Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
LARA
T he sun is high in the sky and the air is exceptionally warm but not oppressive in the conservatory. Muriel teaches me a surprising method of growing apples and oranges. Remove the two ends of the fruit, and rub garlic on the exposed part. Cut one-quarter of a medium-sized tomato into a little plastic cup, fill it with water, and stand the fruit on top of the water. And voila it’s done. She says I can expect roots on my plants in seven to ten days.
Muriel moves away to speak to one of the maids, and I stand back and look at my row of potted plants with satisfaction. I have potted an orange, an apple, a bougainvillea cutting, and a green and chili pepper.
The scent of earth and flowers fills my senses as I set about sticking the labels on the pots. I’m glad for the shade from the wide-brimmed hat and the long sleeves of the gardener's attire Muriel insisted I wear. I know it’s to prevent sunburn, but today it feels more like armor, a way to hide. I need to hide because every time I think back to last night, my body tingles and my mind races.
I pat the soil, feeling the coolness beneath my fingertips. Then I gently water my plants. This is exactly what I need—something to keep me busy and distract me from the memory of Ivan’s hands on me and the velvety sound of his voice in the dark.
Muriel is not back and I gaze curiously at an exotic plant with big fleshy leaves, normally only found in South American jungles. Muriel says it only flowers once a year and only at night. By day the flower has faded. She says she has seen the flower before and it is worth staying up for.
My thoughts wander. Flashes of last night play in my mind. I can’t forget the way he looked at me as if I was the object of his entire attention. One of the maids comes into the conservatory with a tray of freshly squeezed pineapple juice and a tall glass filled with ice cubes. When I thank her, she nods with her eyes cast down and leaves quickly.
It’s hard to ignore the feeling that the staff are gossiping about me. Not that I can blame them. I certainly would if I were them. My presence here must be very odd. How many of them know or have heard about what happened in the car last night? A part of me is mortified, but the other part... well, it doesn’t give a damn. Let them think or say what they want. They don’t know what it’s like to feel the irresistible and seductive pull of Ivan Ivanovich.
After last night, Ivan and I parted without a word. I think both of us are in a bit of shock and need space to process whatever this is between us. It’s clear that we hate each other’s guts and yet we can keep our hands off each other.
I couldn’t sleep for ages, my mind replaying how complete and absolute my surrender was. He could have done anything he wanted with me and I wouldn’t have objected. When I finally drifted off, it was a restless, disturbed sleep. I dreamed I was getting married and my mother and I were going shopping for bridal dresses. She looked like she did in her thirties and my dad was there too. It was a good, happy dream. When I woke up this morning, tangled in the silky sheets, I found myself staring at the empty space beside me and feeling strangely alone.
But once I was dressed and making my way through the house, I realized Ivan was still around. He was clearly on his way out but had stopped to talk to one of his staff. I stopped dead in my tracks. For a few moments, our eyes met in the mirror. My breath caught, and I felt a rush of emotions—desire, confusion, and something powerful left over from last night. I almost turned around and fled back to my room, needing to escape before he saw how much that single glance affected me. But he turned away and headed out of the door.
This is why I’m hiding out here in the garden today, just in case he comes back early to prepare for the gala or something. I hear quick footsteps on the stone floor and my heart lurches into my throat. When I swing my head around, I see Greta striding toward me, her face pinched and annoyed, her heels clicking sharply. She’s a stark contrast to the garden’s tranquility, her presence breaking the quiet peace. I don’t even have the energy to be snappy with her.
“Miss Fitzpatrick, I’ve been calling you for hours. What on earth are you doing?” she snaps, her voice slicing through the calm.
I wipe my hands on my jeans, feeling a twist of anxiety in my chest. I switched my phone off because I didn’t want to speak to my father just yet. Not today. Tomorrow I will face his recriminations and guilt. “I’m just here gardening. What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” she repeats, practically waving her phone in my face like a weapon. “The gala is tonight at seven. It’s already three o’clock! You need to get ready. There’s an entire bunch of professionals waiting for you. Hair, makeup, nails—all of it at your suite at the St. Regis.”
I stare at her in shock. The St. Regis is one of the most luxurious hotels in Manhattan. There’s a mixture of emotions swirling inside me. He got her to arrange all of this for me? I stop with the dreamy train of my thoughts and tell myself it’s just for show. All part and parcel of the image he needs me to project, but I can stop my heart from soaring a little. It feels… different. It feels as if he cares.
I push down the strange fluttery feeling in my chest. “Okay.”
Greta nods curtly. “Good. Now, let’s go. We’re already behind schedule.”
I follow her, leaving the tranquil peace behind, and we head to the waiting car. I lean back against the plush seat and watch the city rush past the windows. The ride is quiet, the tension between Greta and me unspoken, but thick and impenetrable. She’s glued to her phone, typing furiously. I stare out at the city, feeling like I’m on the edge of something I can’t quite name.
Walking into the St. Regis is like stepping into another world. The lobby is a masterpiece of sumptuous elegance. The floors gleam under crystal chandeliers and the staff move around with practiced efficiency. Everything about it feels glamorous and luxurious, removed from anything I’m used to.
My mind drifts back to the innocent, uncomplicated life I was living in my tiny box-like apartment just days earlier. My walls are a discolored beige so no matter how much sunlight streams in through the windows the place looks dull, but my rental agreement doesn’t allow me to make changes. The corridor has a worn-out carpet and air almost smells of old coffee and stale smoking. Everything about that life was about small spaces and tight budgets repeating day after day.
But now here I am… in the middle of Manhattan, about to mingle with some of the city's elite. It feels surreal, like I’m caught in a current I can’t escape, and I’m not sure if I want to resist or just let it take me wherever it’s going.
Greta leads me up to the floor where the spa is located, and soon enough, I’m wrapped in the warmth of luxury. The staff greet me with practiced smiles, guiding me through each treatment as if I’m royalty. As they work, their hands knead into my muscles, releasing the tension knot by knot. The scent of eucalyptus, rose, and musk fills the air, and it’s impossible not to feel the heaviness slip away. After a short while, I let myself sink into it—the clean sheets beneath me, the warmth of the oils soothing my skin. It’s like floating, my body surrendering to pure indulgence and comfort. Even though a small voice whispers that I don’t belong here, I push it aside. Sorry, but today I do.
When I feel almost too boneless to walk, I’m taken to the suite Ivan reserved. It’s breathtaking—high ceilings, tall windows that overlook the city skyline. The deep red dress I chose waits for me on a hanger. Also waiting are the hair and make-up professionals. They set to work immediately.
Two hours later I stand in front of the mirror in my suite and stare at the stranger reflected back. The transformation is unbelievable. My hair is styled into a soft, romantic chignon, with delicate curls left loose to frame my face, making me look softer, almost ethereal. It is a style that feels both timeless and elegant, the kind you’d see in fashion magazines but never imagine having yourself.
The make-up artist has swept a rose-tinted blush over my cheeks, giving them a natural, flushed look, and lined my eyes with a smoky shadow. It makes my eyes seem twice as large and smolder mysteriously. And deep berry lipstick. I’ve never really used such bold colors. I never thought I could carry it off. But apparently, I can. I look sophisticated and classically regal; the likes of Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy.
I almost reach out to touch the glass, just to make sure that’s really me. This isn’t just about looking beautiful; it’s about becoming someone else entirely—someone who belongs in this world, if only for tonight.
My hand flutters towards my stomach. I feel excitement and nerves, but also dread. I had fought this, and now it terrifies me to think that I might never want to leave, that, at the end of the day, I’ll find that he was right all along.
I do want this. But more than this I want Ivan.
I run my hands down the smooth fabric of my dress, adjusting it, feeling the soft rustle of the material as it hugs my curves.
There’s a knock on the door and my heart leaps. For a moment, I hesitate, then, my feet in their new gold shoes run towards the door. My hand hovers over the handle. I know who it is. I take a deep breath, steadying myself before opening the door.
Ivan stands there, and the sight of him steals my breath away. He’s in a tuxedo, perfectly tailored, the crisp lines emphasizing his broad shoulders. He looks every bit the part—powerful, controlled, but there’s something in his eyes when they meet mine. It’s like a spark, an intensity.
For God knows how long we just stand there, our eyes eating the other up, the air between us charged. I feel the heat in his gaze and it makes my skin flush.
“You look…” he starts, and for once, he seems to search for the right words. “Stunning.”
“Thank you, but you don’t look too bad yourself,” I manage to say, my voice no more than a whisper.
To my surprise, he flushes. Amazing. My simple compliment embarrasses him. There’s so much I want to ask, so much I want to say, but the words catch in my throat.
He steps closer, his hand reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair behind my ear. The touch is gentle, almost hesitant, and it sends a jolt through me. “Are you ready?”
I nod, even though everything inside me feels like it’s spinning. “I think so.”