Boudoir is dark and broody, a perfect visual representation of my current mood. Sections of curtained off rooms line the back wall, black velvet hiding secrets only the leather couches can tell. The clusters of half-moon couches, that have floral cushions straight from a backyard in the 70s, are littered with pretty girls and wandering eyes. Antique chairs and potted trees fill the empty space. It’s oddly smokey.

This sounded like a good idea when I was all snotty and in tears last night, but being here feels like actual agony.

I called out of work today. I’m a coward with splotchy eyes and I couldn’t let Asher see how broken up I am about our break-up—our fake-up. It may have started as a way to show Francesca how happy Asher was, but it transpired into something more. I liked being around him. I liked the side of him he didn’t show others. I liked how easy it was for me to wear him down. I liked that soft smile. That quiet laugh. The way he always found a way to touch me. I’ve had sex with men who didn’t make me feel a fraction of what Asher made me feel when he pulled me closer.

I didn’t want to catch feelings, but I did. And to be so easily disposed by him hurt me in ways I never imagined. Deep down, I know he feels the same way. Because he opened up to me. He showed me that other side—that vulnerable side, the one that needed me closer. You can’t just turn that off. He can’t have me on his desk one minute and want nothing to do with me the next.

It doesn’t make sense.

“Olivia!” Anouk towers over me but still manages to throw her arms around me. “Look alive!”

“I am alive.” That much I’m aware of. I’m very much alive.

“Get it together, girl,” Natasha says. “You look sexy as hell and you can have any guy in this room. Asher who?”

She’s right about one thing: I do look sexy as hell. I’m wearing a black long-sleeved mini dress with a deep v-neckline and a choker collar. If this was a month ago, I would have walked right up to the bar and worked my charm, but the only person I want to flirt with is Asher.

I’m going to be tons of fun tonight.

We sit on a couch in the VIP section and a bottle service girl brings us over a bottle of champagne that probably costs half of my yearly salary. Natasha practically spills the whole thing on the floor. She’s not even drunk yet.

“Tonight,” she starts, waving what’s left of the bottle, “is about getting Olivia laid.”

“Olivia will settle for getting a little buzzed,” I say as she fills my flute with champagne.