“Name?”
“Ray Carmichael booked us in,” Holly says.
One of the woman’s brows arches by a fraction. “Of course, he did,” she replies coolly. There’s a tiny pause. Then, with a faint snigger she doesn’t even try to hide, she adds, “Do you know how many girls walk in here claiming that?”
My face goes hot. The urge to turn around and march straight back out the door hits me so hard it’s almost physical.
Holly leans towards me. “The card,” she whispers urgently. “The black one.” I blink at her. “The card Ray gave you.”
“Oh.”
My fingers fumble in my handbag as the maître d watches me with increasing impatience, like I’m proving her point just by existing.
At last, I pull out the glossy black card.
The second she sees it, her whole expression changes.
She takes it from my hand, far less delicately than necessary, and studies it closely. When she looks back up at me, there’s something new in her eyes.
Holly smiles, sweet and smug. “It’ll be under Wynter,” she says. “With a Y.”
The woman’s lips press into a thin line. “Of course.” She glances at her screen, then a second later, her entire manner shifts into something smoother, silkier, so false it almost makes me laugh. “This way, Miss Lee.”
Miss Lee.Five seconds ago, she looked like she wanted to have me removed from the premises.Now, she’s practically gliding ahead of us as she leads us through the restaurant.
I try not to stare as we pass velvet booths, chandeliers, marble tabletops, and people who look like they’ve never had to choose between food and heating in their lives. There’s the soft clink of glasses, low music, the scent of expensive perfume and grilled meat drifting through the air.
It’s gorgeous yet intimidating. It feels like some bizarre Cinderella moment where I’ve accidentally stumbled into someone else’s life and I’m one wrong move away from being found out.
The maître d seats us by the window and lays the menus down with careful precision. “Your server, Annie, will be right with you.”
Then she leaves, no doubt off to tell someone that the girl from the street somehow has one of Ray Carmichael’s black cards.
I stare at the menu. The food descriptions alone sound expensive.
“Where are the prices?” I whisper.
Holly doesn’t even look up. “Places like this don’t print them on the menu.”
I stare at her. “That is the most stressful thing you’ve said all day.” She laughs. “How am I supposed to know what I can order if there are no prices?”
“Order whatever you want.”
I lower my voice even further. “Holly, I’m not exactly swimming in money right now.”
She finally looks up, frowning. “Wynter, you’ve got a black card.”
“So?”
“So, you don’t pay.”
I blink. “What do you mean, I don’t pay?”
She puts her menu down and leans across the table. “That card covers you in any of Ray’s places. Food, drinks, whatever you need. It’s basically unlimited.”
I stare at her in horror. “That can’t be right.”
“It is.”