Chapter 2 - The Emerald TrapBy Thursday evening, my apartment in Astoria felt less like a sanctuary and more like a crime scene.
My bed was covered in discarded clothing—every sweater, blouse, and skirt I owned laid out like silent witnesses to my absolute lack of high-society armor. The Thompson charity gala was tomorrow night at the Mandarin Oriental overlooking Central Park, and thanks to Preston’s sudden executive mandate, I wasn't just attending as a background staffer; I was representing Marchetti Industries at the head table.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I picked it up. A text from Lila, my best friend and roommate who worked as a senior stylist at a boutique in SoHo: “Open your front door, you cave-dweller.”
I walked over and unlocked the deadbolt. Lila stood in the hallway holding a massive garment bag zipped in opaque black vinyl, her face flushed with excitement and her dark hair pulled back into a messy bun.
“Step aside, peasant,” Lila announced, marching past me into the tiny living room and dumping the bag across my kitchen table. “You are looking at a fashion emergency of catastrophic proportions. When you told me you were going to a Marchetti-tier gala in a polyester sheath dress from Zara, I actually felt a small part of my soul die.”
“I can’t afford designer clothes, Lila,” I sighed, dropping onto the sofa and rubbing my temples. “My loan payment cleared yesterday, and my bank account is currently breathing through a straw.”
“Which is precisely why I didn't ask you to pay for it,” Lila said, unzipping the garment bag with the dramatic flair of a magician unveiling a stage illusion.
She parted the vinyl.
The dress caught the dim light of my living room lamp like liquid emeralds.
It was a floor-length gown of heavy silk crepe, sleeveless, with a cowl neckline that draped with devastating elegance and a high slit that hinted at danger without ever crossing into vulgarity. The color wasn't just green; it was the deep, rich green of ancient forests and sunken pirate gold—a shade designed to make every other color in the room look like cheap paint.
I stood up slowly, walking over to the table as if drawn by a spell. I reached out and touched the fabric. It was cool, impossibly smooth, and impossibly expensive.
“Lila… I can’t wear this,” I whispered, pulling my hand back as if I’d been burned. “Where did you even get this? This looks like it belongs on a Vogue cover!”
“It was pulled for a celebrity client who canceled last minute,” Lila said, grinning ear-to-ear. “It’s sitting in our back inventory under a ghost tag, and if I return it by Monday morning, nobody will ever know it took a field trip to Central Park. Now, stop arguing with me, strip off that sensible cardigan, and put it on before I lose my patience.”
Ten minutes later, standing in front of my tiny bathroom mirror, I barely recognized the reflection staring back at me.
The silk hugged every curve I usually spent my life hiding beneath loose blouses and blazers. The emerald color contrasted sharply with my pale skin and dark hair, turning my eyes into twin pools of startled amber. The high slit revealed my leg with every step, and for the first time in my life, I didn't feel like an overworked guidance counselor or an invisible spreadsheet ghost.
I looked like a weapon.
“Oh, sweet baby Jesus,” Lila gasped, leaning against the doorframe with her hand over her heart. “Veronica Ashford is going to have a full clinical stroke when she sees you tomorrow night.”
“Veronica won't even notice me,” I muttered, though my heart fluttered nervously against my ribs. “I’ll be sitting at table four near the service doors, making sure the catering schedule runs on time.”
“Table four?” Lila snorted. “Honey, Preston Marchetti doesn't put his lead financial analyst—the one he personally defended in front of the executive board—at table four. Check your corporate portal.”
I frowned, walked over to my desk, and opened my laptop. I logged into the internal gala seating management tool.
My name wasn't at table four.
My name was at Table One.
Right beside Preston Marchetti.
Directly across from the Italian delegation, the city’s district attorney, and the senior partners of Marchetti Industries.
May you like
My breath caught in my throat. He did that on purpose.
“Well,” Lila whispered, a wicked smile spreading across her lips. “Looks like someone’s about to start a war.”
