The Mandarin Oriental ballroom is exactly the kind of place where Manhattan's elite come to pretend they care about charity.
Crystal chandeliers. Champagne towers. Women in gowns that cost more than most people's annual salary. Men in tuxedos discussing deals that'll make or break companies before dessert is served.
I'm wearing Valentino. Red. The kind of red that makes people look twice. The kind that says I belong here, that I've always belonged here, that I wasn't serving these same people appetizers two weeks ago.
Damien's wearing Armani. Black tuxedo, crisp white shirt, looking every inch the billionaire he's pretending to still be.
Except tonight, he's not here as a guest.
He's here as my assistant.
"Stay close," I tell him as we walk through the entrance. "When I need something, you get it. When I'm talking to someone, you stand two steps behind me and don't speak unless spoken to. Understand?"
His jaw tightens. "Yes."
"Yes, what?"
