Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 41105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 206(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 206(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
He presses a group of thin metal sticks into my palm.
“There are twenty total,” he says. “That’s all you have to do to help me tonight. Any questions?”
“I’m shocked you’re asking.”
“Only because I’m hoping the answer is no.” He smiles, looking me over. “Are you going to take off that coat so I can actually see your dress?”
“I would’ve if this was a real date,” I say, tucking the sticks into my pocket. “I’ll get it done.”
“Thank you. Oh, and when they ask for your name or who you’re here with, say Rush Banks.”
“Rush Banks,” I repeat.
“Good.” He presses a kiss against my forehead and orders the driver to pull the car over.
“Wait,” I say. “You’re not coming with me?”
“I’ll be there,” he says. “But you know I can’t be seen arriving with anyone.”
“So, we won’t get the chance to share a dance together?”
The driver shoots a strange look at me through the rearview mirror, and Ryder looks amused.
“No, Autumn,” he says, his voice soft. “We won’t.”
He opens the door and steps out, and another two cars pull up behind him.
“Call me if you have any problems,” he says. “I’ll be watching.”
An hour later, I’m tucking the metal bars into my clutch and shedding my coat off my shoulders as the driver pulls in front of a mansion that sits on Seattle’s coast.
From my window, I’ve watched women step out in beautiful designer dresses that are far more modest than mine, and I’m wondering if Adeline and I might’ve picked the wrong one. If my choice might interfere with my job tonight.
Swallowing as we approach the valet, I take a deep breath.
It’s fine, Autumn. You’ll be fine…
The driver stops the car, and a man in a white tuxedo opens the back door.
His jaw drops as he looks me over, but he quickly collects himself.
“Good evening, Miss,” he says. “May you tell me your name or invitee name for the guest list?”
“Mr. Rush Banks.”
“Very well,” he whispers that name to another tuxedoed guy behind him. Then he waits a few seconds before reaching for my hand.
“May I?”
I nod and grab it.
The wind blows kisses against my exposed skin as I step outside, and my gown gently falls to the ground.
As I step forward, I can feel more eyes staring in my direction; I can hear faint whispers.
Ignoring them, I take my time walking up the stone steps that lead inside the mansion.
As I enter the doors, I gasp at the lavish sight before me.
The ballroom is dripping in gold. Gilded moldings crown every arch and corner, and rows of glittering crystal chandeliers cascade from the ceiling like frozen fireworks. Five ornate mezzanine levels spiral upward, each ringed with wrought iron railings where guests lean over to sip champagne and spy on the dance floor below. The entire space glows with warmth and decadent intimacy.
I catch sight of my reflection in a mirrored panel to my left and take a long double-take as if I haven’t seen it before.
It’s a fitted, sleeveless silver gown that glitters with thousands of sequins, hugging my curves like a second skin. A deep V-neck reveals the soft swell of my breasts, and the waist cinches with a delicate belt of hand-set crystals that match the long, sweeping diamond earrings grazing my shoulders.
“Miss?” Someone calls from behind. “Miss?”
I turn around to see one of the valets. “Yes?”
“Your driver says you forgot this in the car.” He hands me my masquerade mask, and its diamonds shimmer as I grab it.
“Thank you.”
I slide it over my face, watching myself in the panel. The shape is uniquely mine—half princess crown, half masquerade.
“You look amazing tonight, Miss Jane.” Chester appears beside me, cleaned up in a fitted tux. “If all goes to plan, you’ll make a very good mob queen for Mr. Rochester in the future.”
“That’s sarcasm, isn’t it?”
“That’s me saying I’m glad as fuck he never saw your dress before this event.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s also me saying tick-tock. You’ve wasted two minutes, and I’ve got men waiting to move.”
Right. “Thank you.” I walk away from him and follow the signs for the first “powder room.”
Pushing the doors open, I let out a sigh of relief when I see that there’s no one inside. I quickly make my way to the last stall and press one of the stickers on the back of the handle like Ryder ordered.
Before I can consider whether I’m supposed to keep him up to date, my phone buzzes.
Ryder
1 down. 19 to go.
Keep moving…
I set a timer and oblige, catching glimpses of the party and accepting compliments between slipping in and out of powder rooms. Unfortunately, none of the next ones are as easy as the first.
Between the crowding at the mirrors, the occasional line snorting off the sink, the last stall is usually occupied by the time I arrive and I have to stand around waiting.