Page 130 of Dial F for Finance

“It’s very formal fun, though. Like, you’re making a joke at someone’s request, but you want them to leave a positive Yelp review.” Hailey blows on my nails, inspecting her precision. “We should do a bit, J. Pretend we’re someone else for a night. You be whoever you want. And I’m—I’m Lucy Hartford, the reigning queen of the Chicago Literary Underground, whose expertise is very important.”

My eyes drift to the closet mirror, where Serena is getting her eyeliner done by Sasha.

“Lucy Hartford?” Serena says. “That sounds made up.”

“And your point?” Hailey grins. “Lucy has a mission. She runs an online library for underprivileged children and occasionally presents at international conferences. She’s a pillar of her local wine bar. She’s tragically single. She’s not seeking love tonight—just adventure and, ideally, a stranger with upper-arm tattoos.”

“Let’s make it a double,” Miranda calls out from across the suite. She and Hailey met at noon and have already achieved the thing I worried about, which is instant, catastrophic friendship. “I’ll be her cousin, Shonda. I have seven children and a mysterious past. I’m also not on the market, unless the market has a sale on stemless crystal or really good cheese.”

“Why are we stemless now?” Layla asks, eyeing the flute in her hand.

“Because the stems get in the way when you’re sitting down,” Miranda explains, matter-of-fact. “One can’t be expected to binge-watch Netflix with a long-stemmed wine glass. Either your boobs or your belly get in the way.” She demonstrates with her champagne flute, and I have to admit, I see her point.

“Stemless is the future,” Hailey says, nail brush hovering midair. “Miranda, I’m prepared to die on this hill for the entire curvy-babes-in-silk-robes demographic.” She sets the brush down, rotating my hand toward the light with near-religious reverence. “There. If these don’t bring an investment round to tears, I’ll eat the top coat.”

“Gorgeous,” Audrey says, dabbing at her lips in the mirror. “I mean, that pink is sending me, but also—” She glances at Hailey. “Wasn’t your interview yesterday? With the Canfield Group?”

Nora’s eyes flick up, clearly interested.

Hailey’s spine goes straight. “It was. Yes.” Her hands fold tightly in her lap, and I catch the micro tremor in her pinky. I know nerves when I see them.

“Tell us,” Layla says, sliding onto the couch with a sweep of her robe. “How’d it go?”

Hailey inhales, and I’m suddenly transported back to the kitchen counter across from her, when I was visiting home and she was seventeen, prepping for a mock debate final with her notes scattered everywhere and a honey-mustard stain on her shirt. Terrified and unbreakable at the same time.

“It was intense,” Hailey says, her voice pitched high. She tells us how it was a one-on-one interview with Xavier Field, and he never smiled once. He peppered her with random questions that sometimes didn’t make sense. Then he asked her to reorganize a hypothetical CEO’s catastrophic Monday in real time, and at the end of it looked at her and said, “We’ll be in touch.”

Hailey shrugs, but I know the tells—the thumb, the locked jaw, the way she starts organizing anything within arm’s reach. “He could not have been less readable if he’d tried. I genuinely cannot tell if this man wants to hire me or take out a restraining order against me.” She says it lightly, but the way she stares at her nails says she’s still turning it over like a rock in her shoe.

Serena grins. “So, classic executive power move.”

“Classic,” Hailey deadpans. “I’ve read the playbooks. Next, he’ll challenge me to an escape room and then shoot me with a paintball gun.” I see the flash of panic as her eyes find mine, and I quickly place my hand on hers and give her a reassuring squeeze before changing the subject.

“She met Dominic, though,” I say. “They’re official in-laws now.”

Layla raises her brows, as if this is a punchline waiting to be delivered. “Yeah? How’d that go? Was it super awkward, or just regular premium awkward?”

“Hailey was exceedingly polite,” I say, “and Dominic let her win at Connect Four.”

“He didn’t let me win,” Hailey objects, lifting her chin. “He was annihilating me at first, and then I changed my strategy.”

Serena, never one to let a narrative settle, leans an elbow on the vanity and tilts her head. “Is this the same man who threatened a bartender because Logan’s vodka soda wasn’t cold enough that one time?”

“He’s exactly that man,” I say. “But also the one who buys the bartender’s kid a Lego set the next day and leaves a five-star review.”

I don’t elaborate, but it’s true—Dominic’s default rhythm is force followed by untraceable repair, the breaking and mending calibrated for maximum impact.

Hailey looks up at me, her expression a complex braid of admiration, envy, and relief. “I liked him,” she says. “He was super easy to talk to, made me feel welcome in his big-ass factory house, and best of all, he’s obviously smitten with my big sister and was giving her heart-eyes every time he thought she wasn’t looking.”

I don’t quite know what to do with the heat that flares up my face, so I chase it with champagne.

“Let’s not make this weird,” I say, but nobody listens because they never do.

Miranda claps her hands, grinning. “I love this so much I could die.”

Serena, always the deadpan assassin, slants me a sidelong glance. “Is that the consensus? Is Mrs. Cruz officially in love? No more maybes?”

“We should probably get into our dresses,” I say, deflecting hard. “Or we’re going to miss this gala completely.”