Summer Worthington doesn't hate her corporate job, per se. It's her god-awful boss, Mr. Griffin - or, as her roommates like to call him, Mr. Grouchy - who's the problem. He's cruel, cold-hearted, and the most attractive man she's ever seen.
As his p...
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THIS IS MY FIRST YEAR attending the Marketing Excellence Awards, and it's exactly what I was expecting. Every detail is flawless and well-thought-out. The old Colonial-style building has been decorated with a sophisticated modern edge. There's a huge projector and glass-panelled stage stand—ready for the impressive list of guest speakers—and dark circular tables with chic velvet chairs, scattered uniformly throughout the room. Lively jazz music pipes through the speakers. The hall is long and has a well-stocked bar at one end—not that I've needed to venture that far, thanks to an attentive server who plopped a champagne flute in my hand the second I arrived.
As I cast my gaze around, I take in the glittering crowd of elegantly dressed individuals—none of whom I recognise—and the delicious-looking finger food that's circulating in front of me.
Despite living and working in Sydney for the past eight years, I've never been invited to such a prestigious event before, and it's hard not to feel out of place. I can tell I'll be rubbing elbows with people who are just like Max tonight—self-made millionaires with big dreams and even deeper pockets—and it's slightly intimidating.
My stomach grumbles, reminding me that not only am I standing around awkwardly by myself, but I'm also starving. I flag down a waiter carrying a loaded-up silver tray of cucumber and dill canapés and smile at him gratefully when he doesn't side-eye me for shoving the whole thing into my mouth.
Chewing away, I'm disappointed to discover that the crostini is super stale, and the cucumber is slimy. So much for the top-notch food I was promised.
While I'm desperately searching for a napkin and somewhere to stand off to the side, a comforting presence settles beside me, and I turn to face Elle. As usual, she looks beautiful and extremely put together. Her jet-black hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail, her heavy makeup is a mask of perfection, and her strapless mini dress hugs her lithe frame.
"Finally, someone I know." She releases an audible exhale, and the relief is evident on her face.
I nod enthusiastically, then gulp down the stalest, driest appetiser I've ever ingested in my life. "Right," I concur, clearing my throat. "I've been standing here for the last five minutes, memorising all the emergency exits."
"Gotta love social anxiety, hey." It's more of a statement than a question. Her voice goes remarkably quiet, almost another sigh. She changes the subject immediately. "Anyway, you look incredible. That dress was made for you."
My grin widens, gratefully accepting any (and all) compliments that are thrown in my general direction. "Aw, thanks. So do you."
I went to painstaking lengths to acquire this dress. I've only rented it for tonight—the real price tag would have me declaring bankruptcy—but it's a one-of-a-kind, entrance-making Albina Dyla dress. It's gold and shimmers like the stars when the light hits just right, with a beaded corset and side split. I've had my eye on it for months, and I'm just happy there was finally an occasion fancy enough to hire it for.
