing fill the space. I move toward the mirror and peel off my blazer like it's suffocating me. My blouse follows, and I let it fall to the floor. My heels thud softly as I kick them off, one, then the other. The carpet is plush beneath my feet, warm and weightless.

I drag myself to the edge of the bed and collapse, sprawling like a corpse, one arm flung dramatically across my forehead.  

I stare up at the ceiling like it holds answers or like it might offer me a new personality. One less prone to humiliating herself in dimly lit hallways. One who doesn't get turned into collateral damage by a man who smells like woodsmoke and self-control.

I sigh. I'll pretend I'm not humiliated. I'll pretend I didn't stand outside my hotel room last night giving my sultry eyes to a man who responded with the verbal equivalent of a pat on the head. I'll pretend I didn't hover in the hallway like a deranged Victorian ghost hoping for a kiss.

My phone buzzes again, Dominque's name flashes on the screen.

I hesitate. Then answer with a groan. "Please don't say anything."

"Oh, we're saying things," she replies without missing a beat. "I just read all forty-two of your crisis texts from last night and I'm gonna be real with you...if I didn't know better, I'd assume you were left at the altar, not ghosted outside a hotel room."

"It wasn't ghosting," I grumble. "He just... exited the hallway. Briskly. Quietly. And forever."

She hums. "Take me, brooding CEO daddy," she mocks in a damsel in distress voice.  

"I'm going to kill you," I grunt.

"Sorry, sorry," she says quickly, but I can hear the grin. "I'm just saying. What kind of emotionally repressed billionaire fantasy is this? Where's the hallway kissing? The wall-slamming?"

"Don't project your romance novels onto me," I mumble.

Dominique hums thoughtfully. "I just don't understand how any man could have a staring contest with your cleavage and still chose celibacy."

I laugh, a real one this time.

There's a short silence. Then she says, "So... what? You think he's just not into you?"

"I think he made it very clear. I was basically handing him the keys to the kingdom and he was like, 'no thanks.' I think if a man walks away from you at whisper-close distance, he's not exactly begging for a second round."

"Okay but counterpoint, he might just be a coward."

"A coward with a perfect jawline and probably a thousand reasons not to screw his assistant."

"He wouldn't be screwing her," she quips. "He'd be falling deeply, reluctantly in love with her and writing her into his will."

I sigh dramatically into the phone. "I cannot show my face at that gala."

"Wrong," she says, "If Leo Hayes doesn't want you?" She pauses. "Then you give someone else a reason to."

I sit up in bed, mascara smudged under my eyes like a raccoon in recovery. "So what do I do now?"

"You rally," she says firmly. "You get off that mattress. You put on the sexiest dress you own. You do your hair like you're about to ruin lives. You walk into that gala like the baddest bitch in the room."

I blink. "You're terrifying. I love you."

"I know. Now go slut it up. And text me pics."

The call ends. I sit in the silence for a second longer before dragging myself off the bed and into the bathroom. The mirror is unforgiving. My under-eyes are hollow. My mouth is set like a slash of defeat. I stare at my reflection and breathe out slow, like I'm exorcising someone weak.

I unzip the garment bag laid out across the bed and pull the dress from the hanger I step into the its soft fabric and pull it up my body, feeling it slide like silk over skin. It hugs me tight. 

I swipe on a deep wine-colored lipstick, bolder than I usually wear. War paint.

I walk barefoot into the bathroom and twist the cap off a tiny bottle of champagne from the minibar. It hisses softly as I pour it into one of the hotel tumblers. I knock half of it back in one go.

My eyeliner goes on thicker, bolder. I smudge the edges with my finger until my eyes look darker, heavier. I dust a warm highlight onto my cheekbones and sweep of powder onto the tips of my shoulders, like I'm daring someone to kiss them.

As I step back and look at myself in the mirror as I take another sip of champagne. Not half bad.

I grab the strappy heels I swore I wouldn't bring, the ones that make my legs look three miles long and buckle them on with shaking hands. My pulse is steady now. Too steady. Like I've crossed some invisible line into a version of myself that doesn't flinch anymore. Doesn't beg. Doesn't care. Tonight I'm Rose, not Lilly.

Lillian might still be buried somewhere under this dress, under layers of silk and red lipstick and reckless intentions, but Rose? She's the one walking into the gala tonight.

I grab my clutch. Slide in my keycard, a compact, a breath mint, and a whole lot of attitude.