Chapter 21 - Blair
I don’t even have to hold my breath for the dress to fit perfectly.
If I inhale, the zipper doesn’t dig into my ribs this time. It fits like it was hand sewn to my body specifically for the purpose of ruining my ex-boyfriend’s life.
I stare at myself in the floor-length mirror of the master bedroom, and for a second, I actually look behind me to see who I’m staring at. Because it sure as hell isn’t the girl who used to count pennies in the grocery aisle or hide in bathroom stalls while rich girls made fun of her.
That girl is gone. Or at least, she’s buried deep enough under layers of white silk and a newfound confidence that she isn’t shaking right now.
The dress is my armor tonight. It has to be.
Harper called it a wedding dress, but let’s be real—it’s so much more than that.
The white silk plunges deep enough in the front to give the pearl-clutching matrons of the country club a stroke, and it’s split high enough on the thigh that there’s no question I’m not wearing anything underneath.
Well, not wearing other than Gabriel’s cum still sticky on my thighs.
"Okay," I whisper to the empty room. "Don't trip. Don't vomit. And definitely don't let them see you sweat."
The door clicks open behind me, and I watch in the mirror as Gabriel walks in.
He stops dead.
He’s wearing a tuxedo that fits him so well, it makes my mouth water. He’s all broad shoulders, muscles, and dark intent as he stalks toward me. He looks lethal. He looks like the kind of man someone’s mother would warn them to stay away from.
Not my mother, but a good mother who cared about their child.
His gray eyes rake over me, starting at my heels and traveling up slowly, possessively, until they lock on my face. The heat in his gaze is heavy and feels like tingles and sparks along my skin. Like he’s dragging his tongue coated in pop rocks up the inside of my thigh instead of just his eyes.
"Jesus," he breathes, the word sounding more like a curse than a prayer.
"Too much?" I ask, turning to face him. I smooth my hands over my hips, feeling the cool silk against my palms.
"Never," he growls, closing the distance between us. He doesn't stop until he’s crowding my space, and I breathe in a lungful of his cologne. "If we didn't have to leave in five minutes, I’d rip that off you right now."
"And ruin it?" I arch an eyebrow. "I think it’s worth more than my first car."
"I’d buy you a thousand more." He reaches out, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. His touch is rough, calloused, and it sends a jolt straight to my toes. "You look dangerous. Like you’re about to start a riot."
I let out a little laugh. "I kind of hope I do," I say. “Could you imagine Madeline Pemberton throwing a chair through a window?”
He smirks, that dark, arrogant tilt of his lips that makes my stomach do a traitorous little flip.
"Let’s see how the night goes," he says. "Because I intend to cause a lot of trouble tonight."
He offers me his arm.
"Ready to get your revenge, Mrs. Hollis?"
I take his arm, feeling the solid muscle beneath the expensive wool.
"Let's go make a scene."
The moment the valet opens the door and my white heel hits the pavement, it already feels so much different than the last time I was here.
I’m not walking ten paces behind a boyfriend who’s ashamed of me, trying to make myself smaller.
I’m walking beside a husband who looks ready to murder anyone who looks at me wrong.
Gabriel’s hand settles on the small of my back as we walk through the double doors. It’s not a gentle touch. It’s a brand. His fingers splay wide, the heat searing my bare skin where he’s slid it into the opening of my dress, claiming me for everyone to see.
The Emerald Hills Country Club smells exactly the same as it did the night my life imploded.
Like pine needles. Roasting meat. The cloying, suffocating scent of old money. What does old money smell like? Faded expensive perfume, furniture polish, and sort of metallic, like blood.
Yeah, I’m basically a bloodhound now with my new pregnancy sense of smell.
When we walk in, the room goes dead silent.
It looks different, though, all decked out for Christmas with glittering silver, white, and black decorations and at least a dozen trees scattered throughout the room.
Conversations die mid-sentence when we step into the room. Forks freeze halfway to mouths.
Everyone stares.
They see the dress. They see the ring—the massive, ostentatious diamond that catches the chandelier light and throws it back with a vengeance.
But mostly, they see him. They see the way Gabriel Hollis is looking at me.
Like I’m the only thing in the room that matters.
Like he’d choke the life out of every person in this room just to ensure I had enough air to breathe.
"Chin up," Gabriel whispers against my ear, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there and I shiver. "Let them look. Let them see how strong you are. How unbreakable."
I tip my chin a little higher.
"That's my girl."
We cut through the crowd. The sea of tuxedos and gowns parts for us, instinctual fear moving them out of our path.
I catch eyes. Sienna Montgomery looks like she’s swallowed a lemon.
The board members who used to treat me like furniture while I worked on their publicity now look at me with a mix of awe and terror.
"Gabriel."
A group stands near the fireplace, radiating a different kind of energy. It’s amused and confident and like they couldn’t give less of a fuck what anyone here thinks.
Cohen with a glass of bourbon, his arm wrapped around a woman with dark hair, wide eyes, and fair skin. She looks like what I imagine Snow White would if she was real.
Emerald Astor.
"Cohen," Gabriel greets him.
"You know how to make an entrance," Cohen says, his grin sharp. He turns to me. "Blair. You look stunning."
"Thank you."
"This is Emerald," Cohen says, staring down at her like he’s forgotten the rest of us exist.
Emerald offers a shy, sweet smile. She doesn't look like she belongs in a room full of demons and terrors, but with the way Cohen is shielding her body with his own, I doubt anyone would dare get close enough to bite.
"It's nice to meet you," she says softly. "Cohen talks about Gabriel all the time."
"Yikes," I say.
"I know, right?" she whispers with a little laugh, glancing up at her husband.
"I assume it's mostly complaints about his god complex," a deep voice adds from behind us.
“You’d know all about god complexes,” Gabriel rumbles out from beside me before flipping someone off.
I turn to see a man approaching who looks like violence wrapped in a tuxedo. I recognize him instantly from the night at Red Rum. Cole Callahan.
Beside him is a tall brunette who’s much younger than he is. I’m starting to notice a theme with these guys.
I don't know her, but she’s looking at Cole the same way I look at Gabriel—like he hung the moon and she’s the only one allowed to touch it.
"Callahan," Gabriel nods. "And Fallon. Good to see you both."
"Hollis," Cole says, offering a curt nod. His dark eyes slide to me, assessing but respectful.
"The white is a power move," Fallon says, her smile genuine as she looks me over. She leans in slightly, like we’re sharing a secret. "Wearing that into this room? You’re definitely my kind of woman."
"I figured subtlety was overrated," I say.
"Overrated and boring," she agrees.
She winks, and the sharp edge of my anxiety dulls. Gabriel pulls me closer, his heat seeping through the silk of my dress, and the group naturally tightens its formation. They create a barrier, a line in the sand that separates the predators from the prey.
I stand in the middle of them—the Savage Society, Gabriel, Cohen. The monsters under the bed of every elite in this room. And for the first time in my life, I don't feel like an outsider.
I feel insulated. Protected.
I feel like I’ve finally found a pack of wolves who accept me because the biggest wolf in the forest claimed me.
Gabriel doesn't seek people out. It’s a masterclass in domination, what he does. He stands in one spot, his hand never leaving my body—sometimes on my waist, sometimes drifting to my hip, sometimes the back of my neck, but always heavy, always possessing—and lets them come to us.
They line up to kiss the ring.
"So happy for you both."
"You look radiant."
"I heard about your new consulting firm, Blair. We’d love to chat."
It’s hilarious, really. The same people who wouldn't give me the time of day a month ago are now practically tripping over themselves to compliment my dress. I handle them with a cool detachment that I know drives them crazy. I’m not the girl who tried too hard anymore.
I’m the woman who doesn’t have to try at all.
Then, the air changes.
It turns sour.
Ryder emerges from the crowd near the bar.
He looks like a wreck. His suit hangs off his frame, his skin is gray, and his eyes are bloodshot and wild. He spots us, and for a second, he looks like he’s seeing a ghost. His gaze drops to the white dress. To the ring. To Gabriel’s hand on my waist.
He stumbles over, shoving past a waiter.
"What the fuck is this?" he slurs, stopping a couple of feet away.
The nearby chatter dies instantly when the vultures smell blood.
Gabriel’s hand slides onto my stomach and he splays his fingers right over our baby. It’s reassuring. "Watch your fucking mouth," Gabriel warns, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Show some respect."
Ryder lets out a harsh, broken laugh. He points a shaking finger at me. "Respect? For her? She’s trash from Mulberry, Dad. She’s a charity case I got bored of. What are you doing with her? Playing savior?"
"Actually," I say, stepping forward before Gabriel can end him right here on the high end carpet. "He's playing husband."
Ryder’s mouth falls open. "What?"
"Husband," I repeat, the word tasting like sugar and vengeance.
The color drains from his face so fast I think he might actually pass out.