The Gloria’s Secret Fashion Show after-party was one of the most coveted invitations in the city. While many would give the shirts off their backs to be invited to the glamorous New York Post Page Six-worthy event, I usually found it boring. Lots of A-list beautiful people, wannabes, booze, drugs, and loud music. After the stress of this afternoon’s show, I was exhausted. What I really wanted to do was order in room service and curl up in my luxurious bed with a good book on my eReader. But I had no choice. As founder and CEO of Gloria’s Secret, I was expected to attend and party like there was no tomorrow.
I considered myself pretty low maintenance and prided myself on how fast I could transform from a high-powered executive to a glamorous night owl. Tonight, however, I was taking my time. I needed to unwind. I poured myself a glass of wine from the mini-bar and then drew myself a hot bath, pouring a capful of fragrant lavender bath salt from our Bed and Bath Collection into the rapidly rising water. Stripped naked, I dimmed the bathroom lights and lit a fragrant Gloria’s Secret candle, something I always traveled with on business trips.
Pinning up my braid with a few loose bobby pins I found on the sink counter, I stepped into the deep tub and sunk into the steamy water. On contact, I let out a loud sigh and felt my tension melt away. I leaned my head against the marble and stretched my legs out long. Reaching for the large sponge, I circled my firm, heavy breasts, brushing over the quarter-sized scar I wore above my heart. I closed my eyes to block out the memory—the secret—that scar harbored. It never worked. I always relived it. I always shuddered. As I swept my hand over my sensitive pink nipples, my mind, unannounced, switched channels from the memory of that horrible night to another unsettling reality show—Jaime Zander!
He was back in my head. I had to admit he was gorgeous. And sexy as sin. The way he looked at me with those intense denim blues was unnerving enough. But when shot me that cocky smile, I became completely undone. And he knew he affected me. Damn him!
It had to stop. Control was something that I clung to and needed to survive. The thought of losing control petrified me. I had spent hours in therapy dealing with my control issue and the roots of it. Dr. Pepperdine, my shrink, believed it stemmed from my mother… that I feared to become her, a pathetic addict who craved sex as much as she did crack, relying on men to feed her sick habits. In part, she was right. But what she didn’t know was that my need for control was attached far more to the scar. The secret. Boris Borofsky was out there somewhere and could take everything that was precious to me away from me. Including my life.
Enough. It was time to step out of the tub and focus on getting ready for the party. With the towel draped around me, I stood before the mirror and did my makeup. My routine was simple, even for a glam night out—mascara, eyeliner, a little blush, and some Gloria’s Secret lip-gloss. Refreshed and polished, I padded back to my bed where I’d carefully laid out what I was going to wear. Shedding the towel, I began with my lingerie—an underwire, front-closing black lace bra, matching bikinis, and complementary garter belt—all part of our bestselling “Sexy Nights” collection. I then lowered myself to the bed and languidly inched the sheer lace-trimmed silk stockings up my long smooth, waxed legs. Real silk stockings from Paris were my one non-Gloria’s Secret indulgence—a habit I’d inherited from my mentor, Madame Paulette, who I was visiting tomorrow.
I slipped into my dress. Okay, confession. It, too, was not from the Gloria’s Secret catalogue. It was a splurgy little black number by Alexander Wang—a designer whose line I admired and wanted to work with down the road. I was thinking of asking him to design a reasonably priced line of dresses for Gloria’s Secret the way Target and H&M were approaching top designers. His cutting-edge sexiness was a good fit. There was definitely money to be made.
After pulling up the side zipper of the dress, I stepped into my black satin, red-soled Louboutins, another designer I wanted to approach for a collaboration. Lastly, I grabbed my black pashmina shawl and clutch. Both finds were from Loehmann’s Back Room—one of impeccably dressed Madame Paulette’s passed-on secrets. I quickly re-braided my long blond hair and glanced at myself in the floor length mirror opposite the closet. I was pleased. I looked polished and confident. Ready to work the Gloria’s Secret after-party.
As I was about to scoot out of my suite, my cell phone rang. I expected it to be from Kevin, who was already likely manning the after-party. Not. Instead, it was from my driver Nigel.