Does it matter, though?

My brain tried to be mature and see the bigger picture. So what Greg wasn’t in a suit—it wasn’t life or death. So what I might be over-dressed and Chloe might be the same cow I remembered—none of it made any difference to my tomorrow. I would still be me. I would still be as safe and as happy as I was yesterday.

Be brave, Elle.

And then leave with dignity.

Straightening my shoulders, I stepped out of Greg’s embrace but immediately looped my arm through his before his face could fall.

Squeezing his bicep in thanks, I said, “Let’s go mingle, shall we?”

* * * * *

Two hours I lasted.

Two hours where I was no longer me but a better version of me. Noelle was left behind, and Elle used the same techniques from dealing with men twice her age to wield mundane conversation with girls she’d long since forgotten about.

There was potty-training chats with Melanie and fake oohing and ahhing over her one-year-old Facebook pictures. There was biology class reminiscing with Frankie, pretending I felt the same way about our teacher Mr. Bruston, and how sexy his mustache had been.

Yeah, not at all.

There were snippets of cattiness from Maria and Sara about who ought to have gone out with Rollo Smith in summer camp, and the requisite fond recalling with Chloe about shopping late at night and running riot through Belle Elle when Dad let us sleep over in the lady’s ware department.

She called me Elle the Ding Dong Bell only twice.

But each was like a knife in my side.

I didn’t let it show.

I didn’t hint at vulnerability or let my guard down.

Greg had no clue how hard this was for me. He merely guffawed at the nickname and plied me with more champagne I didn’t want.

Every single conversation I put my all into. I smiled and nodded and listened. My cheeks hurt from fake grinning, my feet ached from standing, and my exposed back became extra sensitive to everything. My skin prickled with minor drafts as people moved behind me, warm patches as people stood close by, and even the tell-tale tingle of people staring at me, itching spots on my shoulder blades as their eyes became fingers and stroked me.

Out of the sixteen people here—eight women and eight men—Greg and I held our own. My dress had started the poshest of them all, but as more people arrived, I’d settled into an array of chiffon and lace, finally accepting that Fleur knew what she was doing.

The dress didn’t take away my power. It gave me power. And for the first time, I believed in my own self-worth outside of Belle Elle. That I could hold my head high and not be afraid of judgment or wrongdoing. That I was my own person and not just a cog in the conglomerate my family had created. My world was just as good as any others—if not better.

The relief in that gave me a well of kindness to forget that Greg got on my nerves, and I didn’t turn away from his touches of affection. I accepted three more glasses of champagne, even though the room grew warm and my skin glowed with bubbly heat.

By hour two, my bladder had done all the retaining of alcohol it could, and I excused myself to find the restroom.

Greg gave me a kiss on the cheek—which I didn’t wipe away because the liquor made everything that much more acceptable—and left the roped-off area to make my way through the club.

I guessed the time was ten p.m. or so, but already, the place crawled with bodies and the aura of a good night ahead.

Finding the bathroom, I entered and slammed to a stop as I came face to face with my reflection in a full-length mirror.

Who the hell is that woman?

Her braid was a little disheveled with curls free and soft around her face. Her lips were puffy from licking droplets of champagne with remnants of pale pink lipstick. Her smoky eyes rimmed blue that looked far too sated and happy to be real.

I looked...loose.

My limbs moved with a relaxation I never had when sober. My movements less jerky and sedate.

Being tipsy suits you.

I rolled my eyes, listing a little to the left as the room swayed.

Being tipsy was a new experience and one I wouldn’t often do. The false courage and intoxicating bravado could screw up my careful rules.

Greg suddenly didn’t seem so annoying. Chloe wasn’t such a bad girl. And the thought of going to work tomorrow was a task I had no intention of fulfilling as long as the beat of a bassy tune worked through my bones.

Wanting to return to the party, I quickly did what I was there to do and washed my hands. Drying my fingers on a paper towel, I ran the remaining dampness over my arms to cool my overheated skin.

I’d come to this club cold, and now, I was burning up.

Something else was burning up, too.

Something that normally only came alive around few very select males. My breasts were heavy, and a tugging sensation deep inside my belly demanded another drink—to let go for once. To stop fighting and let Greg kiss me because he was the only male around who knew what I was and who I had to be. He’d been raised in the same environment.

So what he annoyed me most of the time and didn’t seem to truly care about me but only my legacy? He was a man. I was a woman. It was time to do something about my little problem and figure out how to be a sexual creature and not an untouched virgin any longer.

Striding from the bathroom, I walked with purpose, brushing against strangers and enjoying it for once rather than cringing at having no personal space. Up ahead, Greg laughed and touched Chloe’s waist, bending to whisper something in her ear. The rest of the group mingled in twos and fours, chatting and drinking.