11. Celeste
Chapter 11
Celeste
A shrilling sound pierces through my brain. What the fuck is that? I breathe to five counts, finishing my hamstring stretch. Yesterday’s rehearsal was killer.
It’s like Leon wanted to punish us for the rebellion.
And my understudy has been eager to take over, making everything more awkward.
To say that the atmosphere in the group has changed is an understatement. Perhaps some of my colleagues realized how much they put in jeopardy to save me.
And most of them probably regretted it. I hope to God Dominic Cressard can file all the paperwork and get me my work permit soon.
The screeching startles me again. The weird thing is, it’s coming from my apartment. Did someone change my ringtone yesterday? Is one of the backup dancers pranking me?
My phone lies on my bed, its screen black. I look around, feeling like an idiot. Is it the front door?
I pick up the intercom receiver for the first time since I moved in. It’s never worked. I guess the entrance truly is fixed.
“Hello?”
“Delivery.”
“I didn’t order anything.”
“Are you Celeste Delacroix?”
This makes no sense.
“Yes.” I don’t move.
Should I let a stranger into the building? Ironically, I considered this building perfectly safe until an unknown benefactor improved its security.
Don’t be ridiculous, Celeste. I chuckle at myself. “Come on in.”
A minute later, I’m signing for a large white box. “Are you sure this is for me?” I glance at the bed where I put the package.
The delivery guy looks at me, his face impassive. “Have a nice day.”
Closing the door, I stay rooted to the spot. Not that I’m expecting someone has sent me a bomb. Those don’t arrive in soft boxes lined with silk on the outside.
Approaching my bed, I trace my fingers on the glossy, cushy exterior. The lid is attached with ribbons on each side—not heavy-duty tape, freaking velvet ribbons.
I don’t know who sent me the gift, but what I know is I’ve never in my life gotten something this expensive. Because the packaging itself is the epitome of luxury.
My hands shake with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety as I lift the lid and the softest golden tissue paper from out of the box.
I gasp.
And now I’m really hoping this is not a mistake, because I’m in love with the exquisite cream-colored dress inside it before I even pick it up.
Because it looks wonderful still folded. When I finally lift the dress, I almost drop it, fearing I’ll soil the delicate silk, cold and smooth under my touch.
All my clothes are elegant and of high quality, mostly acquired in thrift stores after hours of searching. This dress is next-level.
I hold it against my body and turn to the mirror on my door. It’s a true design masterpiece and, as shallow as it may seem, it makes my heart flutter.
The deep V neckline adds a touch of daring allure, beautifully complementing the modest long sleeves that end in a chic, slight puff at the wrists.
The skirt, oh, the skirt! It flares out in a perfect A-line that cascades in soft, smooth folds. It’s one of those pieces that makes a woman feel powerful and feminine.
The number on the label says sixteen. It’s my size. Only then, I remember to check for a card in the box.
We need wedding pictures.
The beauty of the dress almost wanes with the pang of disappointment. He didn’t even sign the card. But he efficiently organized a dress for me. Just to move on with it, I guess. It’s thoughtful, with a dash of insult.
I’ve half a mind to wrap the dress up and return it. I have nice clothes to wear for my fake wedding pictures.
I clutch the fabric to my cheek, savoring the smoothness. The girl in me who wants to hop into the dress grapples with the responsible woman who doesn’t want to accept the gift. And there is no way I can pay him back for this couture.
Sometimes I hate my pride. I place the dress on my bed and put the kettle on. A woman I used to dance with years ago traveled to the Sahara desert, and she taught me that the Bedouins drink tea when faced with a tough decision. Their tea ceremony lasts hours, so by the end, they sort out their thinking.
I make my tea and, leaning against the counter, admire the dress. I take a sip. While it’s been only minutes, not hours, I’m leaning toward wearing it. Keeping it.
Does it make him win?
But what’s the competition?
My phone pings, saving me from the circle of useless opinions in my head.
Saar
Did Cal get you a dress?
Me
How do you know?
Saar
He asked for your size, I hope you don’t mind that I gave it to him.
Me
I’m sure he knows by now I’m not size 2 (laugh emoji)
Saar
Silly. How is the dress?
I snap a picture and send it to her.
Saar
OMG, Celeste, that dress is you!!! (dancing emojis)
And therein lies my apprehension. A man who doesn’t even like me, who is sacrificing himself to appease his sister and take revenge on his father, has noticed me enough to know my style.
As I put on my wedding dress, a constant why swirls in my head.
“Look at each other, lovebirds.” The photographer, a woman in her fifties with short silver hair, beckons us together with her arm. “Groom, look your bride in the eyes and tell her how much you love her with your gaze.”
The ceremony was uneventful, witnessed by Dominic Cressard, and truly more of a formality. Somehow Caleb’s lawyer with his easygoing personality made the whole thing bearable.
I think I even managed to function properly, like a reasonable human being, despite my hammering heart, sweaty hands, and shallow breathing.
The entrance to the courthouse already put me on the verge of a panic attack, but luckily, the impersonal routine of exchanging vows happened so quickly that I was able to rush outside and breathe fresh air within ten minutes.
Dominic even got the marriage license expedited. That was great news, except it meant he left us to go file the green card and work permit application .
Caleb hasn’t said a word to me, other than the scripted part in front of the city clerk.
“What’s going on?” The photographer sighs. “The two of you look like you’re coming from a funeral, not your nuptials. Do you need to take a break?”
“No.” Caleb’s response is so urgent, the photographer jerks her head in surprise.
He snakes his arm around my waist and yanks me to him. With his finger, he lifts my chin. I meet his gaze.
“Let’s do this, black swan.”
“Only two years and three hundred sixty-three days, after all.”
He snorts. “That was a dick move.” He holds me tighter, grazing my cheek with his thumb.
I chuckle. “A rare moment of self-reflection. Why, Mr. van den Linden, have you forgotten to take your asshole medicine?”
“But you, Mrs. van den Linden, never skip your sassing serum.”
We grin at each other in a rare moment of… I don’t know what. Camaraderie? A temporary ceasefire?
My skin tingles under his touch as my heart looks for an emergency exit. Caleb’s gaze is on my face, but somehow, I feel it all over my body.
His Adam’s apple bobs, making me realize my mouth is too dry. I lick my lips, and his gaze drops to them. He leans in, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
The brush of his fingers as they linger on my skin sends shivers down my spine. What is happening right now? Are we faking for the pictures? Because it sure doesn’t feel like it.
And just like in Caleb’s living room the other night, my body is primed for this man after his lightest touch.
“You look amazing in that dress.” His tongue darts out to wet his lips.
It doesn’t seem like a calculated move, but it still feels like the best erotic performance.
The dress fits me like a glove, and yet I find myself jailed in it. It constricts more than my corset.
“You didn’t need to buy—”
Caleb puts his index finger on my mouth. “Hush, woman. Take a compliment like a good girl.”
My breath hitches. Jesus. “Thank you.” I don’t know how the words pass through my throat.
He smiles at me with that boyish grin that makes me want to take his hand and skip across town. Because while I haven’t had the privilege, I know Caleb knows how to have a good time.
“Who knew marrying you would make you blushing and obedient?” He winks.
I like my women a bit more blushing and less opinionated .
“It didn’t make me yours.”
Something dark passes across his face as his jaw ticks, but then he shocks me completely when his lips fuse with mine.
I’m caught so off-guard, I flail my arms in the air. The kiss is the right amount of soft and demanding. He’s claiming me with the kiss. It didn’t make me yours.
Despite the fact this is a ruse of a marriage.
Ignoring the reality of our less-than-amicable relationship.
Dismissing my protest.
Wait. I’m not protesting. I’m clutching his lapels, holding for dear life as he explores my mouth like it belongs to him.
Nobody’s ever kissed me like this. Kissing me like it’s a question of life and death. Like it’s an Olympic discipline he’s determined to master. Like he’s been training all his life to deliver this kiss.
And I open up and welcome it, like I’ve been groomed to be kissed by Caleb van den Linden.
Because no kiss has ever felt this disarming. This essential. This carnal.
His tongue glides expertly as he sucks, nips, bites, and practically fucks my mouth with his tongue. It’s a good thing he’s holding me because I don’t think my legs work anymore .
What works overtime is my heart—galloping like a spooked horse—and my lady parts—soaking my underwear.
God, I hope I charged my vibrator.
“I think I got it. That will be all.”
The photographer’s voice is like a jolt of electricity that snaps us apart. Frazzled, I turn, avoiding both people in the room. How did I forget about the camera?
With my thumb, I wipe the corners of my swollen lips, trying to compose myself. What has just happened?
Because I’m pretty sure I wasn’t the only one forgetting about the camera.
“Right. Thank you. We’ll need the pictures ASAP,” Caleb says, his voice official and businesslike, not shaking like mine would, if I could manage to find it.
When I finally gather my wits and turn back to the room, smoothing my skirt like it got all dirtied up by that kiss, I’m met with the photographer’s awkward smile.
It’s just the two of us. Frowning, I look around the studio and, with an unspoken question, at the woman with a lens in her hands.
She shrugs. “He left.”