Page 140 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
My heart included.
As the limo pulls into the palazzo entrance and slows to a stop, I practice more of Jenner’s deep-breathing techniques because I’m about to faint from nerves. A uniformed valet opens the door and helps me out, appreciatively eyeing the expanse of bare thigh revealed by the slit in my skirt.
“Buongiorno, bellissima,” he says in a husky baritone, smiling at me with smoldering bedroom eyes the color of espresso.
Whew. Italian men. They could get a girl pregnant through osmosis.
I join a flow of exquisitely dressed people entering the palace through a designated door and show my invitation to a burly guard dressed all in black. He checks my name off a list, then nods, allowing me to pass into a spectacular hall echoing with marble and lit with dozens of crystal chandeliers sparkling in icy-cold brilliance overhead. Feeling self-conscious but pleased by all the admiring looks my gown is getting, I follow the crowd up a sweeping red-carpeted staircase to the second floor.
At the landing, I enter another world.
Thick piles of red rose petals are sculpted into drifts along the walls and balustrade. Thousands of red rose heads have been strung together and hang at irregular heights from the ceiling like vines. Glass vases taller than I am are filled with water, red petals, and floating candles, and stand flickering between the drifts, lending everything an ethereal glow. The soft strains of violins play through hidden speakers, and the air is perfumed with the scent of roses and candle wax.
The overall effect is magical, sensual, and breathtakingly romantic.
Tall carved wooden doors stand ope
n to a soaring ballroom, where rows of seats flanking a catwalk lit from beneath in pink lights await. People mill about inside, pretending to glibly chat as they check out who’s who and what they’re wearing.
Another uniformed guard at the door is checking invitations again and pointing out seat assignments. I get mine—front row center, be still my heart—then take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and enter the room.
And instantly feel the touch of a cool hand on my arm.
“Mi scusi, signorina.”
I turn to see a woman standing beside me. She’s extremely pale, with waist-length black hair, cheekbones like the freshly sharpened edge of a knife, and eyes that probably don’t close all the way when she sleeps because of the amount of skin that has been removed from her lids by plastic surgery. Her dress is a slinky black silk number that shows off a pair of savage hipbones. She looks as if she last had a solid meal in the nineties.
Her companion is a woman who looks exactly like Vogue editor Anna Wintour.
I’m so unnerved by the possibility that it might actually be Anna Wintour that I try to smile but bare my teeth like a cornered wolf instead. “Yes?”
The woman says something to me in Italian, gesturing at my dress.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian.”
Anna Wintour says, “She wants to know who you’re wearing.”
“Oh! Me! I’m wearing me!” I smile again, aiming for a credible impression of a human this time.
Anna and Morticia share a look. “You’re a designer?”
Morticia covetously eyes my dress. I think she wants to pet me, or maybe take me hostage. My ambition suggests we’ll accept either.
“Yes. Here’s my card.”
Morticia takes it, lifts it to her nose, and tries to squint at it. If only she had enough extra skin around her eyes to pull it off.
“Grazie.” The two drift away, whispering with their heads bent together.
I suppose that went well, but don’t have time to dwell on it, because the lights dim and the music grows louder, indicating the show is about to begin.
Unfortunately, my nervous bladder has decided it’s time for a bathroom break.
I look around for a restroom sign, but can’t see anything due to the press of bodies and the low lights. People are taking their seats and I should, too, but if I don’t find a ladies’ room, I’ll have to sit through the entire show squeezing my thighs together and praying my Kegel muscles are strong enough to avoid having to make an embarrassing emergency exit.
I head back to the guard at the door and ask directions to the nearest bathroom. He points down the hallway. I take off, holding my skirts aloft as I trot as fast as I can in my high heels.
When I come to the end of the corridor, it splits left and right. There’s no sign for a restroom, no lighted placard or helpful attendant, only more yawning hallways echoing with the sounds of the show I’m about to miss.
