Chapter 11
Ugh, he needs to stop looking at me that way, like he sees every piece of me I’d rather keep from the world, and he plans to poke at them. Individually and with much attention. The same way—
I shake those thoughts away.
“When is the opening?” I want to know.
Marcus settles deeper into the back of the couch with his eyes closed. “I’ll let you know.”
“Oh, I thought this was an immediately if not sooner kind of thing.” Maybe I should start prodding him more than I already do.
It might get him to loosen up.
And while I’m at it, while he works to revamp my public image, I’ll start to work on convincing him I don’t want a public image. The movie role is his idea. My coffee date with River showed me one thing about myself: I’m not comfortable in the spotlight anymore, and I wish I’d realized it, the full extent of it, before I signed his contract.
A normal life has never been in the cards for me, no matter how badly I want it, and I’m starting to want it badly enough to taste it.
The premiere will help, I think distantly, get me back where I need to be, headspace wise, to get through this role, to get through the next four years with Marcus.
He pats me on the knee once, roughly, before hauling to his feet. “I’ll let you know.”
“Isn”t this something one of my PAs should put on my calendar?” I taunt loudly.
“I swear to God, if you actually stick to a calendar, Empire, then I’ll get down on my knees and start praying. At this point, you’re like a child who needs her hand held every step of the way.” His voice diminishes the further away he gets, and I’m left sitting there, speechless.
Well, damn.
“Tell me how you really feel,” I whisper.
Two days later, he’s got a handful of stylists unloading their wares in my room. I stare open mouth at the army of people he’s hired to work their magic on me, only to have Marcus loom in the doorway, his favorite thing to do, and point to his watch.
“We’ve got five hours,” he barks out. “Get her ready. She’s got to shine.”
I’d rather stay home with the covers pulled over my head in bed than go to an opening, but I want to do it for him. Is it fucked up? I only accepted the movie part to please him, too, although there’s no way in hell I’m telling him.
Five hours later, and we’ve used every minute of the time to get plucked, primped, shined, and shaved. Not in that order.
Now, the girl in the mirror is a shadow of the one I used to see there but closer than I’ve been for a long time. My hair is already done, professionally curled around my face. The makeup artist Marcus hired just finished beating my face to heaven, and there’s more color and life in my eyes than I’m used to.
“You are just so beautiful, I want to die.” The makeup artist comes up behind me and rubs my shoulders through the robe. She goes wide eyed when I blanch. “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry! I just meant—”
I smile in assurance before saying, “Everything looks great, thank you. I do look beautiful.”
She went bold this time, a neutral palette for my eyes, since I have no idea what kind of dress Marcus is getting for me, but my lips are a hot red. A pair of ruby earrings shine at my lobes, and a diamond solitaire hangs on a white gold chain inches above my decolletage. Even the boobs got special treatment, scrubbed with a special honey and oat body butter before the stylist applied a lotion with a gentle shimmer.
Everything is in place physically, but my mind is miles away where it has no business going.
Back to the couch, with Marcus, where it’s just the two of us and his lips on mine.
A knock sounds at the door before Marcus peaks his head in. and my stomach flips, heat settling low. I squeeze my legs together.
“Well?” The makeup artist steps back to give him a better view. “How did I do?”
He ignores her. “Get dressed. You’ve got 15 minutes, and then we’re out the door.” He thrusts his arm into the room with a black garment bag dangling from his fingers. “For you.”
I can’t move. Instead, the makeup girl takes the bag from him and gently closes the door. “Alright. Let’s see what we’re working with, here.”
I hardly breathe as she lays the bag over the side of the bed and unzips it. White. The gown is pure white and glitters with pearls along the neckline and bust.
“Well. Looks like an original Oscar de la Renta. Absolutely stunning, and with your skin tone, it will look gorgeous. Do you want me to help you with it?”
I hear her voice from a distance and shake my head. “No. I’ve got it from here, thank you. You can all go. I’m fine.” I barely tear my eyes away from the dress to watch her and the others on the style team go, blinking only when the quiet snick of the door closing is the only sound in the room.
I’m finally able to draw breath again.
The dress is phenomenal. Gorgeous, designer, and more than likely the price of a small car. The fabric is sumptuous and a little heavy. I lift it out of the garment bag with trembling fingers. The front is one giant piece—correction, the bust is one piece, but the middle of the dress is made up of overlapping straps, weaving over and around each other.
Marcus brought me a dress. It rivals even the most exquisite of my mother’s premiere gowns, with a modern twist to the old-fashioned skirt.
Two years ago, I joined Mom as her date on opening night of her romantic spy thriller, In Love with Death. She gave me free leave to choose whatever I wanted to wear, as long as it matched the dress her designer chose for the evening.
I ended up with a skirt short enough to show most of my legs, and there were more than a few articles online about it. Neither best dressed nor worst, and Mom had laughed, telling me any day where my name dominated the social media searches was a good day.
The echoing stirs of her laughter fade from my mind the longer I stare at the gown.
True to his word, Marcus arranged for the hair and makeup artists. He really had taken care of everything, and even though I know what to expect, I feel nothing like how I used to feel when I went to these things. The joy is gone. The anticipation lingers, but it’s colored by something else, something like apprehension.
Mentally, I’m preparing for a hit.
I turn toward the floor length mirror and hold the dress against my skin.
There’s a woman looking back at me.
A woman in her own right, not one who stands on the brink, right there in her mother’s shadow, waiting for the moment to shine on her own. Thinking of Mom again has my expression shuttering as I watch. If we’ve only got fifteen minutes to go before we leave, and then I need to hurry and make sure I’m prepared.
Except I start to slip into the dress, and the straps catch on my leg. My arms. They tangle near my elbow. The fabric snares on the strapless bra and strains when I pull too hard.
“Shit, shit—” I topple over and hit the side of the bed, tangling my fingers in the sheets for balance.
And I sent my help away.
I definitely do not have this. If I struggle any more, then I’m going to tear the dress, and I’m not sure which will be worse to deal with: a pissed off Marcus now, or a furious one if I ruin the gown before we leave the house.
“Marcus!” I call out, too frustrated to even start to feel ashamed. “I need help getting into the dress. Please.”
The door opens seconds later, and he stops, staring at me where I’m half in the dress and half out. I catch a brief glance of him in his suit jacket, the black emphasized by his pure white button up shirt underneath. No tie, no belt, only the white gold watch at his wrist.
“I’m stuck.” It’s self-explanatory, but it takes him a second to compose himself—less than a second, and when he blinks, the tense moment passes.
“Get the fabric up to your waist, and I’ll help you with the rest. You’re making a mess of things,” he growls, stalking forward and holding several of the straps away from my body until I get the dress in place.
“I’m not sure I’m going to be able to untangle myself.
“Well, here’s the problem. You’ve got one of the pearls stuck on the bra hook. How in the world—” He breaks off, but his fingers are gentle as he pries the fabric loose and hooks the bra correctly.
He turns back, and I’m holding the front. “Help me lace the back.”
My breath catches in my throat at the first brush of his fingers on bare skin, the softest skim before he takes the straps in hand and begins to lace them up. Slowly. Reverently. The longer he touches me, the more heat fills my body until I’m grateful for the barely-there fabric. Otherwise, I’d burn right up.
He pauses at my shoulder, and my pulse speeds until it’s thunder in my ears. It’s back to the two of us, alone in this house, the door closed, no one to interrupt and no one to tell me this is a bad idea. I’m half dressed, and Marcus looks like a king.
A dark king, the kind more than capable of having their wicked way with anyone they please. Even a girl like me.
When the dress is finally in place, I release my hold on the front bust and turn to face him.
“What do you think?” I ask.
Marcus dips his eyes along my body and takes me in. I’ve never felt this sexy, this bold.
“You look stunning, Empire,” Marcus murmurs.
“Thank you for picking out such a nice dress. How did you know it would fit me?”
“I always know.”
He holds contact with my eyes long enough for a shudder to run through me, completely outside of my control. Something tenses in my stomach, coiling tighter and tighter at the expression on his face, and I forget. I forget about everything and everyone outside of this room and my racing heartbeat. There’s only the two of us, and in a flash, I remember how it felt to be on his lap.
The same kind of heat. But I’m not the part he wants me to play for the film.
I’m only me.
And right now…
Going against logic, I close the space between us and lift up on the tips of my toes, brushing my lips against his. It’s barely a kiss, barely anything, and yet I feel the sharpness of his next inhalation, and I pull back, terrified of how he’ll react.
This is Marcus.
He’s made it very clear what he thinks of me, and if his words weren’t enough, the way his face tightens tells me it’s wrong to kiss him. There are no more murmured praises when he grabs my elbow and turns me toward the door, away from the comfort and ease of my sanctuary. My chest carves out.
He’s comfortable doing these things for me, but it’s insanity to think it will go any further. Time for me to stop dreaming of fairy tales.