by Mara Lynne
The more I look at myself, the more anxious I grow. How am I going to pull this off? How am I going to pretend to be fierce and sultry? How am I going to do that in front of a mass of educated and rich people who probably have the critical eye to decipher one of their own? Won’t they easily find out I’m a fraud? I am no expert in deception.
There’s still time for escape. I can always turn away and head toward the door, leave Paul without a girlfriend, and save myself from this nerve-wracking situation.
But you’re already here, Angel. I hear my conscience say. It’s just one night. All you have to do is smile.
Besides, I am not Angel Mohr tonight. I am not supposed to be her. I am Angel Grant — a sophisticated woman escorting a rich bachelor. I must think and act like a high-born woman. I heave a sigh to knock off the uneasiness and motion to the door after the bellhop shoots me a curious and confused glare. I falter, my sweating palms rub each other, and my face show paranoia when he gives me that look. One flinch from me, and the bellhop would know I’m a fake. What can I say? Rich and classy people don’t get nervous when they enter expensive functions. I am doing the exact opposite of what I should do.
When the doors open, a jaw-dropping scenery astonishes me. It’s just so breathtaking! The chandeliers are so grand like bright flaring fires in summer. The drapes are huge and expensive-looking, and the people are dressed in their best coats and ties and evening gowns. The moment I enter the function hall with my trembling legs, I see an orchestra playing some fast beat classic. It’s like a fantasy… beautiful, dreamy, like time has stopped to allow my mind to canvass a great memory out of it. Now I realize what Cinderella might have felt when she arrived at the ball all by herself — clueless but more than amazed. I assume she’s as dazed as me. My heart thumps like a horse galloping, and I feel my chest tightening. I can’t believe I’ll be rubbing shoulders with these people regarded as the highest class in society. Never in my life have I dreamt of being in such a kind of situation. I don’t know if I should regard this as a trial or a chance so rare that I dread it will only happen once. Thinking of it as an opportunity makes me smile.
I suddenly feel conscious about how I look. Hence, I gawp through the glass door. How my makeup makes me look like a different person! Beautiful and irresistibly gorgeous in Hugo’s vocabulary.
“This way, miss,” a dainty and polite man in his waiter’s uniform says as he leads me to a woman standing beside a desk with a guest list on her hands.
“May I ask your name, miss?” she asks nicely.
“Uhm... Angel Grant,” I say as I try to ease the nervousness by holding firmly on my Chanel clutch bag. Hugo says that Paul has taken good care of everything and that I should not worry about uttering the name. He also added that it is a must that people see confidence in me. Several women would die to be me at this very moment. Faking an identity is more than an opportunity. Hence, I should spend every second being in Angel Grant’s shoes the best I could. This doesn’t happen all the time.
The lady receptionist smiles at me after seeing my name on the list. She directs a boy in a dark suit, much like the man who escorted me, to lead me to the ballroom. “Have a great night, Miss Grant.”
As I walk down the carpeted aisle, people are looking at me, and I hear them mention my false name.
“I hear she’s Stone’s new girlfriend.”
“Where’s the Californian blonde by the way?”
“Looks like he’s going for a brunette this time.”
“He always brings new girls in events like this. I wonder which is which.”
Paul has never mentioned a thing about the Californian blonde, and I never thought that his rather unconventional love life is this popular among people. Now I begin to understand what Lenna said about why bachelors have to appear with girlfriends— it’s because they have to be talked about, and it is actually happening right now. With these people’s arched brows and suspicious glares, I bet I’ll instantly hit the newspapers tomorrow.
“Angel Grant?” a middle-aged woman in long velvet gown appears in front of me, her two large front teeth almost bursting out of her mouth. I wonder if she knows any dentist in town. I am not laughing at her, but I thought rich people likes to look their best all the time. Apparently, this woman is an exception. Maybe she’s overlooked this department because she’s too busy making money. Despite this, she smiles at me.
“Yes.” I offer her a handshake.
“Well, well, well! Stone has hit the jackpot this time!” Her eyes scanned me. “First brunette in history!”
“What do you mean?” I hear a crack in my voice.
“Stone only dates blondes. I wonder what he’s seen in you,” she answers. “I think it’s more than just your outstanding credentials in entrepreneurship or your personal background. I think Stone has finally found his match!”
“I don’t follow.” I try to hide the confusion that is slowly clouding me with the fakest smile my lips could form.
“I’m shocked you don’t know much about his past. Stone doesn’t want to put himself in a bad light in your eyes, eh?”
Paul has told me everything I need to know about this job but none about this ‘finding himself a match.’ I start to grow weary. For God’s sake, I don’t want to assume things right away, but I’m starting to feel scared about all this. Something’s just isn’t right. He’s not actually pushing this whole charade into a more serious matter, is he?
“I hear about your fragrance line. I thought I might actually try it one day,” she adds as she takes me by the arm and leads me to her group of extravagant-looking girls, who I notice to have been watching me from afar for quite a time now.
“Ladies, meet Angel Grant!” she exclaims with her unparalleled wide smile. “The future Mrs. Stone,” she adds in a whisper.
“So it is true, then? Stone is finally settling in?” one lady asks with a crooked nose and round spectacles.
“She’s different from the other girls he’d been dating for years. I guess this is serious this time!” one comments.
“Where did you meet Stone by the way?”
“Excuse me, ladies.” I feel a rub on my elbow, and when I turn around, I see Paul in his midnight blue jacket. “I’ll have to pull out Ms. Grant. The press is craving for her.”
“Oh, Paul! You never mentioned about Ms. Grant here. Is it for real this time?” This woman is killing me with her glare.
Paul pulls me behind him. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Lowe, but it’s too early to tell. However, I would like you to begin preparing your check. We have a long night ahead of us. Let us enjoy the items to be auctioned. I heard there is a black pearl from the Pacific. Bidding starts at twenty-five thousand dollars. It will look good in those ears of yours.” Paul smirks as he pulls me out of the situation. He directs me to one corner where there are less people. Less people, less encounter, less intrigue. I can’t help but wonder why people are still looking at me even though I am forced to stay away from them. Paul is already here and, as expected, the gossips only grow stronger. I can see Mrs. Lowe and her friends eyeing me, probably thinking what I am thinking.
“I told you to keep away from them,” Paul reprimands. “Mrs. Lowe is such a huge bait. She doesn’t excuse anyone.”
“I’m sorry. Do I need to tell you that I don’t know anyone in here?” I respond, raising my voice a tad higher. “Look, I don’t want people to think that I’m a snob. Besides, I haven’t spilled anything yet. What is this they’re saying about finally finding your match?”
“It’s just a gossip, Ms. Grant!”
“You’re not diverting from our initial agreement, are you?” I hear my voice shaking. Oh, God! I can’t imagine myself being tied with Paul. There’s no way I would exchange marriage for money— not with Paul Stone even if he’s the richest living man in the world. This is even worse than asking Etheridge that stupid question. I mean, I can’t just marry someone I don’t love. It’s suicide. With the way Mrs. Lowe and her friends talk about
Stone finally finding the best woman in Angel Grant, I can’t help but feel bothered.
“No,” he clearly says. “I keep my word. This is a one-time event, I promise. Now go with the flow and don’t open that pretty mouth of yours!”
He gives off reserved smiles to people walking past us.
“And smile. Angel Grant is supposed to be charming,” he adds. “Sell that innocent smile of yours. We need good headlines for tomorrow.”
Paul grabs my hand and pulls me toward a group of journalists at the corner waiting for the right time to steal Angel Grant from Paul’s clasp. I bet they have lots of questions in their heads. Paul never stops telling me how cruel they can become. Thus, I have to be careful. I just hope Paul does all the talking. Well, I think that is what’s going to happen as he warned me never to open my mouth.
“So, where did you find her this time?” asks one male journalist, almost shoving his tape recorder to Paul’s mouth.
“Not the time to talk about that, and I’m definitely not the right person to answer,” Paul answers.
The media men turn to me and ask the same question.
I shift my glare to Paul.
“Ms. Grant is a bit shy.” Paul saves my ass. Well, he has no choice but to become my spokesperson as he forbid me to say a word. He pulls me close to him and whispers right in my ear, “You wait here while you wait for Mr. Stone.”
“What? You’re not…” I struggle to verbalize my astonishment when one of the journalists bellows like a horn after a tall and well-built man in a fine ensemble walks down the red carpet. My heart squeezes at the sight of him. My knees weaken, and my grasp on Paul loosens. I literally feel the cold surfacing on my face. I know this man. I cannot be wrong this time. It’s the face I’ve been trying to avoid all night. How come? How is this possible?
Are my eyes deceiving me? Am I being punished for lying?
And Paul… the man gave me so little information that I’m starting to doubt if what he’s told me are all lies. All this while, I thought I am working for him. I thought he’s this famous Mr. Stone. Turns out he’s definitely not. Paul is just Paul, not my filthy rich employer.
The tall, lean, and mysteriously dark stranger approaches me, wearing a crooked smile —a smile that defines pretention and drama, and probably superiority, too. I watch him getting closer to me, my surrounding slowing down and blurring, with eyes so filled with questions.
“Mr. Stone is here,” Paul heaves a sigh, his voice obviously hiding his judder.
“Paul, I don’t understand.”
“Relax, Ms. Grant. Just do what I told you to do.” Paul steps forward to meet Mr. Stone. His pale face finally got some color as the man recognizes him and starts a silent conversation.
I feel my heart throbbing as I realize how this night sucks. It’s not a fantasy anymore. Gone are the flashing and striking ambiance of class, fragrance, glitters, and flowers. The glamor of how I look, the aura of these expensive-looking people, the glimmer of the lights and their jewels, stultify me as I lay my eyes on him. Everything turned ugly dim. This isn’t just a coincidence, is it?
He and Paul talk while the cameras are on them. I feel the ground eating me up as I recall the time I see Mr. Stone in the elevator. I scampered like a mouse being chased by a cat. All I can wish for is for him not to recognize me. I hope the makeup does its magic.
This isn’t happening. Why of all people?
As soon as they finish talking, Paul walks away, and Mr. Stone moves closer, smiles, and asks for my hand. From a distance, I see Paul settling in a spot away from the media, but his eyes are on me, telling me to do my job now.
I gulp as I receive Mr. Stone’s hand. The flashes of the camera hurt my eyes. People start to flock the area where we are standing.
Mr. Stone’s hand around my waist tightens as he indulges everyone’s curiosity and snoopiness with smiles and flattery about me. But my mouth freezes, I can’t even smile. All my limbs are paralyzed.
Why am I still here? I should be leaving. I don’t want him to recognize me.
Fear?
Doubt?
I don’t know.
I just don’t think I can flirt with him. Not with him. I can’t even stand his masculine smell and strong grasp. I feel so small in those hands. Why him? I have set my mind that it’s Paul. I have prepared myself for Paul. Angel Grant is prepared to be photographed with Paul, but not with this dashing, almost perfect, gorgeously devilish creature!
“Smile, Angel,” he whispers right on top of my ear. The warmth of his breath sends tingles on my face. I know I am blushing, and I am just letting the cameras capture every single moment of my embarrassment. I become all the more frozen when his hand slides across my waist to reach my hand. His fingers automatically intertwined with mine. He brings our hands toward his mouth and blows a kiss on my knuckle.
Fainting is never an option, but his eyes are sending me a warning, pushing me to do my part. I am left with no choice but to concede.
So this is how it should be played. He’s doing it rather naturally. He’s quite an actor. Well, he’s done this more than a couple of times with his other actresses. Hence, it’s no surprise that he’s so good.
His soft fingers land on my cheek, pats it, and asks gently, “What’s wrong, my love?”
The crowd gets even wilder after hearing what he said. They shove their cameras in front of us to capture every flirting moment I have with this creature.
I shake my head as I force to wake myself.
“Do you feel sick?” he asks once more.
“Uh, no.” I finally find my voice.
His fingers still linger on my cheek, and the longer they stay there, the more I become conscious. What could these people be thinking? Why am I even bothered? I know this isn’t even true. I’m just a hired girlfriend — an escort paid to make him look good.
“Mr. Stone, what’s the real score now?” One journalist marches forward. “Are we going to hear wedding bells soon?”
Stone chuckles as he returns his palm on the small of my back.
“We’re taking things slowly,” he answers confidently with that crooked grin.
“When are we going to hear about your love story?”
I look up and see Stone smiling at me. Does he expect me to lie?
“Er—” I stutter. What should I say? Should I say that I met him in the bank and that this is only the third time I’ve seen him? What lie should I say? I just know I’m going to fail at this. I don’t know a thing about him. I don’t even know his first name. Should girlfriends call their boyfriends by their last name? Am I even allowed to call him terms of endearment?
“A common friend set us up on a date in New York a couple of months ago,” Stone answers after seeing my utter distress. “Angel and I have been together for four months already.”
“That’s record-breaking, Hunter Stone!” one journalist teasingly says.
I don’t know what he means by that, but all I want to happen now is for this night to end.
Hunter Stone. So that’s his name. I look up to catch a better view of his face and see how his name fits those dark eyes and thick but perfectly shaped eyebrows. His name screams threat, his appearance does, too.
Hunter Stone. What a strange sounding name.
“It has been a year since you brought a girl to an event, Mr. Stone.”
“Everything is worth the wait,” he replies. “If you please, Ms. Grant is not yet used to this kind of welcome. We better find a place to sit.”
“There’s a Russian gold ring for auction tonight. Are we going to see it on her finger?”
Stone smirks as he slides his fingers into mine, and responds, “Let’s see.”
He pulls me slowly through the crowd and toward a table in the front row. The cameras are still after us, and I doubt if they will ever leave me tonight. Now I get a piece of Hunter Stone’s popularity, it isn’t what I expected it to be. I thought it would be all glitz, glamor, and fun. As the night deepens,
the persistent journalists shift their cameras away from me. All I do is concentrate on the auction host and respond to Hunter Stone’s excellent acting with smiles and nods while he gets to touch my back, my shoulders, and even brush my blazing cheeks with his fingers. I have no idea if I’m pleasing him but, with the looks of it, I don’t think he’s scolding me for doing wrong. Perhaps, I am turning out to be quite an actress.
Should I initiate a conversation? I don’t think I’m putting much effort into what I’m doing. Smiles and a few nods— they’re not enough for a good pay. Then again, what if Hunter Stone doesn’t prefer talking with his actresses? Paul said that I should just keep mum the entire night and never breathe a word, that I should just be a flower to adorn Hunter Stone’s already beautiful image. Maybe I should let this night pass without ruining this once in a lifetime chance.
Expensive and priceless articles were paraded in front of our eyes, from rare gems, to paintings, to Aztec jars, to ancient costumes. My eyes feel like popping out of its sockets and my ears bleeding out as these wealthy people easily bid thousands for one tiny item. I can imagine how many kidneys I can get with one bid.
Hunter Stone remains silent. I guess he’s waiting for the right item to be auctioned. All he does is sip his Scotch with one arm around my shoulder, his fingers stroking through my bare shoulder blades, probably sending the right signal to the watchful eyes surrounding us. I think I can keep up with this. I can’t wait to receive my paycheck after tonight. I don’t care how much it is, I just want to secure a decent pay for Dad’s surgery.
“Looks like Lark’s buying the Raphael,” I hear Stone finally speak after finishing his drink. “Man! Five million dollars for that unfinished drawing.”
I turn my gaze to the painting on the stage gilded by a gold frame. It’s indeed unfinished, too unpolished for five million dollars. It’s a charcoal sketch of a long-haired girl. I hear the auction host talking about excavating this piece of art in a church where Raphael himself hid it.
