After shoving my brown paper Bloomingdale’s bags into the trash can nearest the Rainbow Room entrance, and running my hands down the sides of my white-and-red organza Alice and Olivia dress to make sure I had removed all the tags, I glided into the Stag River cocktail party only thirty minutes late. I had never spent more than a few hundred dollars on an item of clothing, but I had just blown upward of $600 in under forty-five minutes, and the rush of it made me feel not only beautiful but that I belonged in this room full of real estate titans and Wall Street tycoons.

“Wow. Skip!” Jordan fell into step beside me as I made my way to the bar. “You look really nice.” He coughed awkwardly, as if he was unsure of what he should and shouldn’t say after the whiteboard incident.

I smiled to let him know all was forgiven. “Not so bad yourself,” I said, straightening his tie.

A jazz band comprised of musicians dressed like the Rat Pack filled the air with a 1950s vibe as the dim rainbowed lighting made everybody appear as though they were draped in swirling cotton candy. As Jordan pointed out the heads of banks and private equity firms to me, I waved to Vivienne White across the room. She smiled coolly but didn’t seem to miss a beat in her conversation with a stout Asian man.

Peter slid into place next to us. “So, what do you think of your first Stag River event?” he asked me.

“Great,” I told him, and meant it. It was the most beautiful room I had ever seen. The city skyline twinkled out the windows, none of the grit and grime showing and all of the magic.

“A little tame,” Jordan joked.

“Dunn! Glad you made it!” Gary Kaplan slapped Peter on the back, nearly knocking the drink out of his hand, looking animated, exuberant, and far from sober. He turned his attention to me. “Well, aren’t you beautiful.” He took my hand and held it in his moist palm.

“You’ve met Alex. She’s one of our associates,” Peter announced, a protective overlay in his tone. “And this is Jordan Sellar, a senior associate. He mostly does your deals with Jaskel.”

Gary continued to stare at me, making no attempt to avert his eyes from my body, but I finally wiggled my hand out from his grip.

“Excuse me while I get some food. Can I grab anything for any of you?” I asked the group, but before they could answer, I made my way to the display of oysters and shrimp cocktail on the far side of the room. I took a final sip of my wine as I waited for the server to place the shrimp on my plate. I was reaching for the horseradish and cocktail sauce when I suddenly felt an arm graze my breast. I snapped my back straight and stared over at Gary, mortified that I must have pushed my chest against his arm when I bent to reach the condiments.

“I’m sorry,” I stammered, desperately trying to shrug off possibly the most awkward encounter I could imagine with the firm’s most important client. He smiled, looking completely unruffled, the pools of black where his eyes were meant to be making me slightly queasy. It hadn’t been my mistake. And it wasn’t his either. The pervert touched me on purpose.

“Please, Alex.” Gary gave me a reassuring wink. “Don’t be sorry,” he said, reaching toward me and gently placing his palm over my heart, his pinkie finger dipping low to search for my nipple.

I froze. The timpani faded, and I heard only the beating of my heart in my ears. He took his hand away and grabbed an oyster. I couldn’t manage to move my legs to escape. When he turned back toward me, his eyes focused over my shoulder and his voice lightened.

“Peter! Alex and I have been chatting. She’s quite ambitious! I’d love you both to be my special guests at the Private Equity Fights Hunger gala I’m chairing at the Met this spring. I’ll have my assistant send you all the details.”

I felt Peter next to me, but I continued to stare at Gary, trying to discern whether he’d intended the invitation as payment for his transgression or, even worse, license for future ones. As Peter responded to Gary in a pleasant tone, I did my best to compose myself, and as soon as my legs would move, I put down my plate and returned to Jordan.

“Peter told me that Japanese businessman over there with his wife just fucked his assistant in the bathroom!” Jordan cackled. I stared forward, shivering. “Skip? You okay?” Jordan bent low, his head cocked, and shoved his face into my line of vision.

I frowned. “Gary just grabbed my boob. Breast. Whatever. He felt me up. Right in the middle of this party.” I didn’t know how to say it, never having had to say anything like it before. It was the most unexpected, most disturbing thing to happen to me, and the fact that it happened so flagrantly, with my colleagues all around, made me question whether it had actually happened at all. “And then he invited me to the PE Fights Hunger gala at the Met.”

“Fuck! Skip!” Jordan’s jaw dropped. “Everybody goes. Or everybody wants to go. For somebody gunning for partner like me, it’s the single most important business development event I can attend. If I had tits, I’d let him grab them both to cop an invite!” He shook his head and made his way to the bar to refill his scotch, leaving me stunned.

I made my way to the ladies’ room, where I sat on the tufted circular ottoman and smoothed the fabric of my dress over my thighs. I’d thought the dress was modest. Did it make me look like a slut? I shouldn’t have worn lip gloss. Or maybe my eyeliner was too heavy. I wiped my finger under my eyes to lighten it.

“Hey, you okay?” Vivienne White sat down next to me as I nodded robotically. “I love these shoes, but they are the most uncomfortable, impractical things in the world.” She removed her feet from gorgeous black satin pumps with crystal-embellished straps to reveal a Giuseppe Zanotti label, then applied pressure to the arch of each foot and closed her eyes. “You sure you’re okay?”

I breathed in and forced myself to speak again. “Gary Kaplan sort of . . . grabbed at my chest. And then invited me to the PE Fights Hunger gala . . . like as payment for letting him feel me up.”

Vivienne sighed and rolled her eyes. “He’s so grabby.” I waited a moment for more—for a display of anger from her, a sign that she was horrified by what had happened. But it didn’t come. “That gala is a good opportunity for you. You should go. It’ll show your status in the M&A group. After Match Day, you can decline these invites. Just stick it out until then.” She slapped my knee and slipped her shoe back on. “Look, he doesn’t work for the firm. It’s sort of . . .” She held up her palms as if to say, Out of my hands. She clicked her tongue against the top of her mouth and walked out the door.

I sat there for a moment longer as two blondes with impossibly long legs and absurdly short skirts emerged from a single bathroom stall, one of them rubbing her upper gums with her index finger. I stared at them as they put their drinks down to wash their hands, each adorned with nearly identical and blinding engagement rings.

“Oh! Miss! You have a little . . . ,” I said to the taller one, wiping at my own nose to signal her to do the same to the white powder on hers.

“Whoopsies!” She giggled. “Better?” She bent over and leaned her face close to mine so I could judge, and I suddenly felt wetness on my leg as she emptied her glass of red wine onto my new dress.

“Oh my god. I’m so, so sorry!” she wailed as I jumped up. Her friend covered her mouth with her palm, laughing from behind it. “I’m so sorry.” The girl grabbed my arm as she repeated her apology. The bathroom attendant rushed over. “Here. Let me.” The girl grabbed the towel from the attendant and went to the sink to wet it. She returned and rubbed at my thigh, which only worked the red liquid deeper into the white fabric, making me look like a murder victim.

“Don’t. It’s fine,” I said, gripping her wrist before the towel did any more damage and moving it away from my waist.

“I have to pay you! I feel awful! And it’s so beautiful!” She spoke quickly, clearly feeling the effects of the cocaine. “Is it last season’s Marchesa Notte? Or is it Oscar? Oh god, please don’t be Oscar de la Renta!”

“No. It’s Alice and Olivia,” I said, staring down dejectedly at it.

“Oh, thank god. I thought it was couture.” She placed her hand over her heart and breathed. “I’m sorry again! But at least it wasn’t expensive,” she called over her shoulder as she and her friend burst back out into the cocktail hour, the jazz sax seeping in behind her for a moment before the door shut and muffled it.

I burst into tears and called a car to take me home, slipping easily out of the party without being seen by my colleagues, who busied themselves chatting with their clients. When I arrived back at the apartment, Sam was already asleep. I contemplated waking him, knowing he’d hold me close to comfort me and find my encounter with Gary appropriately appalling. But he looked so peaceful. I’d bring it up in Vermont, I decided. I suddenly couldn’t wait for a weekend alone with Sam—away from work and the city, with nothing to do but remember all the reasons I loved him.

Chapter 13