Chapter 17 - Blair
Sitting around on my butt waiting for my body to heal sucks.
Yeah, I said it. It sucks.
My bruised ribs create a tight, pulling sensation every time I so much as breathe, and the fading ache behind my eyes serves as a constant reminder that I’m not quite back to normal yet.
Waking up takes forever. Consciousness returns in slow waves, accompanied by the scent of dark roast coffee.
I blink my eyes open, squinting against the gray sky filtering through the massive windows.
Gabriel sits in the armchair he pulled right up to the bedside, already dressed for the day.
His dark navy suit radiates power and violence in equal measure, the fabric straining slightly across his broad shoulders as he leans forward.
I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of this view.
He studies something on his tablet, his dark hair falling into his eyes, but the second my breathing changes, his gaze snaps to mine.
"You're awake," he says, like he summoned me back to the waking world by sheer force of will.
"Hard to sleep when you’re staring at me," I murmur, stretching my limbs.
My body protests the movement—a sharp twinge in my side, a dull throb in my shoulder—but the agony has receded since yesterday. And it’s miles better than the day before. The purple map of bruises Ryder left on my skin has faded into a sickly greenish-yellow.
Progress.
Gabriel sets the tablet down and leans forward, his hand finding my ankle under the duvet. Warmth seeps through the fabric and I soak it in.
"How's the pain this morning?"
"Better. I think I can manage a shower without help today."
His eyes darken, pupils blowing wide to swallow the gray. "I like helping."
"I know you do."
He gives me a dirty smirk and rolling my eyes is the only defense I have, but the tingles between my legs betray me.
"Come here," he commands.
The mattress dips as I scoot to the edge. He pushes the duvet back, scanning my body with a clinical, possessive intensity. His fingers ghost over the skin of my ribs without pressing down, inspecting the damage that’s left.
"They're fading," he decides. "Good. By Christmas, you’ll be back to perfect."
"And if I'm not?" I challenge, tilting my chin to look at him.
"Then you’ll be beautiful and bruised, and everyone will know you’re a survivor," he says, his thumb tracing the line of my hip bone. "But you’ll be standing next to me. That’s all that matters."
He stands, checking the silver Rolex on his wrist. The protective husband recedes just enough for the shark to come forward.
"I have to go into the office," he says. "Finalizing the details for the gala."
"The execution, you mean."
"I do." He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a sleek, heavy card. He drops it onto the nightstand where it lands with a metallic clink.
I stare at it. A black Centurion card.
"What is this?"
"You need a dress," he says. "And shoes. And jewelry. And whatever else you want."
The metal feels cold against my skin as I lift it. A weapon in credit card form.
"Gabriel, I can't—"
"You can." He cuts me off without hesitation, his voice dropping to that low register that vibrates straight down my spine. "You're my wife. You represent me now. I want you to walk into that ballroom on Christmas Eve and make every single person in that room choke on their envy. Especially Ryder."
He leans down, bracing his hands on the mattress on either side of me, trapping me in his orbit.
"I want him to see exactly what he threw away. I want him to see that while he was playing with toys, I was crowning a queen. Do you understand?"
Gray eyes burn into mine. He’s not asking me to be pretty. He’s asking me to be the spoils of war.
My fingers tighten around the card. I should probably be offended that he’s weaponizing my looks, but honestly? I’m kind of into it.
"I understand."
"Good." He kisses me, hard and fast, a claiming brand on my mouth. "Harper's coming to get you at ten. I cleared her through the gate."
"You called Harper?"
"I figured you’d want backup.”
He straightens, adjusting his cuffs.
"Don't wait up," he says, turning toward the door. "I’m going to be late tonight. I have to make sure the grave is deep enough that neither one of them will ever be able to crawl out."
"So," Harper says, eyes fixed on the winding driveway of the estate as she navigates her Mini Cooper. "Let me get this straight. You're married. You're pregnant. And you're living in a fortress with one of the richest, scariest men in the Pacific Northwest."
"Yes." Trees blur past the window.
"And you didn't tell me."
"I was practically in a coma. I couldn’t exactly text you the second I woke up and found out."
I feel her roll her eyes. "You were unconscious for twelve hours, Blair. That’s a nap. An aggressive nap." She hits the brakes as we approach the main gate, waiting for it to swing open. "And the baby? Is it Ryder’s or...?"
"It's Gabriel's."
Harper lets out a laugh. "Damn. You really went for it. Ryder cheats on you, so you go let his dad knock you up? Then marry the guy and become your ex’s step mom? That’s some Game of Thrones level shit. I’m obsessed with your level of petty.”
"I’m not that petty.”
"Girl.” She side-eyes me. “Right. It,” she takes her hands off the wheel to make air quotes, “Just happened. You randomly fell onto a billionaire's dick repeatedly."
Laughter bubbles up in my throat. It feels good. Normal.
"He makes me feel safe, Harper. I know he’s intense. I know he’s... a lot. But he’s the first person who’s ever really gotten me. He gives me what I need before I even know I need it. And I’m not talking about money."
Harper glances over, her expression softening.
"I know, B. I saw the way he looked at you when we were working on the rebrand. Like he wanted to consume you and build a shrine to you at the same time. It’s terrifying, but.
.. I’m happy for you. If anyone deserves a guy who fits the whole touch her and die trope, it’s you. "
We hit the highway, heading toward downtown Emerald Hills.
"So," Harper says, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. "We have an unlimited budget and a vendetta to settle. What’s the vibe?"
My gaze drops to the black card in my purse.
"Funeral chic," I say. "We're dressing for a burial."
Shopping with unlimited funds is a total mindfuck.
Usually, checking price tags and doing mental math to calculate how many hours of work a pair of shoes costs or figuring out how long I have to return something consumes my shopping trips. Today, I don’t even need to look at the price tags.
I mean, I do. But I don’t have to.
We hit the boutiques on Main Street. The sales associates, who used to look down their noses at me when I came in with Ryder—the Mulberry girl clinging to the golden boy—scramble to help when the black card makes an appearance.
It’s satisfying but it’s exhausting.
By mid-afternoon, we have the dress.
A garment bag taking up the entire backseat of Harper’s car contains the weapon of choice. Shoes that look like instruments of torture but make my legs look a mile long and a jewelry set worth more than the shitty trailer I grew up in sit beside it.
Harper drops me off at the gate around four, my arms piled with bags. One of the security guys takes them off my hands and brings them inside while I say my goodbyes to my bestie.
"Go rest," she orders. "You look pale. And if you pass out, your scary husband is going to murder me."
"He likes you," I assure her, climbing out.
"He tolerates me because you love me," she corrects. "There’s a difference. Love you, B. Call me if you need a getaway driver or to bury a body. I’ve got a shovel in my trunk."
Her Mini Cooper disappears down the road, leaving me alone with the massive house.
My house.
It looms against the gray sky, stone and timber and massive glass windows. It’s beautiful. Impressive.
I never thought I’d live somewhere like this.
When I walk in, I’m extra happy I’ve kept the Christmas music playing at all times through the speaker system in the downstairs so it’s not silent.
This place is way too much house for just the two of us.
Even when the baby comes, we could have an entire hockey team’s worth of kids and fit them all in this place.
When Gabriel’s gone, it feels so empty. His presence takes up a lot of space.
I wander until I end up in the living room.
The giant tree we picked out stands in the corner and I bite my lip when I remember what happened when we decorated it.
It’s almost flawless.
It belongs in the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton.
My arms wrap around my waist as I stare at it.
It’s beautiful, sure. But it has no soul. No memories hang from these branches. No ornaments made of macaroni and glitter. No mismatched bulbs. It’s a display piece.
My hand moves to my stomach.
"It’ll be different when you’re here," I whisper to the cluster of cells growing inside me.
Next year we’ll build our own traditions as a family—Gabriel, me and our baby. There’ll be color and chaos.
My phone captures the image of the sterile perfection to keep as a reminder of where we started.
It’s late when Gabriel comes home.
I’m in the kitchen, sitting at the island with a cup of tea, reviewing the final proofs for the shelter.
He walks in, carrying the scent of the cold and the city with him. Fatigue lines his face. Deep grooves around his eyes and tension in his jaw tell me the day was heavy.
But when he spots me, the tension melts off him.
"You're awake," he says, loosening his tie.
"Obviously."
He crosses the room, stepping between my knees as I swivel the stool to face him. One of his hands slides up my thigh and the other wraps around my throat, his forehead pressing against mine.
He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, just holds me the way he wants to as we breathe each other in. Even after a full day, he still smells edible.
"Did you get it?" he finally asks.
"The dress?" I nod. "It’s... aggressive."