Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
My rumpled dress slides against the leather of Mother’s Bentley as Wilfred drives us away from my childhood home.
Oliver booked a hotel for us as we waited for the maids to collect our stuff and bring us our bags and suitcases. Now there’s no reason to ever go back there.
I’m somehow still in shock over what just happened. I knew this engagement was my mother’s goal, but I never thought she would orchestrate it like that without my agreement and in such a public way.
They did it publicly because they knew I would never step up against them in front of so many people.
I’m mad at myself for freezing so badly, for not telling them no. I’ve come a long way. I know that. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
I’m sitting between Grey and Oliver, with Misha facing us from the other seat of the car. Glancing at each one of them, warmth blooms in my chest.
They did it for me.
Even Oliver, who’s just as shy, stripped his introverted self away to step up for me tonight.
Twice.
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes for a second. I haven’t spoken since we left the ballroom, but I know I have to.
Grey squeezes my knee. “You okay, Princess?”
“No,” I answer truthfully but give him a small smile. “Thank you for tonight.” I look at Misha and then at Oliver. “Thank you for not letting them ruin my life.”
“We never would have. You know that, Bug.” Misha says with a sad smile of his own.
“I’m just… I feel bad,” I admit, voicing my regret.
“Why would you feel bad for those fuckers?” Grey asks, his hold on my knee tightening.
“I don’t feel bad for them. I feel bad for me. Somehow, I imagined myself walking out of there with my head held high,” I admit.
“Your arse was pretty high at some point there.” Misha shrugs with a grin tugging at his lips.
“Misha,” Oliver hisses, his brows furrowing in concern as he shoots him a reproachful look.
A laugh bursts out of me, and I can’t stop, the absurdity of the situation finally hitting me.
Grey carried me out of there and slapped my arse in front of London’s upper class.
The others chime in with small chuckles, dissipating the tension in the car.
“I guess that counts as something,” I say when I’m finally able to breathe again. “Also, that was so unnecessary,” I tell Grey with a mock frown.
“Debatable,” he dismisses me easily, his expression impassive but with a hint of amusement in his eyes. Then, in his typical no-nonsense manner, he asks, “What about that is bothering you?”
“I don’t know. If this is the big break, the big cutting ties, shouldn’t I have a final say? Shouldn’t I have stood up to them and told them how they hurt me to have closure? To move on?”
“Do you think you need this to move on?” Misha asks.
I think about it, about how much better I was in Seattle, how often I thought that just never picking up my phone again and acting as if they didn’t exist would have been the best thing I could do for myself.
“I don’t think so, but that sounds unhealthy, doesn’t it?”
“No, it doesn’t,” Oliver says gently. “Sometimes, no contact and no explanation can help you heal and be healthy. Believe me, I know. If you really want to in the future, you can still seek that talk when you think you’re in a good enough place.
But for now, if leaving it behind without a word feels right, then that’s what you should do.
” He reaches out to cup my cheek. “You could always write them a letter if you want to let them know how you feel without giving them the chance to talk you down again.”
Oliver’s way of coping. Which is beautiful, but it isn’t mine.
“I can’t,” I lean into his touch. “I told them all my life that this wasn’t the life I wanted to live, and they never respected it. And tonight… they didn’t care about how I felt. A letter wouldn’t change that.”
They are the problem.
But not mine anymore.
Grey strokes my knee, a silent support, and I lean back into the seat, feeling a weight lifting off my shoulders.
A little while later, we arrive at the hotel. The guys clamber out of the car, and Grey extends his hand to help me out. I stand, and a sharp pain shoots through my feet, causing me to grimace and plop back down onto the seat.
“What’s wrong?” Grey asks, concern etching his features.
I gesture toward my feet, wincing. “Just my feet. These bloody high heels are murder.”
His lips quirk into a smirk. “I can carry you again.”
I point my finger at him accusingly. “No, you don’t. Again, that was unnecessary.”
With a mischievous glint in his eye, he playfully nips at my finger. “Oh, it was entirely necessary.”
Oliver interjects, “Hey, Grey, can you grab the other two bags? I’ll go and check us in.”
Grey nods and strides around the car to retrieve our stuff from Wilfred.
Misha steps in front of me, curious. “What shoe size do you wear?”
“Eleven,” I reply, wondering where he’s going with this.
“Perfect,” he grins, and to my surprise, he starts unlacing his dress shoes.
“What on earth are you doing?” I ask, bewildered.
Without answering, Misha crouches down in front of me.
He removes my torturous high heels, placing a soft kiss on each of my shins as he does so.
Then, he slips his own shoes onto my feet before standing up and sliding into my heels.
He extends his hand to me, saying, “Come on, Bug,” while I’m still gawking at him in astonishment.
I laugh as I stand. Now he’s taller than me, and looks down with an amused expression, which feels oddly disconcerting.
Misha lets go of me when Wilfred steps around the Bentley and up to me. He pulls me into a warm, unexpected hug. “I can’t wait to hear about the big things you accomplish,” he whispers with a genuine smile.
“Thank you,” I whisper back, and with one last glance and a wave, Wilfred turns and heads back to the car, driving off into the night.
“Okay, let’s try this,” Misha grins and takes a few wobbly steps, teetering precariously at first. After a couple of yards, though, he seems to get the hang of it.
Enough to make it into the hotel, at least.
Grey, coming up behind us, shakes his head in disbelief. “Damn, Misha.”
I walk alongside him as he wobbles past the hotel lobby, where Oliver is at the reception desk, checking us in.
Misha grimaces, clearly uncomfortable. “God, why do women do this to themselves?” As we reach the elevator, he sways dangerously. I instinctively reach out to steady him, my hands finding purchase on his hips.
No need to fuck up his ankle again.
“Because it makes us taller,” I explain, amused by his struggle.
His hand comes up to stroke my cheek tenderly. “There’s nothing wrong with being short.”
I lean in to give him a quick peck on the lips, smiling. “You’re right. It’s rather hot, actually.”
His eyes light up at my words before he leans in, capturing my lips in a deeper, more passionate kiss, and I melt into it. Just then, the elevator pings and Oliver joins us.
“What on earth, Misha?” he exclaims, seeing Misha in my heels.
We chuckle, and once inside, Grey pulls me close, his strong arms encircling my waist as he kisses me, leaving me breathless.
When we reach our floor, Oliver fumbles with the key card before unlocking the room, and we all walk in, depositing our luggage haphazardly. It’s a big room with two queen-size beds next to each other.
Right. We’ve never slept in a room together before.
Misha dramatically kicks off the high heels, eliciting a giggle from me as I bend down to remove his shoes as well. They shed their suit jackets, Misha and Grey tossing them carelessly over nearby chairs while Oliver folds his and sets it down with care.
I can’t help but admire how devastatingly handsome they all look in their crisp shirts and well-fitted trousers.
Mine.
All three of them.
“You’re stunning,” Oliver says, stepping up to me, his eyes reflecting the same admiration I feel.
I draw him in, my hand cupping his face as I whisper, “I need your lips, too,” before kissing him tenderly. He responds with unexpected fervor, pulling me closer, his fingers trailing along my waist and the silky fabric of my dress.
My hair gets swept over my shoulder, and the zipper at the back of my dress is slowly lowered. Without looking, I instinctively know it’s Grey’s doing, his touch is unmistakable.
I’m still kissing Oliver, losing myself in the softness of his lips, when Grey murmurs in my ear, his breath hot against my skin, “May I?” His hands rest lightly on the straps of my dress, waiting for permission.
I break away from Oliver just enough to whisper a breathless, “Yes.”
The moment the word leaves my lips, Grey’s hands move with deliberate, almost reverent slowness. He eases the dress down, the silk slipping away and exposing my naked skin to the cool air of the room.
Underwear would have been visible through the silk.
A collective “Fuck,” escapes from the guys, and their eyes are filled with a raw, unfiltered hunger.
The room falls into a charged silence, broken only by the harsh intakes of breath and the soft, awed mutterings of appreciation from Misha.
Their gazes are riveted on me, and I can almost feel the heat of their stares like a physical touch.
Goose bumps erupt across my skin, each one a response to their intense scrutiny.
Grey’s touch is soft but radiates a fierce possessiveness as his hands come to rest on my exposed shoulders, his fingers pressing into my skin with a grip that is both tender and commanding. His breath is hot against my neck, and the tension in his chest, pressed flush against my back, is evident.
Oliver’s eyes are dark with reverent appreciation, his jaw clenched as if struggling to hold back the storm of emotions raging within him. Misha, on the other hand, lets his gaze sweep over me with an intensity that sends a thrill of anticipation through my entire being.
“Jesus, Amelia,” he finally breaks the silence, his voice rough and strained. “You’re…”
“Beyond beautiful,” Oliver finishes for him.