Free Annihilate Me (Vol. 3) (The Annihilate Me Series) by Christina Ross Page A

stay put.   Remember, you’re the exclamation point.   There’s no need to mingle—people
will come to you.   When you’re
standing still, make sure the cape puddles at your feet.   Keep it tucked in so no one trips and
damages the fabric.   OK?”
    “All right.”
    “It’s fucking couture after all.”
    I smiled and shook my head at him.   “I’ll be very careful.”
    I turned and looked at myself again in the
mirror.   I didn’t even look like
myself.   What Bernie did was
beautiful and outrageous, but was it too much?   “This is pure sex, Bernie, mixed with a pretty big dose of
‘80s glam.   Is that going to go
over well at this sort of event?   I
don’t know her from Adam, but Peachy Van Prout sounds to me as if she’s in the
book.”
    “Oh, she’s in the book,” Bernie said.  
    “I don’t mean to doubt you, but this isn’t
a look for the book.”
    “You’re right—it isn’t.   It’s a look that will cause a
stir.   People will talk about
it.   Since this is a charitable event
and Peachy is nothing if not a media whore, expect to have your photograph
taken.   Some will say it’s
inappropriate.   Others will champion
you for wearing it.   Who cares what
they think?   Because that kind of look, Jennifer?   And with that coveted dress?   That’s priceless.   This is
your coming out party.   This is you
making a statement without Alexander Wenn on your arm.   This is proving you don’t necessarily
need him to represent Wenn.   This
is when people come to see you .   Trust me on this.   Blackwell and I put a lot of thought
into it, and we considered all angles of what will happen.   We decided on this look for a
reason.    Henri will be
captivated.   The rest will be
talking about you—good and bad.   But just wait until tomorrow.   We’ll see who’s on Page Six then.   And then we’ll see who Manhattan’s latest trendsetter is.”

 
 
 
 
 
    CHAPTER
TEN

 
    Peachy Van Prout lived in one of the few
remaining mansions on Park Avenue.   It was on Sixty-Eighth Street, and was much wider than those townhouses
on either side of it.   And in the
way it was lit with lights shining up along its lower facade, it was
gorgeous.   It was a brownstone,
eight windows across and five stories high with a black iron gate in front and
two topiaries on either side of a mahogany door.   It seemed at once elegant and understated, which is exactly
what I expected given Peachy’s lineage and the expectations that came with that
lineage.
    “This is it,” the driver said.
    Tank looked at me.   “Ready?”
    “Ready.”
    With Tank at my side, we stepped out of the car.   A breeze caught my cape and whipped it
to my right in a brilliant, billowing flash of crimson that rippled for several
moments before I was able to sweep it down with my arm and get it under
control.   Turns out, that was my
unexpected, yet dramatic entrance, as the few well-dressed people on the
sidewalk who were waiting to get inside took immediate note and the buzz
began.   Tank came up beside me, put
his hand on the center of my back, and soon we were inside with no further
incident.  
    “That’s Peachy straight ahead of you and to your right,
welcoming people,” Tank said.   “Her
husband’s name is Robert.”
    “Why does he look familiar to me?”
    “Former CEO of Citibank.”
    “That’s right.   I
recognize him now.”   I looked ahead
through the crowds of people, who were moving through the amber lighting and
climbing the grand mahogany staircase to the next floor.   I assumed they were going to the second
floor for cocktails, but I wasn’t sure.   Who knew with this set?   Not
this girl from Maine.
    In no time, I was beyond Robert, who was cordial yet boring,
and upon Peachy, a tall, thin blonde who was likely pushing seventy, but whose
plastic surgeon had skillfully lifted her face back to where it was at
fifty.   She was wearing a golden
dress that winked in the