Page 1 of Jaded Princess

1

POT SHOT

The scar tissue hurt.

Puckered and pink, it webbed across my lower ribcage. The wound was small, the size of a bullet hole, but as it healed, it stretched and bubbled across my stomach the way lava slowly lurched out of a volcano—hot, burning—until it cooled into the permanent tar that forever altered the landscape it smothered.

The black couture dress I wore didn’t help, its tight lace leaving little room for breath, never mind damaged skin. It chafed at every movement, but none of it showed on my face as I smoothed out the fabric, my fingers calmly running over the itching crater that was now part of me.

I took one last sip from my champagne glass, leaving a rim of blood red as I put it down beside the bottle of Dom I’d had sent up.

I eyed my purse, but decided it wasn’t needed for where I was going. I left it lying across the California king bed, its straps tangled within unmade sheets, my t-shirt and denim shorts I’d worn earlier today also hidden somewhere within the folds.

I stepped out into the hallway, the door shutting behind me with a soft click, and smoothed invisible strands away from my face, though the French twist was so tight and helmeted down, it stretched my brain.

The elevator doors slipped open as I approached, a couple exiting arm-in-arm, the woman whispering something softly into her escort’s ear. They were well dressed—probably leaving the same gala I was about to enter—the woman in a tight lavender number and the man in a tux. I barely glanced at them as I walked by, but every detail imprinted into my mind. Her wayward brown curl at the nape of her neck, his Patek Phillipe watch, her Jimmy Choos, his wedding ring.

As the doors closed, I lifted my chin, hands folded, all the way down from the thirtieth floor to the lobby. My heels sparked against the tile when I exited, and I pretended not to notice the extended stares cast my way while I headed down the opulent hallway leading to the ballroom. My footsteps passed pure gold, Italian marble, antique seating areas, clean lines, and exquisite taste.

The two uniformed men standing at the gigantic wooden double doors arced them open in unison once I approached. I nodded in thanks and entered into familiar surroundings.

More rich shimmers, clear crystal, and polished silver saturated my view. A small orchestra played in one corner with rounded, silk-covered tables in the center, some with half-eaten plates and others full. Most of the guests were mingling with a few seated patrons peppered throughout. With a price tag of $50,000 a head, I’d stand up only after I ate every single thing on my 50k plate.

I arrived late on purpose, dessert already melting on the painstakingly decorated tables with plumes of white bouquets in gold vases as the centerpieces, and there wasn’t time to dawdle.

I cast a wide net, scanning and dismissing the handsome, the Botoxed, the naturally beautiful.

No piercing blue eyes linked to mine, and I dismissed the sorrow as soon as it came, getting back to the task at hand.

There, in the far corner, closest to the string quartet, stood the man I wanted.

Offers of a drink, or a dance, were politely declined as I rippled through the crowd. I hadn’t thought about where I would’ve been seated had I arrived for dinner service. Possibly I’d have been in the middle, right in the thick of it, throwing back champagne in crystal goblets as I half-listened to the speeches and stabbed my heel at wayward Ferragamos running up my leg.

Eyes, opaque brown, lifted to mine when I arrived. His smile spoke of amused recognition and he lifted his tumbler of golden liquid in a polite hello.

“Scarlet,” he said—purred, more like. “How lovely to see you.”

The midnight blue of his expertly tailored suit somehow deepened his gaze.

“Dominic,” I said.

Dom’s companion, a stunning redhead in emerald—both in fabric and jewels—flicked her attention to me for about a second, then discreetly stepped aside and away, joining another crowd.

“I was about to write you off,” Dom said as he slipped his arm through mine.

“You should know my habits by now,” I replied, allowing him to escort me behind the orchestra. The skilled slide of horse hair against catgut was our percussion as we walked toward a carved wooden door hidden from view from the opulent guests behind us. I recognized “Clair de Lune.”

“After you.” Dom swept out an arm.

We were in another hallway, and soon a secret elevator, opening to a cavern I assumed was for VIPs hoping to escape cameras, fans, and one-night-mistakes they wanted to pretend never occurred.

Dom let me take the lead, and having done this before—in another state, another city, another hotel—I pretended to know which room to aim for. It wasn’t smart to ever look stupid in front of these men, even doing the simplest of tasks.

Dom’s footsteps slowed, and I pricked an ear at the change, coming to a smooth halt.

“Here we are,” Dom said with a curve of his lips. He swiped his entry card and we were in.

The smoke hit first, the semi-sweet char of cigars and masculine exhales. It curled unseeingly against my bare arms and tantalized my nostrils. The clinks were next, large cubes in tumblers, glass and ice clashing. Then came the suits, the tuxes and loosened bow ties, the light dew on foreheads, and the thrown back, relaxed stance of some as they handled their chairs the way I was sure they handled their mistresses.

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