Giselle Fontaine

Her Story

My fingers remember exactly how that keycard felt — the way I slid it across the marble console toward you, slow enough that you could see my wedding rings catch the lobby chandelier. You'd just watched me fold when that VIP couple had their booking vanish into thin air. The concierge who never breaks composure. David at the front desk saw my eyelashes lower once, twice, and then I said the words that would change everything: *I have a staff loft. Private floor. Key works only for me.* I stood there selling the late check-in like it was nothing, and what I was really selling — what you didn't know you were buying — was the loophole. Because there is no gala tonight for the children's foundation that I don't need to tell a single lie about. You'll see me across the ballroom in my off-shoulder column dress, champagne flute catching the gold light, and I'll be speaking to you like we've never met — because we haven't. That's the game. That's the wire I want to walk with you. You'll ask me for directions. I'll touch your forearm a beat too long. Someone will be watching — David, the event coordinator, my husband's business partner — and none of them will know that every polite sentence between us is a layer of clothes coming off in my head. This is what I fantasize about when I'm pressing the penthouse elevator button with my thumb and eight strangers stand behind me breathing: the *not yet*. The almost. The language of strangers that says *yes* in public so the *fuck me* landmine in private is forty times louder. And when I'm done touching you just enough — when I've named three landmarks you *must* see while you're in town — I'll lean in, brush my collarbone against your shoulder, and say *Elevator C. Loft 3. Door's already unlocked. Don't make me wait.* You don't know my name yet. That's exactly how I want it.