Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72863 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72863 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
I lean forward more, brows pulling together. “I do have fun.”
She shakes her head. “Killing is not something you should consider fun,” she says, her expression flattening into something more serious.
The playfulness drops just enough to notice. “You know I don’t ask you to go to any of this kind of stuff because this is where I get connections,” she continues, pacing a few slow steps across the closet now, heels clicking softly against the floor. “And I know you don’t like to have anything to do with what I do.” She glances back at me over her shoulder, watching for a reaction.
She’s right. While clients have to go through her to hire me, they also don’t know it’s her who does the hiring. You see, when she communicates with potential clients, most think it’s a man they’re speaking to. Not only does she disguise her voice when she talks to them, but she plays the innocent act well. Some assume she’s just the first point of contact, wholly unaware that they’ll be dealing with her throughout the entire process.
“But please,” she adds, turning fully back to me now, her tone shifting again, softer but calculated. She steps closer, closing the distance between us. “I like Bailey,” she says, as if that should matter, her fingers brushing lightly over the back of a chair before she stops. “And I did have another person lined up to accompany me.” She exhales, her shoulders dropping just slightly. “She pulled out on me, though.”
I study her for a second, my head tilting as I lean back again, tapping my fingers against my knee. “I have nothing to wear,” I finally say.
She freezes mid-step, then her eyes narrow just slightly. She lets out a short, disbelieving scoff, shaking her head while a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “You do; don’t lie.”
I smile back, just a little. Of course I have something to wear. I love clothes, though not as much as I love heels; don’t get that fact twisted. She crosses her arms now, shifting her weight onto one hip, waiting me out like she knows she already won.
“How long do I have to get ready?” I ask on a sigh.
“Twenty minutes. I’m already late.”
“Fucking hell, Carrie,” I grumble, getting up.
She grabs a pair of blue heels that match the color of my hair. “Wear these with whatever dress you pick.”
“I haven’t broken those in yet,” I tell her, then shrug my shoulders with a grin. “Guess tonight is the night I do.”
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” I whine as we wait outside the gala entrance. Her date, Bailey, is late even though we were running late ourselves. Quite rude, if you ask me, especially since we can’t get in without him. Invite only, or some shit.
The building in front of me gleams under the city lights, its facade a mix of sleek glass panels and ornate stonework, the kind of architecture that screams money and prestige. Red carpets run up the steps, flanked by velvet ropes and uniformed door attendants. And to think I could be home right now, in my pajamas. Instead, I’m here, watching women in gowns that shimmer as they sweep past. Men in bespoke suits adjust their cuffs, oozing a polished charm as they offer hands to their escorts. The scent of expensive perfume drifts in the air, mingling with the faint exhaust from the cars.
And here I am, standing off to the side, annoyed, slightly out of place, and taking it all in. Waiting.
I fucking hate waiting.
“I forgot to tell you something,” Carrie says.
“What?” I glance at her, shifting my weight slightly as my shoes pinch my toes. The ground beneath my feet is too hard, every step a reminder that beauty is pain.
“We signed NDAs to be here. It’s very exclusive, okay?”
I turn my head toward her slowly, narrowing my eyes. “You mean you signed for me?” I ask.
“Well, yes.” She waves a hand dismissively, completely unbothered. “I do run your life, so of course I signed for you.” She smiles, pleased with herself, just as someone calls her name.
We both turn to Bailey as he approaches.
“You said it was a gala,” I murmur under my breath as I scan the entrance again—the security, the person checking the guest list, the way people are being scrutinized before being let in.
“It is … of sorts,” she says just before Bailey reaches her and pulls her into his arms. I stand there as he kisses her, tongue and all, and try not to dry heave at their public display of affection. When they finally part, Bailey turns to look at me. He’s an accountant, and an excellent one with connections, or so Carrie says.
“This is Maven,” Carrie says to Bailey, who still has her locked in his grasp.