Chapter 9 #3
Well, that's annoying. Months of hard work, reduced to a snigger and a cynical laugh. Oh well. If I deliver, no one will care.
The door opens. "Honey, I'm ho—" Ashley's voice cuts off in a squeak.
Crap. I completely forgot she'd be home.
I'm supposed to tell her why I'm moving out—but the NDA forbids it. Ashley isn't just anyone, though. She'll know something's up. I'll have to improvise.
The air in the living room is thick. Grayson's lounging on the couch, and Ashley's staring at him like he's a ghost.
"Ash?"
She spins around, smiling tightly. "Hey, roomie. You didn't tell me we'd have company." Her eyes scream WTF?
"Yeah, sorry about that. Grayson, this is Ashley. Ashley, Grayson."
Grayson nods politely. "Nice to meet you," she says.
"Ashley, I need to take off for a few months."
"Take off? Where?"
"I'm going to live with Grayson."
Her eyes nearly pop out. "Because…"
"We'll be working together," Grayson cuts in smoothly. "On a confidential project. She'll need to live with me to carry it out properly."
Ashley frowns, clearly unconvinced.
I glance at him. God, he's an even worse liar than I am.
"Okay…" she says slowly, darting between us. "You're serious? You're moving out?"
"Sort of," I reply. "Just for a short while. It's vital for this project. I'll still pay rent and drop in sometimes. It's only temporary—six months tops."
Ash nods but still looks lost—and a little sad. "This is so weird."
"Isn't it?" I give her a tight smile, then glare at Grayson, who only smirks. "I'll finish packing."
"I'll go with you," Ashley says.
She follows me into my room, firing off questions about Grayson and this mysterious "project." I keep repeating that it's secret and related to the showcase. She hates it when I keep things from her, but she still hugs me before I leave.
"Come visit, okay?" she says.
"I will." I kiss her cheek, managing not to cry.
Outside, the stretch limo waits. The driver hurries to open the trunk, lifting my bags with silent efficiency before opening the door for us.
"Thank you," I say, climbing in.
I'm not paying much attention to where we're going—until I look up and see Saks Fifth Avenue.
"You've got to be kidding me."
The driver opens my door. I turn to Grayson with a glare. He meets it with a smirk. The bastard's taking me clothes shopping anyway.
Inside, the moment we step through the doors, the floor director practically materializes.
"Mr. Wolfe, welcome back," she says warmly. "We've prepared the Fifth Avenue suite for you. Madeleine, your personal shopper, will be delighted to assist."
Yeah, I bet she will.
Everything happens in a blur. One minute I'm walking, the next I'm seated in a lavish private suite with champagne in front of me.
Madeleine is tall, elegant, and terrifyingly efficient.
She listens as Grayson outlines his "requirements" in a low voice before disappearing.
Moments later, she's back, followed by attendants pushing racks of clothes—then more racks after those.
Dresses, skirts, blouses, jackets, coats, sweaters, trousers, shoes—everything imaginable.
It's dizzying just to watch. Grayson sits forward, assessing each item with a curt nod or dismissive shake of his head.
Then Madeleine turns her radiant smile on me. "Come and try these on, dear." She takes my hand like we're old friends, sweeping me toward an enormous fitting room lined with mirrors and another waiting flute of champagne.
Apparently they've learned that every glass poured adds a few thousand to the total.
Before I know it, I'm trying on outfit after outfit, Madeleine and her staff hovering with practiced enthusiasm.
Every time I think we're done, another round appears—this time shoes, handbags, scarves, gloves, hats.
By the end I'm exhausted and vaguely dizzy, half from champagne, half from sticker shock.
I dread to think what the final bill will be.
Finally, a tall, well-dressed man knocks discreetly and steps inside. Behind him, several assistants carry in wooden trays. His name is Manuel and apparently, he's Saks' top jewelry expert consultant, here to help Grayson choose an engagement ring.
After much deliberation — holding one ring up to the light, dismissing another — Grayson settles on a piece that makes the others look gaudy.
It's deceptively simple: a flawless, round brilliant three-carat solitaire diamond, no halo or embellishment, set in a slender platinum band.
The stone is so clear it seems to swallow the light. The setting is pure elegance.
Despite myself, I have to admit—it's stunning.
I happen to glimpse the price as Manuel writes it down. $273,000. My God. You could buy a whole apartment for that... well, a co-op anyway.
Grayson signs an invoice with what looks like a mile-long itemized list, and Madeleine and her team begin carting packages out to the waiting limo. When we finally step back onto Fifth Avenue, the evening light feels unreal. I have no idea what just happened—or how much money he actually spent.
We arrive at his apartment on Central Park West and ride up in silence.
By the time the elevator doors close, I can't hold it in anymore. It's the first moment we've been alone since the spree began, and I finally get to give him a piece of my mind.
"It's weird how you dragged me along when my presence wasn't even needed."
He glances over, amused. "What do you mean?"
"You know exactly what I mean."
His eyes glint with mischief. "I wanted to see in person how everything looked on you."
Only then do I realize how close we're standing—just the two of us, sealed inside this small metal box. His scent—cedar, spice, heat—fills the air. The thought makes my pulse quicken.
"Well, congratulations," I mutter. "You saw. For the first and last time. I'm not wearing any of it."
"We'll see," he says lightly.
The fact that he's so amused only fuels my anger. I square my shoulders. "I'm serious. I know control is your thing, but I'm not the type to be managed. Got it?"
His gaze drops to my lips. Slowly, deliberately, he reaches out, his hand brushing the side of my neck. When his eyes meet mine again, they burn with dark intensity.
"I'll do whatever the fuck I want, princess," he murmurs—then he drags my lips to his.