If the Drakes sold that diamond, it would be like losing what little hope she had left.
“Is that agreeable to you, Miss Rose?” Dalton frowned. “Miss Rose?”
Ophelia blinked. What had she missed while she’d been lost in the past? “Yes. Yes, of course.”
“Very well, then. It’s a date.” Dalton rose from his chair.
Wait. What? A date?
Her gaze instinctively flew to Artem. “Excuse me? A date?”
The set of his jaw visibly hardened. “Don’t look so horrified, Ophelia. It’s just a turn of phrase.”
“I’m sorry.” She shook her head. Maybe if she shook it hard enough, she could somehow undo whatever she’d unwittingly agreed to. “I think I missed something.”
“We’ll announce the new collection via a press release on Friday afternoon. You and Artem will attend the ballet together that evening and by Saturday morning, the Drake Diamond Dance collection will be all over newspapers nationwide.” Dalton smiled, clearly pleased with himself. And why not? It was a perfect PR plan.
Perfectly horrid.
Ophelia couldn’t go out with Artem, even if it was nothing but a marketing ploy. She definitely couldn’t accompany him to the ballet, of all places. She hadn’t seen a live ballet performance since she’d been one of the dancers floating across the stage.
She couldn’t do it. It would be too much. Too overwhelming. Too heartbreaking. No. Just no. She’d simply tell them she wouldn’t go. She was thankful for the opportunity, and she’d work as hard as she possibly could on the collection, but attending the ballet was impossible. It was nonnegotiable.
“That will be all, Miss Rose,” Artem said, with an edge to his voice that sent a shiver up Ophelia’s spine. “Until Friday.”
Then he turned back to the papers on his desk. He’d finished with her. Again.
Ophelia looked down at the ring clamp that held her favorite ballerina engagement design. Not a sketch. An actual ring that she’d designed and crafted herself.
It was really happening. She was a jewelry designer at Drake Diamonds, with her own office overlooking Fifth Avenue, her own drafting table and her own computer loaded with state-of-the-art 3-D jewelry design software. She hadn’t used such fancy equipment since her school days, but after spending the morning getting reacquainted with the technology, it was all coming back to her. Which was a good thing, since she clearly wasn’t going to get any help from the other members of the design team.
She recognized the dubious expressions on the faces of the other designers. They looked at her the same way the ballet company members had when Jeremy had chosen her as the lead in Giselle. Once again, everyone assumed her relationship with the boss was the reason she’d been promoted. Except this time, she had no connection with her boss whatsoever.
At least that’s what she kept telling herself.
She did her best to forget about office politics. She had a job to do, after all.
In fact, she’d been so busy adapting to her new reality that she’d almost managed to forget that she was scheduled to attend the ballet with Artem on Friday night. Almost. The fact that she wasn’t experiencing daily panic attacks in anticipation of stepping into the grand lobby of Lincoln Center was due to good old-fashioned denial. She could almost pretend their “date” wasn’t actually going to happen, since Artem had gone back to keeping his distance.
She’d seen him a grand total of one time since their meeting with Dalton. Just once—late at night after the store had closed. Ophelia had stopped to look at the Drake Diamond before she’d headed home to feed Jewel. She hadn’t planned on it, but as she’d crossed the darkened showroom, her gaze had been drawn toward the stone, locked away in its lonely glass case. Protected. Untouched.
She’d begun to cry, for some silly reason, as she’d gazed at the gem, then she’d looked up and spotted Artem watching from the shadows. She’d thought she had, anyway. Once she’d swept the tears from her eyes, she’d realized there had been no one else there. Just her. Alone.
Her day-to-day communication at the office was mostly with Dalton. On the occasions when Artem needed something from her, he sent his secretary, Mrs. Burns, in his stead. So when Mrs. Burns walked into Ophelia’s office on Friday morning, she wasn’t altogether surprised.
Until the secretary, hands clasped primly at her waist, stated the reason for her visit. “Mr. Drake would like to know what you’re wearing.”
The ring clamp in Ophelia’s hand slipped out of her grasp and landed on the drafting table with a clatter. “Excuse me?”
Four days of nothing. No contact whatsoever, and now he was trying to figure out what she was wearing? Did he expect her to take a selfie and send it to him over the Drake Diamonds company email?
Mrs. Burns cleared her throat. “This evening, Miss Rose. He’d like to know what you’re planning to wear to the ballet. I believe you’re scheduled to accompany him tonight to Lincoln Center.”
Oh. That.
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Ophelia nodded and tried to look as though she hadn’t just jumped to an altogether ridiculous assumption. Again.
Maybe the fact that she kept misinterpreting Artem’s intentions said more about her than it did about him. It did, she realized, much to her mortification. It most definitely did. And what it said about her, specifically, was that she was hot for her boss. Her kitten-buying, penthouse-dwelling, tuxedo-wearing playboy of a boss.
Ugh.
She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, every woman on the island of Manhattan—and undoubtedly a good number of the men—would have willingly leaped into Artem Drake’s bed. There was a big difference between the infatuated masses and Ophelia, though. They could sleep with whomever they wanted.
Ophelia could not. Not with Artem. Not with anyone. The fact that doing so would likely put her fancy new job in jeopardy was only the tip of the iceberg.
“Miss Rose?” Mrs. Burns eyed her expectantly over the top of her glasses.
Ophelia sighed. “Honestly, why does he even care what I wear?”
“Mr. Drake didn’t share his reasoning with me, but I assume his logic has something to do with the fact that you’re a representative of Drake Diamonds now. All eyes will be on you this evening.”
All eyes will be on you.
Oh, God. Ophelia hadn’t even considered the fact that she’d be photographed on Artem’s arm. At the ballet, of all places. What if someone recognized her? What if they printed her stage name in the newspaper?
Then everyone would know. Artem would know.
She swallowed. “Mrs. Burns, do you suppose it’s really necessary for me to be there?”
The older woman looked at Ophelia like she’d just sprouted an extra head. “The appearance is part of the publicity plan for the new collection. The collection that you designed.”
Right. Of course it was necessary for her to go. She should want to be there.
The frightening thing was that part of her did want to be there. She wanted to hear the whisper of pointe shoes on the stage floor again. She wanted to smell the red velvet curtain and feel the cool kiss of air-conditioning in the wings. She wanted to wear stage makeup—dramatic black eyeliner and bright crimson lips. One last time.