Page 8 of Redamancy (Fated Fixation #2)

Chapter five

“ I hate these things.”

“You don’t hate it.”

“I do. I hate it.”

“You can’t hate an event that hasn’t happened yet,” I tell LuAnne as I touch up my makeup in the back of the Uber. The charity gala she’s bringing me to is located all the way on the Upper East Side—too far of a walk most of the time, but especially in heels.

“Well, I hate it on principle,” LuAnne explains.

“Tonight isn’t a celebration. It’s about ass-kissing a bunch of hoity-toity rich people who, by the way, already get special treatment from the hospital.

” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Like Mr. Li. He donated a couple of million to the hospital last year, and a couple weeks ago, I had to clear my entire schedule for the day to examine his girlfriend’s cat.

She was freaking out about all the little lumps she found on his chest. She was so convinced he had cancer…

” She shakes her head. “They were nipples. She’d found his nipples. ”

I pause in applying makeup long enough to chuckle. “Alright, ass-kissing aside, it can’t be that bad. You said there’s going to be an open bar. And fancy appetizers.”

The Uber driver makes a sharp turn, and I only narrowly avoid stabbing myself in the eye with the mascara stick.

“I guess that’s true,” she sighs.

“And you look great.”

With her braids swinging freely around her shoulders and high cheekbones emphasized with shimmery highlighter, she really does look good. Plus, the thrifted black Reformation dress she took from my closet hugs her hips in a way I’m certain it’s never hugged mine.

“Well, you’re much prettier arm-candy than Joe,” she says, and her eyes flit down the sleeveless black cocktail dress I’m wearing. “I mean, that dress…I can’t believe a thrift shop sold you vintage Dior, and didn’t hike the price up by a thousand dollars or something.”

“I know,” I say, fidgeting with the hem.

The thrift store lie might be far-fetched, but it’s still a better alternative than telling her the truth: that Adrian Ellis bought me this dress while we were dating, and I’ve been letting it collect dust in the closet ever since, unable to bring myself to sell or wear it.

Till tonight.

It’s a little looser than it was ten years ago—a side effect of living on a budget that doesn’t include subway fare—but it still clings to the places that matter.

As for my hair, I’ve twisted it into an updo to hide the fact that it’s in desperate need of a trim, but a couple of rebellious strands hang around my eyes.

At least they’re finally the right shade again.

When I left Lionswood, I had a bit of a hair crisis.

Or maybe it was a breakup crisis, I’m not sure—but I needed a change, so I grabbed some honey-colored box dye, a pair of scissors, and let the cosmetology school dropout that sat next to me in Graphic Design go to work.

Unfortunately, the French bob she gave me did not look good, and it took about four years for my hair follicles to properly recover—but it’s finally back to the ashy, platinum shade I came out of the womb with.

Completely down, it reaches mid-back, minus the curtain bangs LuAnne convinced me would “frame my face.”

I’m still not convinced.

“Honestly, we shouldn’t have to stay long,” LuAnne tells me as the Uber pulls up to the curb.

“You flirt, I’ll make a couple rounds through the room, kiss enough ass to make the hospital director happy, and milk the open bar as much as possible—so, preferably, we’ll be out of here in an hour. Hour-and-a-half.”

I stash the mascara in my clutch. “Sounds like a plan.”

***

Things don’t go to plan.

Two hours in, LuAnne has disappeared into a horde of veterinarians and donors, there’s a two-glass limit on the free champagne, and the flirting prospects aren’t what I thought they’d be.

“People really underestimate the value of stocks these days, you know? They don’t understand the market. They’ve got all these apps now...”

I haven’t spoken a word in forty minutes, but Mark, one of tonight’s donors—and a corporate financial analyst who looked a lot cuter twenty feet away—hasn’t seemed to notice yet.

Where is LuAnne?

I take a sweeping glance around the room, but she’s nowhere to be found, and I’ve got nothing to do but nod my head and admire the architecture.

LuAnne wasn’t wrong. The hospital really is trying to kiss ass tonight.

The inside of this stately pre-war building is reminiscent of a Greek temple with its arched stone entryways and large Corinthian columns framing the atrium.

And white.

So white.

White marble, white columns, white linens cloaking the tables—the only source of color I can find is the swirl of fancy cocktail attire as people dance from one conversation to the next.

I crane my neck upwards to the high, vaulted ceilings that might as well stretch to infinity. “Hey, Mark?”

He pauses. “Oh, was I talking too fast? Do you need me to repeat the last part about Roth IRAs?”

“Actually, no,” I reply. “I was wondering if you were going to drink that drink, though?” I gesture to the untouched malt whiskey in front of him.

Whiskey isn’t my drink of choice, but I’ve already blown through my two free glasses of champagne, and I’m going to need something to dull the senses if we’re circling back to Roth IRAs.

“Uh, sure,” Mark awkwardly agrees, sliding the drink across the table. “I don’t really drink, anyway. Just got it for show.” He adjusts his tie, and I pretend I don’t see the speck of bacon jam decorating the knot.

I take a generous gulp of the whiskey. It’s a million times smoother than the lighter fluid from the dive bar, and I feel more equipped to hear about retirement plans by the second. “So, you were saying…Roth IRAs?”

Mark launches back into his tirade without hesitation, and I take another sip—only for my spine to prickle like someone has dripped ice water down my back.

What was that?

I peer over my shoulder.

There’s a group of veterinary specialists heatedly discussing a research paper at the next table over.

A couple swaying on the dance floor, totally engrossed in whatever soft symphony the string quartet is playing.

Servers flying from one guest to the next, armed with salmon chips and brie-smeared Crostini.

But nobody is looking at me.

Weird.

I shake off the feeling, glance toward the stairwell and— thank God.

“Mark,” I interrupt, already rising from my seat. “I really appreciate the drink—and the information—but I’ve got about nine-hundred bucks to my name.” I grab the whiskey. “If that changes, I’ll give you a call, and we can talk Roth IRAs then, how about that?”

I’m striding toward the spiral staircase before he can reply.

LuAnne meets me on the bottom step, an apology shining in her eyes.

“I am so sorry,” she whispers. “One of the donors cornered me, and decided he wanted to discuss the potential benefits of a raw food diet for his pug. Then, thirty minutes in, phoned his pet psychic to get their opinion.” She massages her cheeks.

“I’ve done so much smiling tonight that it feels like my mouth is going to split open.

” And then she spots the whiskey in my hand. “Is that—”

“Go for it,” I say. “Sounds like you need it more than I do.”

A couple of sips later, and her shoulders are already loosening. “Well, I hope you’re having a less terrible time than I am.”

I shrug. “I’m more informed about stock portfolios than ever, and this place is…”

“Way too much?” LuAnne interjects, lips pursed like she’s tasted something sour. “Told you. Hoity-toity rich people.”

Familiar, I think. I was going to say it’s familiar here.

Well, not here specifically , because I’ve never stepped foot in this building before tonight—not unless I was a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of someone’s shoe in a past life—but here, in the energy that circulates the room.

It’s in the Chanel bags slung over the chairs. The Rolex watches glinting in the light. The group of graying men to our right, each one hooked to a younger, prettier woman than the last.

There’s not enough expensive cologne in the world to hide the stench of entitlement—which reeks just as much coming from well-educated doctors and philanthropists as it does from a bunch of teenagers shipped off to an elite boarding school.

LuAnne starts to say something, and I feel it again, the baby hairs on the back of my neck springing up.

Someone is watching me.

I swing my head around the room, but again, I don’t find anyone trying to burn a hole through my head.

“You okay?” LuAnne asks me.

It’s harder to shake it off this time. “Yeah, it’s just…”

“Oh, LuAnne!” A portly, white-haired man interrupts and pulls her in for a tight hug. “There you are.”

“Oh, Dr. Nichols.” LuAnne plasters a smile on her face, and immediately shoves the whiskey back into my hands. “It’s so good to see you.”

I squint at the tiny man, positive I’ve heard LuAnne complain about him before.

Dr. Nichols, chief of something…

Or maybe it’s director of something?

“You know,” he says. “I ran into Mr. Li tonight, and he was telling me how impressed he was with the level of care he received from you a few weeks ago.”

“Oh,” she smiles, a little sheepishly. “I didn’t really do much, to be honest. Just a physical exam.”

“Still,” he continues, and though he’s talking just as loudly, he leans in like he’s sharing a secret. “That’s the sort of feedback I keep in mind as hospital director.”

Hospital director—that’s it.

“I see big things in your future, LuAnne, and—” Dr. Nichols spots, not me, but someone behind me, and his face brightens.

“Oh, there he is! Speaking of donors, LuAnne, you have got to meet the hospital’s most generous benefactor this year.

I’m sure you’ve heard the name, but allow me to formally introduce you to—”

It’s not just a chill down my spine this time—it’s my whole body.

“—Dr. Adrian Ellis.”

I turn around at the same time LuAnne does.

My stomach sinks to the floor.

And so does the whiskey.