Page 131 of Chandelier Enthralled
Her reaction suggested she knew more about the journalist’s meeting with Lance Merrill. Both were tied to Pendulum, the club she wanted to own. Her silence hinted at a quiet complicity.
She waved a hand in the air. “You may go.”
The Beverly Majestic was filled with well-dressed people, a mix of professionals, creatives, and fashionistas, all looking sharp and put-together.
No one noticed me, the guy sitting at the bar in a tuxedo. I was drinking bourbon and not checking my phone, unlike so many others.
Taking a gulp of the rich liquor, I savored the burn while I looked around. The sobering truth was that the building itself was often ignored, while the décor was always admired—the way of things.
I sent out a silent prayer to thank the construction workers. If I’d had my way, they’d be here tonight, too.
I even thanked the building itself—a ritual I performed whenever visitors poured inside for the first time. I was mentally revisiting the blueprints, each line and curve, having created something from nothing, giving shape to what my heart couldn’t say.
The guests were oblivious to the fact this place would one day carry a weight far greater than it did at this moment, where laughter echoed and time seemed endless, unaware that the very walls would become silent witnesses to memories that would ripple across generations, shaping lives in ways they could never foresee.
More guests flowed in as life was breathed into the structure I had crafted with care.
I anonymously observed them as they mingled, sipping the finest champagne, all thanks to the wealthy owner—my client.
Amelia would have been intimidated with all this finery. Some of the guests were celebrities. Others, less well known but just as impressive. I liked to think of her now and again, honor her memory, even though she’d scorched my life to the ground.
I wished I could enjoy tonight for what it was, but instead, I couldn’t help but study the expressions of every guest. As usual, I was overthinking everything, my mathematical brain picking up patterns in every corner. Seeing too many strained faces, people searching for something outside of themselves when it was right there within them all along.
A philosophy I’d do well to turn on myself.
An interesting face appeared and stared back at me, a petite woman with a pixie-cut smiled my way. Draped in a long black skirt paired with a silver blouse, the ensemble she wore missed the mark in fit, while the Birkin bag, though iconic, felt oddly out of place.
I offered a polite smile in return, which she immediately responded to, walking toward me as though my politeness served as an invitation.
“Have we met before?” she asked with an easy smile.
“Don’t believe so.” I was good with faces.
She offered me a hand to shake. “Chloe.”
Her hand felt cold and small in mine. “Greyson.”
“Even though we haven’t met, I know who you are.”
That surprised me and I felt a rush of pride. “Really?”
She looked around, seemingly impressed, and then tilted her head coquettishly.
“You’re the architect.”
“I am.”
“Why are you sitting alone?”
“I don’t mind.”
She looked surprised. “You should be the center of attention. You’re the star.”
“Hardly, the hotel is.”
She stepped closer. “Are you going to ask me what I want to drink?”
Her forwardness was appealing, and in another situation, I’d have been flattered by the attention, but I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. I just wanted to appease the organizer and then slip out.
