Page 63 of Gave Proof Through the Night

She turns, and for a second before she remembers to arrange her face into something breezier, I catch the real one underneath it.

There she is.

14

ERICA

Chapter playlist:

In Vogue — Daniel Pemberton

Sparkling Diamonds (From "Moulin Rouge") — Nicole Kidman

The district manager of the Four Seasons hotel has personally driven in from Bethesda past his bedtime to grovel, and I am so here for it.

Ivy made one phone call yesterday, which resulted in arranging the VIP treatment for one Miss Capucine de Montfleury, sole heiress to Maison Montfleury, a very French, very luxurious, and very iconic perfume house.

She owns three chateaux, a nose insured for billions, and absolutely zero patience for anyone who wastes her time. She also has a half brother named Laurent, an ongoing inheritance dispute, and a well-documented allergy to synthetic musk.

She is also not a real person.

The identity Tanya built for Ginger comes with a complete backstory, a rift with a fictional sibling, and a briefcase so valuable that Capucine de Montfleury insists it can only be safe inside the hotel’s private vault.

Cue her very tiny but capable bodyguard… Suri… and her personal handler and concierge… Me. We are also very French, by the way, and wearing matching itchy suits.

Zoe snickered when I put mine on, and I told her to zip it before I did something like cover her mouth in duct tape. She countered with, “What are besties for if not to make fun of one another?”

I just rolled my eyes and got into the rented limo that brought us exactly one block to the Four Seasons front entrance.

Ginger sweeps through the revolving door of the hotel in a cream trench coat she does not need in July, sunglasses she does not need at eleven at night, and an attitude that should win her an Oscar. It didn’t take much to convince her to play this part. Also, she’s the only one of us who speaks a passable amount of French. Suri and I follow directly behind her like minions.

Twenty-four hours ago, this hotel didn't have a spare broom closet. Every floor is blocked off for the tournament, reserved for players, league officials, and anyone with a lanyard that says Association on it. The penthouse suite was occupied by the hockey commissioner himself.

But Ivy pulled a few strings, made a few phone calls, and now the commissioner is halfway to Geneva thinking he's up for a spot on the international federation's board. He'll be gone through the gala.

That leaves the penthouse empty, and the hotel with a problem. The suite is contractually off-limits to anyone outside the tournament unless the VP of hockey operations signs off, in writing.

Which is where Miss Capucine de Montfleury comes in.

Ivy called in a favor to get the suite reclassified as a VIP comp instead of a booking, which is apparently a different contract entirely. That's also, I'm guessing, why the district manager drove all this way to run this himself instead of some nineteen-year-old at the front desk. Corporate doesn't leave a celebrity check-in to chance.

“Miss Furry,” the district manager says, striding out from behind the concierge desk so fast his loafers squeak against the marble. “Miss Furry, welcome, welcome, we are honored. My name is Clive Halloran. Whatever you need during your stay is yours.”

Ginger, resplendent in a black dress that’s giving Audrey Hepburn, does not acknowledge Clive Halloran, or that he mangled her fake name. She looks past him. Past the lobby.

He produces a gold-embossed key fob, holds it out to Ginger with both hands.

She looks at it the way most people look at gum on their seat.

“We’ve held the Penthouse Suite for you,” Clive continues. “Champagne on ice, the Steinway’s been tuned twice just in case you’d like to⁠—”

“I do not touch key cards,” she says, and ticks her head in my direction.

Girlfriend! Not even a bonjour. She’s really committing.

There’s a beat where Halloran’s brain visibly recalibrates, and then he says, “Oh.” He pivots to hand it to me instead.

“You must be with Miss Furry’s people.”