by C. T. Sloan
After my boss finishes his conversations with his staff, the two of us descend down to the lobby. I am still very much intimidated by my boss so I dare not make any small talk. When we get to the lobby, the cleaning crews are just about done sweeping up the glass around Columbus Circle.
Mr. Peak and I get into a stretched Maybach and head out of the Time Warner Center. We cruise to the Upper West Side. Oh my goodness, I am going to see Mr. Peak’s townhouse! We make a turn onto East 81st Street. This is true blueblood territory. I have been to New York a few times before but I have never stepped foot into this exclusive enclave.
The vehicle stops in front of a large five story townhouse, which is twice as wide as any of the neighboring properties. I arch my head up and look at the intricate marble work on the townhome. This thing looks like it was built during the Gilded Age. Impressive.
I follow my boss inside of the townhome. The entryway is completely white save for a tasteful black and white marble flooring. An iron chandelier illuminates the space in an angelic glow. The entire room is a blend of masculine simplicity.
My boss notices me gawking at his impressive townhome. He snaps his fingers and orders me to “Keep up.” I dutifully follow behind him. He leads me to his private elevator. Wow. What else should I expect?
We stand close to each other as the elevator glides up to Mr. Peak’s New York lair. “Vera Wang is sending over your dress for the evening,” Mr. Peak says simply. Hey, what else can I expect from my boss. He may be all man but he certainly has good taste in women’s fashion.
The elevator stops at the third floor. The doors open and I am hit with the sight of the most opulent room I have ever seen in my life! The furniture looks like it was plundered from the finest castles in Europe. The walls are filled with Renaissance paintings. At the center of the space is a Roman statue of a naked woman. I walk up to the statue of the woman who appears to be washing her hair.
“There are very few ancient Roman statues of women in the nude,” Mr. Peak lectures. He says that with a sense of pride. I notice that the statue is bathed in light. My boss puts his hands around me. “The model who posed for the sculpture impressed an artist who dedicated years to capturing her image in stone. Even though that Roman woman has been dead for thousands of years, her image still captivates people today. Her soul lives in that sculpted piece of rock. That, Sarah, is the power of seduction,” Mr. Peak informs me as he kisses my neck. Dammit. This man is as good with his mind as well as his lips.
Mr. Peak continues his tour of the townhome. Every room is drop dead gorgeous. We take a sweeping staircase up to the top floor and my boss’s master bedroom. Now, I know my boss is a billionaire, but I can’t get over the fact that one man can own so many luxurious pieces of art, possessions, vehicles and real estate. It’s intoxicating.
As I walk around the top floor, I notice a set of stairs leading up to the ceiling. “Where does that go, Sir?” I ask. Mr. Peak walks up the stairs and shows me the door that leads to the roof of the townhouse. Now, that’s fun!
I follow my boss to the roof. The warm breeze of the summer city air hits my body. We walk around the rooftop terrace. I look over the side and see yellow cabs snake through 81st Street. I also catch a glimpse of Central Park just a few blocks away.
My boss checks his iPhone and says, “Vera Wang is here.” I look at him oddly. He mentioned that Vera Wang - the fashion house - is sending a dress over for the gala. But he makes it sounds like Vera Wang herself is coming to dress me!
We walk down the rooftop stairs and head to the elevator. We descend to the first floor. It opens. And right there, in the reception room, is Vera fucking Wang. The elegant designer is standing there with two of her assistants.
Mr. Peak and the legendary designer exchange some pleasantries. She asks about the “incident” on Columbus Circle. My boss assures her that “it’s not a big deal.” One of the assistants unzips a dress bag and reveals the most stunning white gown I have ever laid eyes upon.
My head is in a daze. This is just too much. “The gala will begin in a few hours. We should get dressed and make the rounds before we hit the Met,” Mr. Peak says to me. I can’t argue with that.
The designer and her assistants are led to a parlour room on the ground floor. I remove my clothes. The assistants dress me in the gown complete with a black ribbon around my waist. The gown’s long skirt has a flowing ruffled, five foot circumference which dominates the space around me. Wow, I feel like I am getting married.
I look into a full length mirror and I swear I want to cry. My body looks perfect in this dress. I never want to take this gown off. For the first time in my life, I really, honestly, feel like someone special.
The designer recommends a hair and makeup team who work on the Upper East Side. Since Mr. Peak is footing the bill, the exclusive hair and makeup team get to the townhouse in record time.
I am sat in a chair and primped and prodded with expert hands. My medium length hair is sculpted into an irresistible flowing hairstyle complete with curls that fall over my right shoulder. The make-up artist emphasises my strong cheeks and applies these eyelashes that make me look like a “golden age” movie star.
Mr. Peak walks down stairs and looks at me. “Stand up. Turn Around,” my boss orders. I obey. He tells me to walk towards him. I push my shoulders back and use my elevated confidence to give Mr. Peak a good show. The big man nods in approval. It looks like I am ready for tonight’s “coming out” event!
***
The night falls on Manhattan. Mr. Peak and myself get into a black Maybach on 81st Street. We cruise from the Upper West Side to the Met. My body is shaking right now. Even though I have risked my life, the specter of being the center of attention is even more terrifying.
Mr. Peak notices that I am bobbing my right knee up and down. He places his firm hand over my leg. It makes me stop instantly. We approach the sight of the gala. Expensive luxury cars and limos are lined up ahead of us.
I look to my right and notice that my billionaire boss is a little apprehensive as well. Well, this doesn’t make me feel any better! The car pulls up to the red carpet. A door opens. Mr. Peak grabs my hand and says, “After you.” Oh my goodness. I step out to a flood of flashbulbs. I look around and see A list movie stars, fashionistas and some of New York’s most powerful citizens. None of the photographers are even interested in little ole me.
My boss steps out of the Maybach. All of a sudden, the wave of lights hits both of us. “Mr. Peak! Mr. Peak! Over here!” photographers scream. Some of them scream, “How much money did you throw out onto the street?! How much money did you recover?!” I look up at my boss who seems at a genuine loss for words.
Mr. Peak grabs my hand and leans down. “Get ready. Now it starts,” my boss says as he lifts up my chin. Mr. Peak kisses me on the mouth. There is a huge pause in the press line. All of a sudden, all the photographers aim their cameras directly at me.
“Who’s the girl?!” one of the photographers screams. Another photographer yells, “Is she famous?” Then another photographer answers, “She will be by tomorrow!” To which the entire press line laughs.
“Over here!” the photographers yell. Mr. Peak covertly nudges me forward. I make a few awkward steps towards the red carpet. One of the event handlers tells me to step on a little yell piece of tape in front of a wall with Vanity Fair logos. TV cameras aim right at my body.
“Who are you wearing?” one of the journalists asks.
“Vera Wang,” I say nervously.
“How long have you been dating Ryan Peak?” another reporter asks.
I look at my boss who simply stands there deferring to me to answer. I think about what my boss would say. And then I think, what answer would get me the most press?
“Come on. Come on. How long have you been dating Ryan Peak?!” the reporter asks aggressively.
“None of your business,” I tell him.
An audible gasp rises from the press line. Then a hearty laughter.
“You just got owned by that girl!” One of the journalists taunts.
“So what’s your name, anyway?” another reporter asks me.
I take a deep breath and say, “Sarah Salamuri.” As soon as that answer leaves my lips, I imagine my name in lights. I imagine my name on the front page of magazines. I imagine my name everywhere!
Mr. Peak finally joins me. We stand there for a moment. And then something weird happens. Journalists continue to ask me questions. Photographers continue to scream my name. They don’t care about my famous and powerful billionaire boss. They care about me.
“Mr. Peak. Could you move away for one moment please?” one of the photographers asks. My boss awkwardly stands to the side. I am in fucking shock. That is the first time I have ever heard someone ask my boss to do anything. Of course, this is what Mr. Peak wants. But damn, this is just surreal. As soon as the camera bulbs flash, I strike my pose for the media. And for the first time in weeks, I completely forget all about Mr. Peak.
My boss finally grabs my hand and walks me to the party. A jolt of fear hits me. Did I displease my boss? I look up at him, hoping that I didn’t offend him. He whispers into my ear, “Boy, you are much more comfortable in front of the media than even I anticipated.”
“Thank you, Sir,” I say proudly.
Excellent. I have pleased my boss by deflecting the media attention away from him. Now all that attention is on me. The seduction has started. My head spins at the thought of all the press and subsequent fame that I’m going to receive. But a nagging thought starts to run through my head - am I seducing the press? Or is the press seducing me?
As we walk into the privileged air of the Met Gala, I hear the press screaming my name over and over again. “Sarah! Sarah! Sarah!”
To be concluded in “The Final Seduction: The Billionaire’s Way.”