Chapter 19 - Blair
I hate waking up alone. It’s a good thing Gabriel’s not here to see my epic pout because he’d probably laugh at me for being ridiculous.
Or maybe he’d love it.
It’s a toss up.
I roll over, reaching for the solid heat of my husband, hoping I’m wrong and that he’s still here, but all I grab is a handful of cold sheets. My stomach sinks and for some stupid reason, my eyes start to burn.
Gabriel’s gone. The dent in the pillow is the only proof he was here at all, even though my skin still feels sensitive from where he touched me last night.
A thick cream card sits on the nightstand, propped up against the lamp so I can’t miss it.
I’ll see you at dinner, my love. Rest. —G
The note is so Gabriel. Bossy and possessive with no wasted words.
A month ago, a note like that would’ve made me want to throat punch him for telling me what to do. Now? I trace the sharp angles of his handwriting and feel a little flutter in my chest that I refuse to call swooning. Nope, it’s just heartburn from the baby or something.
I absolutely do not like being told what to do.
Then again… When he takes charge, it means he’s handling everything so I don’t have to.
And even I can admit that’s kind of nice.
I kick the covers off and slide out of bed, stealing a t-shirt from Gabriel’s drawer to cover up before padding over to the full-length mirror.
I yank the hem up.
The ugly purple marks Ryder left on my ribs are finally fading. They’ve turned that gross, sickly yellow-green color that means they’re healing, but at least it doesn’t look like I got hit by a truck anymore. My cheek is better, too. Nothing a little concealer won’t fix.
My hand drifts to my stomach as I turn to the side.
It still looks flat, but it feels different. Harder. There’s a secret in there, a little tether to the man who is currently out there conquering the world.
"It’s almost over," I tell the girl in the mirror.
There are only a couple of days until I have to walk back into the Emerald Hills Country Club.
Until I get to stand in the same room where they tried to break me, and show them that I’m made of stronger stuff than they thought.
I drop the shirt and turn toward the closet.
Just for fun, I want to try on the dress and picture the look on Ryder’s face when he finds out I’m his new stepmom.
The garment bag hangs by itself on a rack in the middle of the apartment-sized walk-in closet.
I unzip the bag, the sound loud in the quiet room. The fabric spills out—stark, blinding white.
Harper called it a wedding dress. I call it a middle finger to everyone who doubted me.
I toss the t-shirt on the floor and step into the silk. The lining is cool, sliding over my hips like water. It takes some serious gymnastics to get the zipper up without aggravating my sore ribs, but once it’s on, it fits like it was painted on.
I step out into the main bedroom where the lighting doesn't suck.
Holy shit.
I don’t even recognize myself.
The white fabric pools around my feet, broken by a slit that goes high enough on my left thigh that I can’t wear underwear.
The neckline plunges deep, framing my chest in a way that’s definitely not modest. It’s white—not ivory, not cream, but a pure, icy white that makes my skin look luminous and my dark hair look like ink.
It hugs every curve, every dip.
I turn to the side.
There.
The slightest curve of my lower belly.
To anyone else, it might just look like I ate a burrito for lunch. But to Ryder? To the guy who knows exactly what my body looks like? To the town gossips who could spot a pregnancy rumor a mile away?
It’s a neon sign.
My spine straightens as I lift my chin.
The memory of the emerald dress hits me out of nowhere.
I remember standing in the bathroom at the club a month ago, that stupid tag scratching my side while the zipper dug into my ribs.
I was whispering to myself like a crazy person, trying to convince myself I belonged there.
I felt like such a fraud. A poor girl playing dress-up in a gown that cost two weeks of groceries, terrified someone would spot the clearance tag.
I was so scared of being seen. Scared they’d figure out I was trash.
The woman in the mirror now isn't scared.
She isn't hiding.
I ripped the tag off the second I walked out of the store with this dress. I’m not doing mental math about dry cleaning bills or worrying if I’m smiling enough to be liked.
I belong here.
Not because of the rock on my finger—though, damn, it helps. And not because my last name changed.
I belong here because I survived.
I survived the humiliation. I survived the cheating. I survived the car crash.
I survived the cataclysm that is Gabriel Hollis, and instead of running away like a sane person, I turned around and let him catch me.
"You’re a fucking queen," I tell my reflection.
The girl in the mirror smirks back.
She looks like she’s about to ruin someone’s life and have a great time doing it.
My phone vibrating across the vanity scares the crap out of me and breaks the spell.
I glance at the screen.
Mom.
Ugh. My stomach does a little flip. It’s not fear, exactly. More like the dread of knowing a headache is coming.
She never calls me, too caught up in her own life and whatever guy she’s with to think about what’s going on in mine.
So that can only mean one thing: she knows.
News in Mulberry travels slower than in the Hills, but the gossip chain is faster than the internet. If the nurses at the hospital talked, or if someone saw the marriage license filing... yeah. She knows.
Lucky for me, Ryder doesn’t give a shit about anyone but himself, so he doesn’t pay attention to gossip.
I swipe the screen.
"Hey, Mom."
"Blair!" Her voice is a screech that forces me to pull the phone away from my ear. "Is it true? Tell me it’s true! Barb at the salon said her cousin works at the county clerk’s office and saw the paperwork!"
I sit on the edge of the bed, trying not to wrinkle the silk.
"It’s true."
"Oh my God!" She squeals. "A Hollis! Baby, you actually did it! You landed the big one!"
I squeeze my eyes shut.
"I didn't 'land' anyone, Mom. He's not a fish."
"Whatever. You know what I mean. I knew you were smart. I knew those years with Ryder weren't a waste. You were just climbing the ladder! And to trade up to the father? That’s... honestly, I didn't think you had it in you."
Her praise makes my skin crawl.
This is exactly what I was afraid of. This is the story I’ve been running from my entire life.
My mother spent her life swinging from man to man like a trapeze artist, terrified of hitting the ground. She measured her worth by who paid for her dinner. She disappeared into them, becoming a reflection of their egos until she forgot who she was.
And now she thinks I’ve done the same thing.
She thinks I’m her greatest success story.
"He's a billionaire, Blair," she gushes. "Do you know what this means? You're set. You never have to work again. You can just... exist. You won the lottery!"
"Mom, stop."
My voice comes out sharp, cutting through her rambling.
"What? I'm happy for you! This is everything we always talked about. Getting out of Mulberry. Finding someone to take care of you."
"I don't need someone to take care of me."
"Everyone needs someone to take care of them, baby. That’s how the world works. Men have the power, and we have the beauty. It’s a trade."
I look at the mirror again. The white dress. The diamond.
It would be so easy to agree with her. From the outside, that’s exactly what this looks like. The younger woman, the older billionaire. The transaction.
But then I think about the book on my nightstand. The first edition Gatsby he bought six months ago because he remembered a random thing I said when I thought no one was listening.
I think about the way he cooked pasta with me in the kitchen, rolling up the sleeves of his three-thousand-dollar suit just to feed me.
He doesn't look at me like an accessory. He looks at me like an obsession. Like an equal.
"It's not a trade," I say.
"Oh, honey, don't be naive—"
"I'm not being naive. I'm telling you the truth. I didn't trap him. I didn't 'land' him. I chose him. And he chose me."
The air is dead on the other end of the line. She doesn't get it. She literally can't comprehend it.
"He sees me, Mom," I say, keeping my voice steady. "The real me. Not the version I present to the world so people like me. He saw me at my absolute worst—angry, vengeful, broken—and he didn't look away. He moved toward it. He didn't rescue me from my life. He just... joined me in it."
My throat gets tight, and I realize I’m crying. Just a little.
"I'm not you," I murmur. "I'm not disappearing into him. I'm standing next to him."
"Well," she says after a long pause, her voice a little smaller. "I suppose that's nice, too. As long as his bank account stays full."
A dry laugh escapes my throat. She’ll never get it. And honestly? That’s okay.
I don't need her to understand.
I spent years terrified of becoming her. Terrified that if I let a man take care of me, I’d lose myself. I fought so hard to be independent, to be the "strong one," that I almost missed the fact that you can be strong and still be held.
Gabriel doesn't want me weak. He wants me strong enough to stand beside him.
"I have to go, Mom," I say. "I have things to do."
“But—"
I hang up, and then I look at the phone in my hand.
I didn't do this for the money. I didn't do it for the status.
I did it because when I’m with him, the static in my head stops. I did it because he makes me feel like I’m the most powerful thing in the room.
I did it because the way he looks at me, straight down into my soul like it answers only to him, is everything.
I stand up and walk back to the mirror.
The white dress makes me look like an angel in the dim room, ethereal and a little bit magic.
Powerful.
My mother is wrong about a lot of things. But she’s right about one thing.
I won.
But I didn't win a lottery.
I won a life of happiness and love and obsession I wouldn’t trade for anything.
I unzip the dress, wincing slightly as I twist to reach the pull. The silk pools at my feet.
Zipping it back into the garment bag feels like holstering a gun.
I’m not nervous about what’s to come. I’m not scared.
I’m excited.
I walk out of the closet and back into the bedroom, picking up the copy of Gatsby from the nightstand and running my thumb over the gold lettering before settling in at the chair by the window to read while the snow falls.
Ryder thinks he’s walking into just another holiday gala on Christmas Eve like so many before it.
He has no idea he’s walking into his own funeral.
And I’m going to look damn good standing over the grave.