She cracked open the door leading into the hall, peering to the left and right to make sure no one was around. I’ve done this an awful lot in the past few days. The hallway was empty. Phone and sandals in hand, she crept down the stairs, using the light on her cell phone as a flashlight. She found herself in the modern kitchen, facing the oversize cedar-plank table. She flushed again. Memories rushed in, slightly blurry yet immediately arousing. She paused and glanced up the stairs. I could go back up there. I bet I could talk him into at least one more round. Her warm loins screamed out in agreement.

No. I can’t. She had to get home before Jose woke up. Last night, she’d justified every choice she made—from accepting his apology, to getting in his car, to writhing against him—all because she’d wanted to get laid. Granted, it was by the Duke, who claimed to want to be her friend … but still.

Time to get back on track.

There, on the back of a dining chair, was the red dress. The white stole and the expensive high heels were on the floor, thankfully both in good shape, next to her crumpled pair of Spanx. She stuffed the underwear in her pocket.

Time to run away.

She found a small pad of paper and pencil on the counter and tore off a page. Biting down on the eraser, Angel realized she had no idea what to say. She had no idea what to think. What had just happened? What should she do next?

Finally, she asked Duke to return Kinley’s clothes, signing off with a weak, undeclarative, Thanks for the party. I know you’ll have a great season. XO.

She quietly slipped outside and called a cab, arranging to be picked up down the block, at the corner. No way did she want anyone to see her leaving Duke’s house in the middle of the night, but especially not wearing oversize athletic clothes and carrying a fur stole. She was dressed like, well, like she’d had sex all night. Taxis felt safer than Uber, since there were no computer apps tracking her.

She could survive a walk of shame to the corner, as long as it was quick and in the dark and there were no paparazzi. And as long as she got home before Jose woke up.

She stepped out from under the portico, let her eyes adjust to the night. A heavy February mist clung to her skin, like stepping into a steam room. A steam room that was only forty degrees. She shivered and walked four or five steps, sliding around in the large, rubbery sandals. Sighing in frustration, she kicked the sandals off and tossed them back in the direction of the door. She jogged down Duke’s long drive, barefoot after all.

Even Cinderella had one shoe. And a bra.