48. Circling Sharks

“Ooooh someone’s going on a date!” Doug drags the last word out until it’s at least five syllables long. 

I roll my eyes. When I look back to the mirror, sliding another bobby pin into my hair, he’s lounging on my bed. Grinning at me. And wiggling his eyebrows. 

“First of all,” I say firmly. Or as firmly as I can with a bobby pin between my teeth. I swear, the ballerinas on TikTok make these bun-things look easy. So why do my arms feel like they’re going to fall off?

Finally, I have things under control, and I’m  able to take the bobby pin out from between my lips. 

“First of all,” I repeat. “In no world does a work dinner with a bunch of stuffy executives and board members count as a date.”

“Second of all,” I continue, ignoring Doug’s own eye roll. “I’m the one who needs to see a therapist about my incurable crush on my totally unavailable boss. Not Miranda. Hence, the work dinner.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself,” Doug quips. It doesn’t even merit a response. 

I slide in the last bobby pin and slowly lift my hands away from my hair. Miracle of miracles, it stays. I give my head an experimental shake. I don’t think it’ll hold if I decide to try any pirouettes, but it’s stable enough for a dinner swimming with political sharks. 

Ten minutes later, I’ve given Doug air kisses (he insisted it was the ‘posh’ thing to do), triple-checked the contents of my clutch, and made my way downstairs. I step outside just as the familiar towncar pulls up to the curb. 

Roy is out and opening my door before I can step forward and do it myself. 

“Thanks, Roy,” I give him a smile as I slide in. I catch a brief glinting of teeth as he closes the door on me. 

For a few brief moments, the car is quiet. Miranda sits next to me in the dark. I can’t make out the color of her dress, but her hair glows in the faint moonlight streaming in through the window. 

I don’t realize I’m staring until her lips quirk upward in amusement. 

“Thanks for inviting me,” is all I can find to say. I’m thanking the universe for the darkness that hopefully hides my blushing embarrassment. 

“You may want to take back your gratitude in a couple hours,” Miranda replies with a dismissive wave of her hand, emphasized by the shutting of Roy’s door. “It’s entirely selfish on my part. These things are worse than having epilepsy at a McQueen show. And you are far better company than Nigel these days.”

My chest flutters at the compliment while my stomach drops at the mention of Nigel. 

“I take it he didn’t get the message you sent with Emily?” I hedge. 

Miranda’s pursed lips are answer enough. 

The next few minutes of the drive are quiet, but not uncomfortable. It’s the same kind of quiet as the one that sometimes stretches between us during our nights in the den. Content. 

I watch out the window, each passing streetlight lighting up a tableau. 

Three women in short dresses and heels giggling, one of them swinging lazily around the lamppost. 

Two men talking, each leaning against their own lamppost, cigarettes dangling from fingers, the smoke meandering to meet in the middle. 

So many people, all experiencing their own version of Saturday night. 

The town car rolls to a smooth stop, and I glance up through the tinted window at the building in front of us—one of those glossy, glass-and-steel high-rises that seems genetically engineered to scream money. Not old money. Not tasteful money. Just… money. 

A pair of massive double doors sits beneath a backlit canopy of smoked glass, flanked by two uniformed doormen who look more like bouncers for a high-end club than employees of a residential building. Inside, the lobby glows with warm-toned lighting that’s probably designed to feel inviting but ends up reminding me of an upscale tanning bed. 

I catch a glimpse of a sculpture in the vestibule—something abstract and chrome, vaguely phallic—and suppress the urge to snort. 

Of course Irv lives here. 

“Gaudy, isn’t it?” Miranda comments. 

I turn and catch her eyes, a smirk pulling at my lips. “The statue is definitely a bit much.”

Roy opens Miranda’s door before she has the chance to respond. I scramble out my own side in time for Miranda to round the car. She raises an imperious eyebrow. 

“Roy can’t be in two places at once, but he would have opened your door, Andrea.”

I’m not sure why I’m embarrassed, but that makes no difference to the heat creeping up my neck. I give a sheepish shrug. 

Miranda looks to the heavens, no doubt demanding they save her from blundering assistants. 

“Come along, Andrea.”

She strides for the doors, the massive doormen opening the equally massive doors. I guess regular-sized doormen would look silly next to doors that tall. 

I hurry to keep up, defaulting to a pace or two behind her, like any other event. 

“Do keep up, Andrea. Dawdling won’t make this evening end any sooner.”

I make up the distance, reaching Miranda’s side. We walk toward the elevators, and it’s weird, walking next to her like this. Like she isn’t my boss. Like we’re almost equals. Weird, but nice. 

I imagine an alternate reality, where we’re walking to a party we actually want to go to, holding hands the whole way. My lip curls up before I can stop it. 

The ding of the elevator pulls me out of my nonsense imaginings. 

This is a work event, I remind myself. Focus, Sachs! 

The elevator starts to climb toward the penthouse, and the silence between us only lasts a few floors. 

“Publishing is still a good old boys club. Their castle crumbles more every day, but it’s a slow erosion.”

I watch her in the elevator’s glossy reflection. She’s staring straight ahead, as if she’s talking to the elevator doors. 

“Roderick Kingsley has a habit of cornering interns. You are not an intern, but he may not notice the difference.”

I nod, acknowledging the warning. Will there ever be a space where we don’t have to worry about dodging greedy hands? God, I hope so. 

The doors slide open to reveal a hallway that looks like the waiting room of an art dealer who moonlights as a Bond villain. Every surface gleams. Every piece of art begs not to be touched. Even the silence here feels curated. A staffer waits by the door, pulling it open when we come close enough. 

It really is a bit much. 

Crossing the threshold is like slipping into a different skin. The air hums with money and ego. Laughter echoes too brightly. A server with a tray of champagne flutes sidesteps us without meeting our eyes.

And then Miranda steps forward, and everything changes. Eyes find her. Conversations quiet by half a decibel. I follow her in, pretending I belong here. Pretending she’s not the only reason I do.

We haven’t taken five steps when Irv finds us. Well, maybe finding us isn’t quite right. The space is so exposed, all glass walls and open concept, I’m not sure there’s any option of hiding. 

“Miranda,” Irv greets, exchanging air kisses. His smile reminds me of the shark’s grin from Finding Nemo. “I’m so glad you could make it.” 

Miranda smiles back. It’s her professional one, all stretched lips and piercing eyes. 

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

A server passes by, and Irv grabs two glasses of champagne. He hands one to Miranda, keeping the other for himself. 

I suppose I’m meant to feel invisible. Though that’s a tall order in this room. 

Miranda doesn’t comment on his blatant disrespect, instead taking a sip from her champagne flute and glancing around the room. 

“Come, Miranda. I have some people who are dying to meet you.”

From the side, I see Miranda fight back a snarl, but she steps forward anyways. I move to follow, really not having anything else to do, and that’s when Irv apparently notices me. 

“Miranda, what did this poor girl do to be dragged along? And on a Saturday night?” He doesn’t give Miranda or I any time to reply. “Well, everyone who’s anyone is here. I’m sure you can find some way to amuse yourself while we do some business.” He waves me away and turns to continue toward his destination, confident I’ll do as I’m told. 

I look to Miranda. It’s instinct, but it’s also a small rebellion. She’s the only one who can expect me to do her bidding. 

She sighs. 

“Go. Mingle. Network.” And she’s off, striding through the parting crowd, every person a weaker magnet, pushed back by her strength. 

Well, the first order of business is obvious. 

I stalk a server holding a tray of champagne flutes. I smirk a little as I pluck one from the tray. The server doesn’t even notice. Glass in hand, I retreat into a corner. 

I take in the party guests. They’re mostly men, polished in their tailored suits, subtlety comparing Rolexes and cufflinks. Most of them have women on their arms, glittering like perfect accessories. Their dresses are appropriate for a semi-professional evening of drinks and food, but show enough skin for wandering eyes and hands to peruse. 

I look and I listen, trying to pick out some small circle of people I might be able to slide into. As long as I avoid Kingsley, I should be fine, but it’s better to be safe than–

“Hey, Miranda Girl.”

I don’t jump at the voice in my ear. I don’t even turn to look at him. 

“I still have a name, Christian.”

“And yet you’re still a Miranda Girl.”

He leans against the floor to ceiling glass wall next to me. I take a sip of my champagne. 

“What?” he prods. “No better offers yet? Or … don’t tell me. You’ve drunk the koolaid, haven’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” God, why didn’t I anticipate he’d be here? It’s a god damn publishing event, of course he’s here. Damn it all to hell. 

“Come on, Andy,” he cajoles. “I haven’t seen you in months, not since that night in Paris.” He draws a finger down arm. “It was quite the night.”

I step away. I don’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him, instead scanning the crowd for some sort of escape. 

He doesn’t take the hint. He steps closer into my space, wrapping an arm around my waist. Holding me hostage. 

My frustration boils over into anger. 

“I’m not sure what about nearly a year of no contact has given you the wrong idea, but I assure you, it is the wrong idea.”

I try to step out of his hold, but his arm tightens around me. He leans further into me, his breath against my ear making me shiver automatically. 

“Hey, I get it,” he whispers. “We’re both professionals. Well, of a sort. We’re both busy. Honestly, I don’t have much time or interest in the whole wife waiting at home with a fresh loaf of bread waiting on the counter. Clearly you aren’t either, too happy running around doing Miranda’s bidding.” 

His hand on my waist slips lower. And lower. I feel myself become a statue, my eyes frozen wide open. 

“But we’re adults, with needs. Desires. Why not indulge? Of course, I’m assuming Le Boyfriend isn’t back in the picture?” He chuckles. “Not that it’s a deal breaker for me.”

“Andrea.”

It’s the last voice I want to hear. Or maybe the one I want to hear most. 

As if she teleported, Miranda is standing in front of me. Of us. 

Frost laces her voice, but her eyes are blue flames. 

“We’re leaving.” 

She turns, expecting me to follow. I try, but Christian doesn’t release his grip on me. 

“Miranda, not even a hello?” he whines. 

She half turns, only enough to pin him with her eyes. 

Christian’s survival instincts kick in. He lets me go, backing away with hands raised. 

I don’t waste any more time, hurrying to keep up with Miranda’s brisk pace. 

“Miranda,” I whisper when I get close enough. “We can’t leave. We just got here, and Irv–”

“I’m leaving,” she clips. “You’re more than welcome to stay and continue your dalliance. I’m sure you’d find some way home.”

I stumble as if she’s slapped me. 

I follow her silently after that.