Chapter 2 - Private Dressing Suite
The heavy oak door of the private dressing suite clicked shut, locking out the low, reverberating hum of the grand ballroom. Inside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of expensive tuberose and chilled limestone. I leaned my forehead briefly against the polished mahogany of the door, listening for footsteps on the parquet floor outside, but the thick insulation swallowed every sound.
My breath came in shallow, even rhythms. My fingers trembled slightly as I reached behind my neck, my fingernails searching blindly for the hidden clasp of the diamond tennis necklace Julian had given me on our third anniversary. It felt heavy, a cold band of metal pressing into my skin like a shackle I had worn willingly for years. With a small click, the clasp gave way. I pulled it free, letting it coil coldly into the palm of my hand before tossing it down onto the glass-topped vanity table among scattered tubes of lipstick and pressed powder.
On the vanity, my phone buzzed against the marble surface, vibrating with a harsh, metallic rattle. A banner notification flashed across the dark screen: Julian calling. Another vibration followed instantly. Then a text. Then another. I did not touch it. I walked past the glowing screen to the velvet armchair where I had left my structured leather tote bag and my car keys.
I picked up the bag, unzipped the main compartment, and swept my belongings inside with mechanical efficiency—my slim cardholder, my leather-bound notebook, a compact mirror, and the spare set of keys to the sedan. My fingers brushed against the smooth metal of the keys, grounding me. The buzzing on the vanity continued, a relentless, frantic rhythm that mirrored the panic I knew was currently unraveling the polished facade back in the ballroom.
A sharp, authoritative knock hammered against the suite door, breaking the quiet.
"Evelyn?"
The voice was muffled through the heavy wood, crisp and tense—Marcus, Julian's chief corporate assistant and the fixer who usually handled the messy aftermath of Julian’s social calculations.
"Evelyn, open the door. Julian needs you out there right now. You can't just walk away from this—the board members are staring at the dais."
I didn't answer. I stood motionless beside the velvet armchair, my hand closed tightly around the leather strap of my bag.
"Evelyn, I know you're in there," Marcus said, his voice rising, carrying a thin edge of desperation. Another heavy rap echoed against the panels, rattling the brass handle. "Don't make this worse for yourself. You know what he's capable of freezing. Open the door."
I turned my back to the entrance and walked across the plush carpeting toward the far corner of the suite, where a discreet service door stood half-hidden behind a velvet drapery. I pushed it open. Beyond lay the narrow, utilitarian utility corridor lined with exposed pipes and painted cinderblock, smelling faintly of bleach and laundry steam.
May you like
As the heavy dressing suite door rattled again from Marcus's renewed knocking, I slipped through the service opening, letting the heavy metal door swing shut and click softly into place behind me.
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