Chapter 65: The Formal Invitation
After Ethan's talk with Old James, he stepped back into the ballroom.
The crystal chandeliers still sparkled brilliantly; clinking glasses and music mingled in the air. Who could guess the real financier of this wedding was an elderly man facing Alzheimer's?
Missy, smiling sweetly, was politely declining a man bragging about owning three yachts—one permanently moored in the Hamptons.
The guy had even unlocked his phone, ready to show photos of himself on his boats—
Spotting Ethan, Missy tossed out, "Sorry—my boyfriend needs me."
She spun away, leaving him stranded.
Walking toward Ethan, her eyes asked a silent question.
Ethan lowered his voice. "He asked me… for medical consultation."
Missy raised an eyebrow. "Medical consultation? Why you? Do you moonlight as the Marcus Welby of Manhattan private physicians?"
Ethan cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. "Because I'm good."
After a beat he added, dead-serious, "Plus I look trustworthy."
Missy's eyes curved in amusement. "That's more believable than Marcus Welby."
Ethan asked, "How's your evening?"
She casually linked her arm through his, tone light and affectionate.
"Much simpler. Everyone's been civilized."
She leaned closer, voice for his ears only.
"Still, if you need it, I can analyze the groom for you—
his look at you just shifted from 'romantic rival' to 'potential business contact worth cultivating.'"
Ethan glanced at the groom, still surrounded by guests—at least a smart rich kid who'd stopped bothering Missy.
"So, 'Brooklyn's rising medical star,'"
Missy asked with a sly grin, "did he pay a consultation fee? Or just hand you a blank check?"
Ethan drew out the exquisite black-and-gold keycard. "He gave this as thanks."
"Whoa—Presidential Suite?" Reading the embossed hotel logo, Missy's eyes widened.
"Perfect timing—especially since someone insisted on the couch last night.
Tonight you can enjoy all that luxury… alone."
She waved the card, emphasizing the word "alone."
Ethan caught her meaning—only an idiot could miss it.
"Alone?"
He bent nearer. "A minute ago I was your boyfriend; now I'm banished to a penthouse?"
He paused, eyes flicking toward men still sneaking glances at her.
"Missy… I formally invite you to share that suite tonight."
Feeling it sounded too formal, he added softly, for her alone,
"Size doesn't matter—if you're there, even the couch could be… exciting."
He chuckled.
"But without you, the penthouse is just a bigger… cell."
"So will you stay with me tonight? I want you there."
Missy's smile lit up like a Texas sunrise.
She closed the keycard in her fist and tugged him along.
"Absolutely—can't wait."
"Right now?"
Ethan let her pull him toward the exit.
"Of course now! Listening to the groom's corporate succession drama would waste Old James's generous gift."
She headed for the doors, practically skipping, excitement palpable.
"Wait—aren't we supposed to say goodbye to the bride and groom?"
Missy didn't even turn. "Goodbye? What would we say?
'Thanks for the wedding, we love the suite your dad gave us—off to enjoy it now'?"
"Come on, Ethan—sometimes leaving early is the classiest move."
She glanced back, winking.
"Or would you rather stay and watch me politely handle the next guy with a private jet?"
Ethan tightened his grip on her hand. "Let's go!"
The elevator rose smoothly, numbers climbing.
A soft chime; the doors opened onto a hushed corridor with plush carpeting, ending in a single door.
The keycard triggered the lock; the door slid aside—both froze for half a second.
It felt less like a hotel suite than a luxury apartment in the sky.
A double-height living room framed by floor-to-ceiling windows revealed New York as a living panorama.
Far away, the Empire State and Chrysler buildings pierced the skyline like architectural monuments rendered in steel and light.
Unlike the ballroom's glaring crystals, the lighting here was natural, subtle—understated elegance.
"Oh my god…" Missy slipped off her shoes and hurried in, heels sinking into the plush carpet.
"This place… incredible!"
Like an excited child she explored.
One door revealed a private screening room with theater-quality sound and leather recliners;
another opened onto a marble bathroom larger than their entire apartment's living room, a massive soaking tub at its center.
"Ethan! Look at this bathtub!" she called in exaggerated excitement.
Ethan meanwhile approached the living room's wet bar.
An ice bucket cradled a vintage Dom Pérignon, two crystal flutes beside it and a handwritten note in elegant script:
"Enjoy your evening."
Damn capitalism, corrupting our souls—and doing it so comfortably…
He lifted the chilled bottle toward her. "Champagne?"
"Yes!" Missy bent, flicked off her heels and kicked the torturous designer shoes aside.
Bare toes curled in the carpet as she sighed in relief.
"Ahh… freedom!"
She stretched, curves outlined beneath her dress, then flopped onto the vast sectional sofa, sinking deep.
"This New York trip might be my best memory of the year!"
"I officially forgive you!"
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