Lamie Roseの小説

Albert's POV---The private dining room sits forty stories above the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Heavy curtains that seal everything in when drawn. Phones stay outside. Nobody records.I've hosted these dinners once every four months for three years.They've always been predictable.I arrive early, bypass the Scotch, pour whiskey instead, and drink alone. The glass numbs my fingers. The whiskey burns going down. Neither touches the tension locked across my shoulders.A car is collecting Adeline right now. Bringing her here.Routine. Just expanding her exposure to my professional network.The lie sits worse than the whiskey.The truth is I want to see if she can hold ground with the real players. Not gala regulars who smile for photographers and say nothing that matters. These people shape policy. Move markets. Dismantle careers over wine and one careful sentence.The door opens.Senator Williams enters first. Gray suit. American Flag pin. That rehearsed smile that stopped reachin

Adeline's POV---Sunlight cuts through my cheap blinds and straight into my eyes.I bring my hand up against the glare. My feet protest the moment I try to stretch, those borrowed heels still extracting their toll. Mascara probably decorates my pillow. I don't check.The blue slip I changed into at 4 AM has twisted around my legs. I kick the sheets off. In this shoebox nothing travels far. My bed meets my kitchenette. My kitchenette meets my closet. My closet door hangs open because there's nowhere else to put it.And hanging right there: the dress.It sways faintly, daring me to pretend last night didn't happen. Afternoon sun catches the silk and for a moment my whole apartment contracts around it.My screen lights up. Going since midnight.Seventeen missed calls. Forty-three texts. I silence it before reading any of them.I roll over. Press my face into the pillow that smells of drugstore detergent and too little sleep.His hand at my waist. That keeps cycling back. Warm, his thumb

Albert's POV---The Metropolitan Museum swallows sound.Thirty minutes before guests arrive, the main gallery gleams. Ice sculptures catch light from chandeliers that cost more than most people's homes. Near the Temple of Dendur, a string quartet tunes its instruments.All as I ordered.My tuxedo sits precisely on my frame. I hold a champagne flute without drinking from it, crystal catching light between my fingers.Not tonight.I press my palm flat against the glass railing and let the chill bleed through.Matteo. *Car's five minutes out.*I check my watch. Third time in two minutes. My fingers drum once against the railing and stop.This shouldn't matter.Contract arrangement. She shows up, plays her part, leaves. We move on.Except my jaw has been set for an hour. And I keep returning to what I've been circling since yesterday morning.Matteo's report was thorough. Twenty-four. Columbia. Two jobs. Scholarship. No record, no family money, no connections that reach anywhere interest

Adeline's POV---Two hours later I'm back in my jeans and sweater, but I can still feel that silk against my skin.Matteo waits by a table covered in place settings. A sprawl of forks, knives, and crystal arranged with surgical precision. I have no idea what any of them are for."Welcome to etiquette crash course." He gestures to the table. "I'll keep it simple."Nothing about this table is simple.I must look panicked because he laughs. "At my first formal dinner, I grabbed the fish fork for salad. Still here."That helps. Sort of."Why are there so many forks?""Formality loves complexity." He picks up the first one. "But it's really about pacing. Start from the outside and work your way in."He walks me through it. Salad fork. Fish fork. Main course. Dessert fork resting horizontally above the plate.My head spins."The wine glasses." He indicates each shape. "Water. White. Red. Champagne. Larger bowl for red because it needs to breathe. Smaller for white because of temperature."

Adeline's POV---The address Matteo texted leads to a door between a gallery and a private bank. No sign. No window display. Just gleaming steel and a small intercom button that probably costs more than my laptop did.I hover there for five minutes. Thumb over the buzzer. Heart loud against my ribs.A woman in head-to-toe Chanel glides past without glancing at me. Her heels click against the pavement with that assurance of people who have nothing to prove.I glance down at my jeans. The rip in the knee that used to feel vintage now feels cheap. My sweater has a loose thread at the hem. I tug it. The thread gets longer.My reflection stares back from the steel door. Ginger hair I barely brushed. Hazel eyes too wide. Skin pale enough to be allergic to sunlight.Albert's voice surfaces without permission. *Try not to embarrass yourself.*Last night I sat with my laptop and typed his name into three different search engines.Albert Rossi. CEO. Rossi International.Pages of results. Forbe

Albert's POV---I'm in the back seat when Julian pulls away from the curb.The Mercedes glides into traffic. In the side mirror, Adeline Carter stands on the sidewalk, both hands wrapped around the card, her gaze tracking the car until distance swallows it.She has no idea what happened.A pull at the corner of my mouth. Almost a smile, odd, but it's there.Julian keeps his silence. That's how we like it. Partition stays down. Engine hums underneath. Horns blare. Somebody yells about double-parked vans. Manhattan's always loud.The screen lights up. Three missed calls from Matteo. Board emails flagged urgent. Mom wants to know about dinner.I clear it all, opening a new message to Matteo.*Run a background check. Adeline Carter. Columbia grad student. Comprehensive. One hour.*He's in before I finish thinking. *Already on it. Saw the street cam footage. Interesting choice, sir.*That's him. Six moves ahead before the board is set.I should have called security the second she swung op