The charity gala was the kind of event Robert usually avoided. But his brother was being honored, and family obligation trumped personal preference. He stood near the dessert table, nursing a champagne he didn’t want. At sixty, he had stopped trying to impress people. She found him there, examining the chocolate fountain. You’re Robert, she said. Thomas’s brother. The one who actually made his own money. And you are? Someone who’s bored and noticed that you look equally bored. She was probably fifty-eight, with red hair and a dress that was green and draped in a way that suggested money and taste. I’m Claire. I’m on the board. They talked. Robert found himself surprised by how easy it was. By the time the dancing started, Robert didn’t want to leave. They moved to the hotel bar, then to the restaurant, then to Claire’s suite. I should tell you something, she said. I have rules. Not many, but they’re non-negotiable. I keep my heels on. Always. She stepped into the suite, kicking off her flats and reaching into her bag for stilettos. Black, four inches. The real reason isn’t about looking sexy. It’s about power. When I was married, my second husband liked me small. Liked me barefoot. Heels made me taller than him. So I stopped wearing them. Now I wear them when I want to feel powerful. She walked toward him, the heels clicking against the hardwood. And tonight, I want to feel powerful. She kissed him, and there was nothing tentative. The heels gave her leverage, angle, control. Later, lying in the dark, Claire’s heels still clicking against the bedframe, Robert traced her leg. You kept them on. I always do. The heels are mine. The power is mine. You just get to benefit from it.
