The lipstick shakes as I raise it to my lips. It's called Russian Red, but Luke would have called it Stripper Red, the color of whores. I steady my hand and pucker my lips. One point for Kennedy, one million points for him.

Beyond the Uber window, Central Park is a wintery canvas. Sheaths of snow had fallen through the night, the powdery substance covering everything in a blanket of white, leaving only a few Elm trees exposed. I take it all in, desperate to find my inner Christmas spirit, but the only spirit I feel right now is the Whiskey I downed before I left.

Up ahead, cars honk as a line of traffic curves around the street. I feel jittery and nervous - not in a good way, like when you're excited about something, but in an I'm about to puke all over this little black cocktail dress way. Tonight is my punishment, the cosmic damnation I'd known I was due. Like some spirit-stick legend, I'd cursed myself and was headed for Hades.

Hades, in this case, is Laurelle's Christmas Ball - my first at Long Bridge Real Estate and a time-old tradition in the New York Real Estate circuit. While a relative baby compared to some of the big names, Long Bridge has the financial backing of a New York Broker heiress and does relatively well: an exclusive boutique agency for the wealthy, we make the buying, selling, and renting of houses a personal experience - if you can afford it. Last year, having been a lowly five on our seven-floor hierarchy, I was politely excluded from the intimate guestlist, but this year, I'm a six.

The way the company works is like this: the further up the floors you climb, the more valuable you are. I started on the ground floor as a measly-paid intern, and now I'm on the sixth floor, one floor away from the multi-million heiress herself. If I get the promotion I've put myself up for, I'll be working on seven by January.

In theory.

I straighten out my dress for the fiftieth time. The old Kennedy would have jumped at the chance to attend such an event - I'm a sucker for fancy canapés - but knowing he will be there with his shiny new girlfriend kind of dampens the mood a little.

The he in question is my ex, Lucas, who I'd been dating two years when we vied for the same promotion. We'd vowed to remain together no matter the outcome, but the day he moved to seven, he ended things, leaving me single - and broke - in the run-up to Christmas.

See, people like to think they'll be one of the lucky ones, but they're wrong. One way or another, hooking up with a coworker will end in disaster. Maybe he'll get that promotion and forget you. Maybe he'll replace you with the personal trainer he told you not to worry about. Or maybe he'll move out of your expensive apartment, leaving you with the rent and the high-maintenance fur-ball you didn't even want. The point is the company ink is off-limits for a reason, and this? This is my punishment.

The Uber pulls up to one of several skyscrapers lining the street. My best friend and coworker of two years, Jess, stands on the icy sidewalk in a deep-set red dress that pops against her brown skin. Her mouth forms a perfect 'O' as I climb out before extending into a grin.

"You made it," she says, trapping me in a hug. "I half expected you to bail."

"I thought about it," I say, pulling back, "but I looked too cute in this dress to turn back."

"Amen to that." She unzips her clutch bag and pulls out a spare black lace mask I'd asked to borrow. I tie the two ends around my head, pulling it over my eyes. She adjusts it for me, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as she rearranges strands of my dark hair. "Nice lips," she says with a not-so-subtle smirk – she knows Luke's stance on red. "Russian Red, Mac?"

I nod. While Jess plays Estate Agent between the hours of nine and five, her real passion is the makeup channel she runs on the side.

"Okay, now, remember the plan," she says, all business-like. "No, and I mean no, mentioning of You-Know-Who. Tonight is about drinking away our sorrows and celebrating that fat guy who crawls down people's chimneys to talk to kids."

I suck in a breath, which catches in my throat due to the brisk cold air. "All right," I say, clutching her hand, "lead me to the mulled wine."

Our steps weave together as we move through the crowd and into the lobby. Three men in suits have us walk through a security scanner before checking our clutch bags. With a quick pat down to ensure we're not harboring any goodies, we step into the elevator, which takes us up to the eighteenth floor. I glance at Jess in the mirrored door, who looks tiny standing next to me - even in her heels - like a seductive leprechaun.

The doors open, and for the briefest of seconds, I forget how much I don't want to be here and step out of the elevator, half-turning around like I'm living my best cliche movie moment. The realtor in me picks apart the finer details first, like the high coffered ceilings with pink scalloped edgings and the Carrara Blanco floors. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, shrouding the room in diffused golden light, but it's what stands beyond the finely-dressed patrons that excites me: floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of New York.

Beyond them is the patio, where several masked people drink cocktails around a long, lit-up pool. Half of them don't work for Laurelle but are rich people from other companies who Laurelle likes to suck up to. The only people I'll know from work are those on floors six to seven. With all these masks, it's hard to pinpoint them.

I turn to Jess as waiters in suits weave in and out of the crowd, holding up their trays. A man with a tray of champagne walks past, and we both grab a glass. Jess looks over and takes my arm, a devilish smile on her lips.

"Okay," she says, already scanning the guests, "who can we set you up with? There's Pete-" she points into the distance, where he's busy spitting out a canapé into a napkin. Despite being our floor manager, Pete is the type of man who looks like he couldn't organize a picnic, let alone anything else. His hair is always disheveled, the first few buttons of his shirt undone, and the ends of it peek from out his trousers.

I scrunch my nose involuntarily. "Jess-"

"What about Harry?" she interrupts. "No, wait, I think he's in a relationship now." She thinks a little harder and shoots me a look. "Milo - I wonder if he's here tonight." She scans the room as I physically recoil.

The Milo in question is Milo Woods, fellow coworker. Irritatingly superior. Annoyingly stoic. Jess thinks he looks like an old-school movie star-dark hair, blue eyes, a ridiculously angled jaw-but on the rare occasions I glance at him, I don't see his looks. All I see is the brooding demeanor, the scowls, and the disapproving frowns. If I sound like I hate him, it's because I do.

At every embarrassing twist and turn, he is there, privy to my misery: when the elevator broke, and I tripped up the stairs, he was there. When I left the bathroom with my skirt tucked in my tights, he was there. And the morning Lucas packed up his desk to move up to seven, breaking up with me in the process, he was definitely there: Milo Woods just lives to see me suffer.

"Firstly," I say, "there is no chance in hell that I'm ever getting involved with a coworker again, let alone Milo, and secondly, I'm not ready to meet someone." In fact, the thought makes me physically sick.

"But that's the whole point," Jess says. "There's a reason they say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone. Milo might not be a great conversationalist, but anyone has got to be better than Lucas."

She's right about that last part. Lucas was possibly the worst boyfriend ever, but I'd gotten so used to being Kenny and Luke, Luke and Kenny, that I don't know how to be anything else. "I thought we weren't talking about Luke?"

"We're not," she agrees and pulls me into the crowd.

We spend the next hour mingling with guests, bouncing from group to group. There's a drink in my hand and a smile on my face. Every time I laugh, I think, this isn't me. This girl right now, this socialite, she's the old me, the one pre-Lucas: I miss her.

I'm already on my third glass of champagne. I haven't drank in over a year, so my head feels fuzzy, and the room starts to spin. I'm talking to a balding billionaire that started off troll-like, but now he looks better than Lucas.

At one point, when I've eaten enough canapés to feed a small army, I hear some kind of celebratory commotion behind me. I turn around, and there Lucas is. It's like that moment in a movie where your eyes suddenly lock, and everything around you stops. My breath catches. Now that he's on seven, it's rare we're ever in the same vicinity, but there he stands, arm casually draped around his girlfriend, Alison, who is five-foot-eight of flowing golden hair and long, bronzed legs. Her hand extends, and some woman in a feathered dress leans over and smiles at the ring.

They're engaged.

Baldy's still talking about some secret yacht club, but I can barely hear what he's saying. I need to get out of here. I place my glass on the nearest table and push through bodies, trying to find a way to the rooftop. I need air, but the room is still spinning. Every mirrored surface looks the same.

Amid my panic, a stranger approaches, tall and broad-shouldered. He's wearing a black mask that covers all but his lips and a dark shirt with a bow tie. I'm in such a tizzy that I grab him and say, "Get me out of here."

He takes my hand, no questions asked, leading me down a hallway and onto a separate part of the rooftop, away from everyone else. I lean on the balcony, inhaling, exhaling, inhaling, exhaling. From up here, the view is incredible. It's like someone took white fairy dust and sprinkled it across the city. At any other time, I would love this.

Finally, I turn to Bow-tie, whose thick arms hang over the barrier as he stares at the skyline. Lucas is getting married. Lucas is getting married. Lucas is getting married.

Bow-tie leans closer, his blue eyes intense. "Are you-" but whatever he's about to say, it's too late. I spin around to face him properly, grab him by the neck, then stand on my tiptoes to kiss him.

For a second, we are both so surprised that neither of us moves. Then slowly, his hand comes up, cupping the back of my head as his lips start to move against mine. I can't remember the last time I was kissed. His teeth graze my bottom lip, biting gently, and my heart pounds. My back arches. My toes curl in my heels. Bow-tie could be a leper for all I know, but my god, he can kiss.

For the first time in history, I think Jess is right. Since kissing Bow-tie, I haven't thought about Lucas once. I grab his large hand and, without another word, lead him to the elevator. He trails after me, no doubt wondering if I'm completely insane, but for once, I don't care what people think.

Inside, I press the close button and turn on my heel. His eyes stare back, electrically blue and filled with desire. He scoops me off the floor by my thighs and pins me to the wall. My arms drop to his neck, and my dress rides up until it barely covers my thighs. When he glances down, he lets out a rough, uneven breath.

His lips are on mine again, demanding and urgent. He likes to take control, it seems, and I'm all too willing to let him. His fingers grip harder, and I groan, desperate to look at him properly. I rip off his mask and toss it to the floor, letting it drop by his feet.

Our eyes connect, and time really does stop. Those electric blue eyes are suddenly familiar. They're followed by a narrow, straight nose, pink lips, and strong, chiseled jaw. I jerk back when it hits me I know this man. He sits across the office from me.

Milo Woods.

A/N

Hey readers, what country are you reading from? ❤️

Are you a ftr or a rr?