Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
My night?
I don’t know what that means. But when I push for an answer, the jeweler doesn’t have one. I drop it because he probably doesn’t know anything. Despite the fact that he’s got half a dozen bodyguards because he’s toting around millions of dollars in jewels, he is nothing but the keeper of these things. Not the owner.
So instead, I concentrate on the beautiful things before me and it takes me almost an hour just to decide what I want.
I could choose the necklace with the biggest stones. And there are so many stones. But I don’t. I choose something small and delicate. A dainty bib of thin, silver chains—which I am told are actually platinum—which fall down my front and are accented by stones the color of my dress.
I am told they are diamonds.
At first, I don’t believe him. I’ve never seen a purple diamond.
But then I look over at the heavily armed bodyguards and change my mind. Why would these people deal in fake jewels?
I choose the entire set of purple diamonds. Everything. The bib necklace, the delicate bracelet, the fringe-y drop earrings, and the huge brooch, which is a combination of yellow and purple diamonds.
I’m just about to pin the brooch onto my dress when the jeweler clicks his tongue. “May I?” he asks.
“Sure.” I hand over the brooch and he pins it to the center of the band of thick satin that makes up the A-line waist. “Oh.” I laugh. “That’s where it goes.”
“Indeed,” he says. Then he packs up his stuff and leaves, escorted by his bodyguards.
When the room doors close, I find myself alone and don’t quite know what to do. I’m nervous. My stomach is empty and queasy. I didn’t eat much yesterday either, and today I only nibbled on that pastry.
But I can’t eat now. I imagine slopping something on the front of this dress. Or messing up my perfect lipstick. I don’t even want to sit for fear that I will wrinkle this perfectly smooth satin.
I look around for a clock and realize it’s nearly nine PM.
No wonder I’m hungry. Wasn’t this supposed to be a dinner tonight?
Have I missed it?
And just as I think these words, there is a knock on my door.
I walk over—careful in the new shoes, which are pale-yellow heels with rhinestone accents—and open the door.
There is a man there. A man I have never seen before. He’s young, my age, maybe. And he’s dressed in a tux. “Miss Ryan?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“I’m here to escort you down to the ballroom.” Then he offers me his arm.
I take it and let him lead me.
I have a million questions as we make our way to the ballroom, but I don’t ask any of them. I doubt this man has my answers.
Mercer has my answers and he is not here. The note never said he would pick me up. It said he would see me at dinner. In fact, now that I think back, it said ‘at the dinner.’
He never said we were having dinner, did he?
Weird.
My stomach roils and rolls. I almost feel like I will puke.
Calm down, Nova.
My quirky inner-monologue voice soothes me and my stomach is just beginning to settle a bit when we reach the ballroom doors.
This is when I know.
I don’t know how, but I know.
There is something very wrong going on here.
And the moment he opens the doors and I step into the room to a thunderous standing ovation, I have the urge to run.
I even look behind me, calculating my chances of escape, but there is a line of black-suited men along the back wall. Secret Service kind of men.
When I look forward, there is a sea of people. Rich people. Well-dressed, bejeweled, and sleek people. And they are all smiling, and clapping, and looking at me.
Then Mercer is at my side, whispering into my neck. “You’re OK, Nova. Don’t panic. You’re just fine.”
I look up at him, completely panicked. “What’s going on?”
“Come with me. We’re going to sit down.”
And then I am in front of a table. Somehow, he and I have walked down the center aisle of the ballroom and are standing at a table right up front.
There is a stage with a large screen in the back.
And on the stage is Patricia Mercer.
There is no way she is his mother.
She’s older, like I had already noticed, but not old. Unless she was some ragged, desperate teenage mother, she is certainly not old enough to have a thirty-seven-year-old child. And she is beautiful. Sexy. She’s no one’s mother, I decide.
She’s clapping, and smiling, and nodding her head. Not at me, but at Mercer.
Who is she?
“Here, Nova, sit.” Mercer is pulling out one of two chairs at the table that faces forward. A table that faces the stage. A table that squarely puts the two of us at the center of attention.