Chapter 11 Dress Code Billionaire
DRESS CODE: BILLIONAIRE
SAGE
The one I never wore.
Because Derek dumped me two days before.
The October light pouring through my window turns everything honey-gold, like I’m living inside a movie montage where the emotionally exhausted heroine tries to rally.
Except this isn’t a movie.
It’s real life. With goats. And jazz-induced madness.
“You can do this,” I tell my reflection. “It’s just a gala. With Luke. Who you kissed. And grinded on. And then agreed to a business non-date with. No big deal.”
From downstairs, Kenny G continues his psychological assault.
I think he’s up to "Songbird" now, which Mrs. Henderson is tangoing to—badly—based on the rhythmic stomping.
I’m reaching for the scissors to cut the tags off the dress when I hear it.
Harper’s BMW crunches up the gravel drive. A beat later, Claire’s minivan pulls in behind it.
No.
No, no, no.
A full Winters sister ambush.
They have the spare key. I have thirty seconds.
Maybe less.
I yank the dress over my head and immediately get caught in the zipper.
I’m hopping on one foot, tangled in green silk, when the door bursts open.
“Surprise!” Claire sings, only to stop in her tracks. “Oh no. Honey, are you being attacked by couture?”
“Nope. This is just…interpretive dance," I say through the fabric currently wrapped around my head. "Very avant-garde."
“She’s stuck,” Harper says, pushing in behind her, all long limbs and sharp lawyer eyes under her auburn bob, assessing the situation like she’s about to file a restraining order against my wardrobe.
"No." I wiggle unsuccessfully. "Maybe." I try to smooth the silky material, trying not to think about the last time I wore something this nice. "What are you two doing here?"
"Can't we visit our sister?" Harper asks, but she's already rifling through my jewelry box.
"On a Thursday? When you both have jobs?"
"I took the afternoon off from one of my designs,” Claire says, which is suspicious because she never takes time off. "And Harper had a deposition cancel."
They're both avoiding eye contact, which means—
"Oh god, what happened? Is Dad okay? Mom?"
"Everyone's fine," Harper assures me, holding up a pair of earrings. "These. Definitely these."
"Then why—"
"Can't we just want to see you?" Claire asks, glowing and visibly pregnant in a cozy knit dress, gasps. “You’re wearing that? Tonight?”
“I have an…event. And it’s either this or a butter-stained apron.”
With a sigh only sisters can manage, together, they work me free from my self-imposed silk prison and smooth the dress into place.
And for a second—I feel stunning.
The emerald clings in all the right ways, hugging curves I usually hide under cardigans.
It makes my green eyes look impossibly bright and my freckled skin look even warmer.
“Holy Hell,” Claire breathes, her graphic design artist’s eye already tearing up. “You look like a painting.”
“You look like revenge,” Harper says, holding up a necklace, which I take it. “And I mean that as the highest possible compliment.”
“Thanks,” I breathe out. “I really appreciate you guys—“ I blink, stopping in my tracks. “Okay, what the hell is going on?”
Claire frowns. “Excuse me?”
“The last time you two came over out of the blue to ‘help me’ out, my prom date had mono and was stuck at home after kissing Jessica Fletcher.” I hold up a hand. “Now, before you even thinking about denying that something’s wrong…Don’t. What aren’t you telling me?”
Claire hesitates.
“Claire Marie Winters-Hill,” I warn.
She cracks. “Derek got engaged.”
The room tilts. Just a little. But enough.
“To Erica,” Harper adds. “Instagram is doing its best to make it a national holiday.”
I swallow. Then nod. “Good for them. I hope their joint foot-content empire flourishes.”
They go still.
“I’m fine,” I say before they can pity me. “Busy, actually. Goat tango. Jazz mutiny. That kind of thing.”
“Sage,” Claire starts, but there’s a knock.
Mira’s voice floats in through the closed door. “Sage? Mr. Sterling is here. He fixed the jazz... but Mrs. Henderson is now slow dancing with Buttercup.”
My sisters exchange a look that I choose to ignore.
"Tell him I'll be right down."
Mira disappears, and Harper pounces. "Mr. Sterling? As in Luke Sterling? As in the billionaire you hacked?"
"Allegedly hacked."
"As in the man you kissed last night?" Claire adds.
I freeze in the middle of applying lipstick. "How did you—"
"You have beard burn on your neck," Harper points out. "And you just confirmed it."
"I hate you both."
"You love us," Claire corrects, then squeals. "Oh my god, we have to meet him! Is he taking you somewhere? Is this a date?"
"It's a business non-date to a hospital gala."
"A what now?" Harper asks.
"We're attending the same event. For efficiency. And business discussions."
"In that dress?"
"It's a professional dress!"
"It's a 'bend me over your desk' dress," Harper says with a smug smile. “But at least you look good. You’ll want to wear these earrings, too.” She holds up the dangly ones that sparkle in candlelight. “Total neck elongation. He’ll drool.”
“I’m not trying to make him drool.”
“Tell that to your nipples. They’re practically saluting.”
“Harper Elizabeth!”
“What? I’m just saying—”
“Can we not talk about my boobs?”
As for Claire, she’s already at my closet, pulling out shoes. "You can't wear those boots you mentioned. Not with that dress."
"Buttercup ate my good heels."
"Of course she did." She holds up a pair of strappy sandals I forgot I owned. "These. They make your legs look amazing."
"I can't walk in those."
"You can lean on your business non-date," Harper suggests.
Twenty minutes of primping later—during which my sisters attack me with curling irons, five different lip glosses, and enough hairspray to damage the ozone—we descend the stairs.
And by the time the lobby comes into view, I stop breathing.
Because Luke Sterling is just standing there.
And he’s in a tuxedo.
Not just any tuxedo.
The tuxedo.
Midnight black. Perfectly tailored. Collar crisp. Cufflinks gleaming.
Dark hair freshly styled but slightly unruly, like he ran a hand through it before coming inside.
His sharp jaw flexes when he adjusts the button on his jacket, and his glacier-blue eyes—sans glasses—flick up—
And land on me.
He's fixed the smooth jazz, apparently, because blessed silence fills the space. Mrs. Henderson is nowhere to be seen, though Buttercup is sitting at his feet, staring up at him with what can only be described as adoration.
"Even the goat's smitten," Claire whispers.
Luke looks up as we approach, and something flickers across his face. His eyes track down the dress, then back up, and his Adam's apple bobs once.
"Sage. You look..." He clears his throat. "Professional."
"Very professional," I agree, trying not to notice how the tuxedo fits him in ways that should be illegal. "You fixed the music."
"Simple coding error. Someone had activated the 'Romance Enhancement' protocol."
"Romance enhancement?" Harper asks innocently. "How interesting."
"Luke, these are my sisters. Harper and Claire. Sisters, this is Luke Sterling, my..." I pause. What is he exactly? My boss? Supervisor? Sponsor? “Business partner."
"Business partner," Harper repeats, shaking his hand with her lawyer grip. "Right."
"So nice to meet you," Claire gushes. "We've heard so much about you."
"You have?"
"No," I say quickly. "They haven't. They're leaving."
"We could stay," Harper offers. "Make sure the inn's okay while you're gone."
"Mira's here."
"But what if something happens?" Claire's eyes are too innocent. "What if Derek stops by?"
I go rigid. Luke notices.
"Derek?" he asks.
"No one," I say.
"Her ex," Harper offers with venom. "Just got engaged. To a child."
"She's twenty-two," I correct.
"Basically a child," Claire insists.
"Congratulations," Luke says carefully, watching my face.
"It's fine. I'm fine. Everything's fine." I grab my clutch—another relic from my Seattle life. "We should go. Don't want to be late for the... efficiency."
"Right. The efficiency." He offers his arm, and I take it, trying not to notice how solid he feels. "It was nice meeting you both."
"Oh, we'll see you again," Harper says ominously.
"Soon," Claire adds.
"Very soon," they say in unison.
I drag Luke toward the door before they can threaten him further.
The October evening is crisp, and his driver is waiting with the car door open.
"Your sisters are..." Luke pauses, helping me navigate the gravel in my impractical heels. "Intense."
"They're protective. And possibly insane." I slide into the car, the leather seats soft against my skin. "I'm sorry about the ambush."
He gets in beside me, and suddenly the spacious backseat feels intimate. "They seem to think this Derek person might be an issue."
"He's not." I focus on arranging my skirt. "He's engaged. To someone flexible. Everything's fine."
"You said 'fine' four times in the last two minutes."
"I'm very fine."
"Of course." He adjusts his cufflinks. "For what it's worth, he's an idiot."
"You don't even know him."
"I know he let you go." He looks at me then, those blue eyes serious. "That tells me everything I need to know about his judgment."
"That's... thank you."
"Also, twenty-two is basically a child."
"Right?" I laugh despite everything. "She still had a teddy bear collection when they started dating."
"That's disturbing."
"Her Instagram handle was FootPrincess2000."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"She sold pictures of her feet online. Before Derek. During Derek too, probably."
Luke is staring at me. "Your ex left you for someone who sells foot photography?"
"Sold. Past tense. She's management now."
"That's..." He shakes his head. "I don't have words for what that is."
"Flexible?"
"Sage."
"Sorry. I process trauma through inappropriate humor."
"Is it difficult?” His voice is gentle now. "Seeing his engagement announcement?"
I consider lying, but something about the darkness of the car and the warmth of his presence makes honesty easier. "It's... complicated. I don't want him back. God, no. But seeing him move on so publicly, so quickly, while I'm..."
"While you're what?"
"Wearing a three-year-old dress to a fake date while my inn falls apart around me."
"Business non-date," he corrects. "And your inn is not falling apart. Bookings are up seventeen percent this week."
"You calculated my booking percentage?"
"I calculate everything." He pauses. "And this isn't fake."
"No?"
"No." His hand finds mine in the darkness. “I’m not exactly sure what this non-date is, but it's not fake."
I look down at our joined hands, his thumb tracing small circles on my skin. "Luke?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For coming tonight. For fixing my music. For..." I motion. "This."
"You're welcome." He squeezes my hand.
We're still holding hands when the car pulls up to the Four Seasons.
The hotel is lit up like a jewel box, and valets rush to open our door.
"Ready?" Luke asks.
"As I'll ever be."
He helps me out of the car, and I manage not to trip over my own feet, which feels like a victory.
The Seattle skyline glitters behind us, and the brisk autumn air carries the scent of rain—maybe even snow—as the temperature drops.
I smooth my dress one more time, Luke's hand warm on the small of my back as he guides me toward the entrance.
"You really do look beautiful," he says quietly, just for me.
"Careful," I tease, trying to calm my racing heart. "That sounds dangerously close to non-business conversation."
"I'm complimenting your professional appearance."
"Of course you are."
"Your very professional shoulders."
"Luke."
"And extremely business-appropriate collarbones."
I'm laughing now, the last of my nervousness about Derek fading away. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm efficient," he corrects, his normally glacier-like eyes warm. "I'm efficiently noticing all your professional attributes at once."
We're almost to the door when I see the crowd of attendees just inside the gleaming lobby.
Seattle's elite. All designer gowns and charity smiles.
I take a breath, squaring my shoulders.
"Ready to be aggressively efficient?" Luke asks.
"The most efficient," I confirm.
And then I see him.
Derek.
Standing just inside the entrance in a tuxedo that Erica probably picked out, his arm around a woman in a dress that costs more than my monthly mortgage.
His hair is perfectly styled in that way I used to find attractive but now looks like he stuck his finger in a socket.
He's laughing at something the mayor's wife is saying, that practiced laugh he uses at networking events.
The one that sounds like success and smells like betrayal.
My feet stop moving so suddenly that Luke has to catch my elbow to keep me steady.
"Sage?" His voice sounds very far away. "What's wrong?"
But I can't answer.
Because Derek is turning, his scan of the room casual until his eyes land on me. His expression shifts from polite interest to shock to something that might be regret but is probably just gas.
And standing next to him, in a dress that definitely came from the children's section, is Erica.
FootPrincess2000 herself.
Her left hand sports a diamond the size of a small planet, and she's clutching Derek's arm like he might float away.
Which, given his history, is probably smart.
"Is that—?" Luke starts to ask.
But Derek is already moving toward us, dragging Erica along like a designer handbag.
"Sage?" Derek's voice hasn't changed—still that calculated tone that made me feel like a business acquisition rather than a fiancée. "What are you doing here?"
My mouth opens, but no words come out.
Fuck. I would have been better stuck in the inn with a bleating goat and Kenny G, after all.
I paste on a smile, my heart dropping into my stomach as I face the man who nearly broke me.