I N the tinted windows of the sleek black Range Rover, an elegant woman stared back at me. Brown skin glowed under the face of the moon. Dark eyes wide behind jeweled black glasses glimmered with daring confidence. Shoulders roll back, draped in the liquid gold of a silken dress.
I level my jaw. The reflection follows suit.
"You got this," I whisper. She smiles back at me.
My focus shifts as a looming shadow comes into view. Kozar Castle. It glitters somehow, a beacon in the inky darkness of night.
The building I'm heading towards isn't squat or rustic. There are no swirling vines that crawl their way to the parapets. No oddly-shaped towers that branch off on either side. It's a modern marvel of steel and glass that towers fifty feet over the edge of the cliff, facing the Bay of Biscay with a ruminant visage.
The driver pulls around a gushing fountain, falling into a line of purring cars. From flashy vehicles dapper men step out in ornate dress shoes, coordinating shoes with ties, ascots, and handkerchief alike. I even see the glimmer of an earring or two. Jeweled fingers are offered to women clad in fine silks and bold eyeliner.
The car rolls to a stop in front of a strip of red which split the marble staircase in two. Some people linger on the gold railing to converse, most heading inside with slight nods. My door clicks open. The chauffeur greets me with a low bow and an extended hand, quite chivalrous for a rented prop. I eye his pristine glove at first then decide, why not? It has been a long while since I've been noticed by a man. Although the last one had dark blue eyes instead of greying whiskers, a girl will take what she can get.
"I will be back at midnight, as requested," the man queries as I slide out of the car and find my balance in treacherous heels.
"Yes, I won't be long. If you arrive before then, have someone fetch me." This was a sightseeing trip after all.
"Of course." He accompanies me to the first step, I have to tackle the rest of them on my own. Being a woman two inches shy of six feet in three-inch heels and having the ankles of a newborn, walking up a flight of stairs was no sane task: let alone an easy one. I manage tentative steps, glancing town at the strappy gold Louboutins winking from under my dress until my footsteps fell into a steady rhythm. Heads turn as I sway up the carpet, my mind intensely focused on not tripping over the pooling material of my form-fitting gown. I can see the headlines now, Self-Made Millionaire Breaks Neck Falling Down Stairs in Stilettos, One of Many Heel Homicides. At the mere thought of it, my ankles waver. Oh yes, I look like a baby giraffe, I'm sure of it.
