Million Dollar Devil

30.

I look down at the food on my plate with disgust. A feast prepared by a Michelin-starred chef, yet my appetite is nowhere to be found. The dishes gleam under the low amber light, each one a work of art, but the sight of them only makes me queasy. My fork lies untouched beside the plate. I swirl my wine instead, pretending to listen as Alex talks with the men around, his laughter too loud, his hand brushing too close to mine. On my other side sits the man from last night, the one whose name I still can't recall. He smells faintly of expensive cologne and tobacco.

Across the long table, Leo sits beside Leah, the picture of composed attention as she whispers something near his ear. His expression doesn't give anything away, though I notice the faintest pull at the corner of his mouth when she touches his arm. Jackson, ever the conversational buffer, occupies the seat at Leo's other side, laughing at something I can't hear. The sound blends into the background hum of clinking glasses and murmured conversations, the kind of elegant noise that fills rooms like this and makes everyone feel important, except me.

My throat tightens each time I glance up and catch sight of Leo in the candlelight, his face unreadable, his focus fixed somewhere far away. It shouldn't matter. It really shouldn't. And yet here I am, sitting in front of a Michelin-star meal I can't eat, feeling like I've been personally wronged by a man who probably doesn't even remember I exist. I force myself to turn back toward Alex, to nod when he talks, to smile at the right moments. 

Everything seems to remind me of that stupid, drunken night in the hallway, the one I've tried and failed to forget. The memory hits in fragments: my slurred words, the way I must've looked at him, the mortifying confidence of someone who should've been put to bed an hour earlier. I cringe just thinking about it. Now, surrounded by glassware and polite laughter, I feel like the punchline to a joke no one told out loud. I stab at my food as if that might erase the memory, but it's useless. I can't even blame anyone but myself. If there were an award for professional humiliation, I'd at least have that going for me.

The evening stretches on, too polished and way too long. My wine glass empties and refills again. Leah leans closer to Leo, whispering something that makes him look her way. The red wine almost causes me to outwardly roll my eyes, but I catch myself just before.

Music begins to flow through the air a bit louder, and I watch as the dance floor fills up again. Couples drift toward the center, swaying sweetly. I stay seated, swirling the last of my wine and pretending I'm content to watch. Alex leans back in his chair, talking business when Leah appears beside him like she's stepped out of thin air.

"Dance with me," she says, not even glancing my way. Her hand lands lightly on his shoulder, her voice sweet and sharp at the same time, an invitation dressed like a challenge and something tells me this isn't the first time they've done this together. There's an ease to it, a familiarity that makes me almost laugh. Alex grins, that smug, boyish kind of grin he gets when attention finds him.

She doesn't wait for an answer before pulling him to his feet. He goes easily, of course he does. It's almost a relief, no more pretending to laugh at his stories or care about his opinions on scotch. But when I see Leah leading him to the center of the floor, her hand resting on his chest like she owns him, I can't help the little spike of irritation that flares up. 

I know girls like her.

Girls who are born with everything handed to them, rich enough that life's sharp edges have never even brushed their skin. They glide through life on charm and calculation, never breaking a sweat. The kind who always find the perfect lighting, the perfect audience, the perfect man to stand beside them just long enough to be seen. Every gesture looks effortless, but you can feel the precision behind it, a performance honed over years of being told they're special.