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“Oh my god, Gage, I am sooooo sorry!” She’s a burst of frantic energy and words that are slightly slurred. “Shit! Shit, shit.”
I frown. “Have you been drinking?” It certainly sounds like it.
I’m met with silence, and in it, I hear the distinct sounds of low music, laughter, and the soft hum of a midday crowd.
“Where are you?” I ask, already out of my seat.
“I am so embarrassed.”
“Amelia. Where are you?”
“I never do this. I’ve never missed anything in my life. I can’t believe I forgot.” Her words trip over each other, unfiltered.
“Amelia.” My tone is firm. The kind I use when I need answers. “Tell me where you are.”
She takes a moment. “At The Langham. I’m sorry I missed our meeting.”
“Wait there. I’ll come to you.”
She says something that’s muffled, as if she’s got her mouth covered. It sounded a lot like, “For the love of God, don’t wear a tuxedo.”
I grab my jacket and walk out of my office. “Did you just tell me not to wear a tux?”
“Shit. Did I say that out loud?” Before I can answer, she adds, “I’m not taking it back.”
My lips twitch. “Amelia, are you day drinking?” I’m both amused and concerned by that idea.
“In my defense, I have reasons.”
I chuckle. “Good to know this isn’t just something you do for fun.” We end the call, and I eye my assistant who I’m now standing in front of. “Cancel my afternoon.”
Lucy’s eyebrows hit her forehead. “No way. Don’t do this to me, Gage,” she whisper-yells. “You’ve got John at three.”
John’s one of the most powerful men in global finance. He hired me to assess cross-market risks tied to rising geopolitical tensions. It’s the kind of work that shifts forecasts and rattles portfolios.
I don’t cancel on men like John. Ever. Not when the work we do reshapes markets and moves governments. But I’m already walking.
I meet Lucy’s panic with a firm, “Reschedule it.”
She mutters something about updating her résumé, but I block it out and head for the elevator. Lucy has worked for me for five years, and this isn’t the first time she’s threatened to quit.We’ve seen some shit together in those five years and she has my back just as much as I have hers. She’s not going anywhere.
It’s a ten-minute walk from my office to The Langham. Less if I’m walking with intent, which I am today.
I spot her the moment I walk in. She’s alone at a table near the bar. Dressed in a black sleeveless jumpsuit that’s belted at the waist. Her blazer hangs on the back of her chair. Her heels have been kicked off under the table.
A cocktail glass sits in front of her, half-empty, the stem caught between her fingers while she stares at it like she’s considering all her life choices to date.
She doesn’t see me until I reach her. When she glances up, I catch the look of someone who’s past the point of pretending. Her eyes are a little glassy, her smile wobbly.
“Oh, thank god,” she says. “No tuxedo.”
I take the seat across from her. “You really hate the tux, huh?”
She rolls her eyes, and this isn’t just any eye roll. This is dramatic and so un-Amelia. “You really have no idea, do you?”
Fuck, I’m invested in this conversation to the point I’d blow off a thousand Johns for it. “I really don’t. You’re going to have to enlighten me.”
She lifts her glass to her lips and takes a sip, all while keeping her eyes very much locked on mine. “You wear a tux like nobody’s business. It’s actually rude how good you look in it.”