Christian’s expression remained polite, almost disinterested, while Luisa talked, but there was nothing disinterested about the way his eyes held mine. Dark and knowing, like they could strip away every mask I showed the world and find the broken pieces of the girl hiding underneath.
Like they thought the brokenness was beautiful anyway. Unease burned through me, and I severed the connection with a blink. He couldn’t have been thinking any of those things. He didn’t even know me. Luisa finished what had to be the longest introduction in the history of introductions, but it was only after Christian started walking toward me that I realized there was only one empty seat at the table. It was next to mine. Luisa had mentioned it was reserved for another guest. I hadn’t known it would be him. “Stella.” The deep, smooth timbre of his voice sent a warm shiver down my spine. “This is a pleasant surprise.” I tightened and released the hold on my fork in tandem with my exhales. “Christian.” I couldn’t very well call him Mr. Harper when he used my first name. It was my first time saying his given name, and the syllables lingered longer on my tongue than expected. Not unpleasant, but far too intimate for my liking. I resisted the urge to shift in my seat while he stared down at me, his face relaxed but his eyes like hot molten amber as they moved from the top of my head to the dip of my dress. The scrutiny lasted less than five seconds, yet a trail of fire erupted in its wake. Cool, calm, collected. “I didn’t realize you were…” I searched for the right term. “Affiliated with Delamonte.”
That wasn’t the right term, but I didn’t know how else to word it. Everyone at the table was a fashion blogger or a member of the Delamonte team. Christian was noticeably neither of those things. “I’m not,” he said wryly. “Secret fashion blogger, then?” I widened my eyes and made my voice intentionally breathless with surprise. “Don’t tell me. Your blog is called…Suits and Whiskey. No? Guns and Roses. Wait, that’s a band.” I tapped my finger against the table. “Ties and—” “If you’re done…” I didn’t think it was possible, but Christian’s voice turned even drier.
“Switch seats with me.”
My tapping stopped. “Why?” He had a prime seat next to Luisa, who was too busy talking to—
who else—Raya on her other side to notice Christian hadn’t taken his seat yet. “I dislike the corner of the table.” My stare was one of disbelief. “What do you do if it’s a four-seater?” Then every seat would be at the corner of the table. Impatience greeted my question. I sighed and switched seats with him. We were starting to attract attention from the rest of the table, and I didn’t want to make a scene. I was nervous Luisa would be upset I took her special guest’s seat, but as the night wore on, Christian’s weird quirk turned out to be quite advantageous for me. I now had direct access to Luisa, who didn’t seem upset at all and who finally turned to me after Raya excused herself to use the restroom. “Thank you for coming up to New York. I know it’s a bigger ask of you than the other girls.” Luisa’s cocktail ring glittered beneath the lights as she sipped her drink. “Of course.” Like anyone would turn down an invite to a private Delamonte dinner. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” “I’m curious why you don’t move to the city. There are more opportunities here than in D.C. if you want to get into fashion.” She sounded equal parts curious and disapproving, like I was intentionally being obtuse by not seeking greener grass elsewhere. A cotton ball formed in my throat at the indirect reminder of Maura and what was at stake. “I want to be close to family.” Maura was like family, so I wasn’t completely lying. “But I’m considering a move soon.” Also not lying. I was considering a move. I just knew it couldn’t happen anytime soon. “By the way, congratulations on a wonderful Fashion Week.” I switched subjects to something more relevant. I wasn’t here to talk about my personal life; I was here to land a deal. “I especially loved the pastel dusters.” Luisa lit up at the mention of the brand’s latest fall/winter collection, and soon, we were deep in conversation about the trends we’d spotted at last week’s New York Fashion Week. I couldn’t attend in person because of work—only senior editors at D.C. Style, like Meredith, were budgeted to attend NYFW—but I’d caught up on my anticipated shows online. When Raya returned from the bathroom, her face soured at the sight of me and Luisa chatting animatedly. I tried my best to ignore her. Once upon a time, Raya and I had been friends. She’d started her account two years ago and reached out to me for advice. I’d been happy to share what I knew, but after she surpassed me in followers a few months ago, she’d stopped answering my messages. The only contact we had these days was the occasional hello at an event. Her meteoric rise could be traced directly to her relationship with Adam, who was a big influencer himself in the travel space. When they started dating last year, their content went viral and both their accounts exploded. There was nothing like cross-promotion and feeding the public’s voyeuristic desire to follow the love lives of strangers. Meanwhile, I’d been blogging for almost a decade, and my account had been stuck at just shy of nine hundred thousand followers for over a year. It was still a huge audience, and I was grateful for each and every one of them （except the bots and creepy men who treated Instagram like it was a hookup app）， but I couldn’t deny the truth. My
social media was stagnating, and I had no clue how to revive it. I faltered and lost my train of thought in the middle of a sentence. Raya swooped into the lull like a vulture after prey. “Luisa, I’d love to hear about Delamonte’s fabric archive in Milan,” she said, pulling the CEO’s attention back to her. “Adam and I are visiting Italy this spring, and…” Frustration bit at my veins as Raya successfully hijacked the conversation. I opened my mouth to interrupt them. I could see myself doing it in my head, but in real life, the words couldn’t make it past the filter of my upbringing and lifelong social anxiety. Disaster number three. To anyone else, Raya’s interruption wouldn’t rise to the level of a disaster, but my brain couldn’t always untangle the difference between a setback and a catastrophe.
“You did well.” My heart skipped a beat at Christian’s voice before it returned to its normal rhythm. “With?”“Luisa.” He tilted his head toward the other woman. I hadn’t realized he’d been paying attention to our conversation; he’d been conversing with the guest on his other side the entire time. “She likes you.” I gave him a doubtful stare. “We talked for five minutes.” “It only takes one to make an impression.” “One minute isn’t enough to get to know someone.” “I didn’t say get to know someone.” Christian brought his wine to his lips, his words relaxed yet perceptive. “I said make an impression.” “What impression did I make on you?” The question sparked and hissed like a live wire between us, swallowing enough oxygen to make every breath a struggle. Christian set his glass down with a precision that pulsed in my veins. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.” Surprise tinged with hurt bloomed in my chest.