Chapter 13
thirteen
ELLIOTT
The minute we got back in the car, I could practically see the gears turning in her head. Her eyes were darting, her fingers twitching—the telltale signs of a Vanessa Miranda brainstorm. She asked for a piece of paper, a napkin, anything.
I reached over her, intentionally invading her personal space to open the glove box, and pulled out a small notepad.
I smacked her lightly on the head with it before handing it over.
She feigned a look of deep hurt, then demanded a pen.
I dug a fountain pen out of the door pocket—a piece of craftsmanship that cost more than most people’s one month rent.
She pulled the cap off and immediately began inspecting the tip. It was sharp enough to draw blood.
“Don’t even think about it, hellion,” I warned.
She pursed her lips, that sharp mind of hers already weighing the options. “I would never stab you in this car. It’s too pretty.”
“Good to know you have boundaries.” I let the engine idle, making no move to shift into gear. I just watched her.
She started sketching with a feverish intensity.
I’d seen her like this a thousand times when we were younger, but lately, that spark had seemed extinguished.
Watching it roar back to life in the passenger seat of my car felt like witnessing a miracle.
I didn't drive off; I didn't want to break her flow.
She looked so much like her old self in that moment—the girl who used to sketch for hours with my mom—completely untethered from the world, existing only in the lines she was creating.
When she finally finished, she jotted a few notes in the margins and looked up. The joy on her face was radiant—crackling, restless, and entirely too infectious. I looked away quickly, shifting the car into gear before she could see how much that look affected me.
By the time I pulled into the driveway of my house—the one hidden behind the dense tree line in the hills—she was practically vibrating.
I saw her scanning the exterior, likely expecting some cold, glass-and-steel monstrosity.
Instead, she found a home. Warm, modern, but lived-in.
I had the penthouse for when I needed to stay in the city, but this—this was my true home.
At the front door, I hesitated. I could hear the steady tick, tick, tick of nails on the hardwood inside.
A look of realization comes over her face as she listens to the sounds..“YOU DIDN’T TELL ME YOU HAVE A DOG!” she shrieked.
I crossed my arms, physically blocking the entrance. I needed to establish my territory before she colonized my entire life. “Okay. Ground rules.”
“Ground rules?!” She tried to peek past my shoulder.
“You’re not to take my dog. That is all.”
She raised her brows, a challenge glinting in her eyes. “Fifty bucks says he’ll jump into my bag when I leave. Animals love me. It’s my gift. What’s his or her name?”
She pushed past me before I could answer.
“Steve,” I muttered.
“STEVE!” She squealed.
The bark that erupted from the foyer sounded like a greeting for a long-lost queen.
I stepped inside just in time to see Steve—my French bulldog, who usually has the dignity of a Victorian gentleman—wagging his entire body.
Vanessa dropped to her knees, and the traitor immediately began licking her face, acting like they’d been soulmates in a past life.
“Traitor,” I breathed.
Vanessa didn't even hear me. She was whispering into the dog’s ear about saving him from "Satan."
“Please,” I huffed, walking toward the kitchen. “That dog is living the dream. Hundred-dollar food, a high-end dog bed. He even has his own room.”
She snapped her head up, her eyes wide. “He has his own room?!”
“Yes.”
“C’mon. I’ll show you.”
I led the way, Steve bolting down the hall ahead of us. I watched her take in the house—the floor-to-ceiling windows, the marble island, the sunlight. She was so distracted she walked straight into my back. I felt the impact all the way down to my feet, but I kept my voice steady.
“Spare rooms. Bathroom. And—Steve’s room.”
I pushed the door open to the dog’s suite, complete with his bone-printed teepee and his own TV.
“Even your dog’s a spaz,” she laughed. Then she looked at me, her expression turning surprisingly soft. “You know what’s funny? If you’d just told me you needed a capsule collection for Steve to keep living like a king, I would’ve said yes. No elaborate trap necessary.”
“Easier, sure,” I murmured, meeting her eyes. “But less fun.”
I showed her the master bath and my own bedroom, enduring her "teenage boy" jokes and her “is this where the magic happens" winks with as much stoicism as I could muster. Then, I opened the door to her room.
“Your room,” I said.
“Jail cell,” she countered, though I saw her eyes linger on the king-sized bed.
“Any inmate would kill for digs like this.”
The final stop was the studio. Since the auction I’d spent every minute perfecting this room.
I’d converted my office, bringing in mannequins, sketchpads, and every swatch of fabric I could source.
I’d even bought an iPad and had the designers at Ever After tell me which apps they used, just so she’d have every advantage.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice small. “This is perfect. It’s exactly what I’d design for myself if I had the choice, even the light…” she trailed off.
I felt a surge of pride, but I pushed it down. I pointed to a small box on the desk. “I found that when I was packing. Figured I’d give it to you. If you don’t want it, I can put it in storage.”
She opened it. Inside sat my mother’s locket.
I watched her throat close up. I’d had that locket for twelve years. I’d kept it in my safe, a relic of a time when the world made sense. Giving it to her felt like handing over a piece of my own heart, but I kept my face blank, focused on my phone.
“Okay, so ten dresses, huh?” she asked, her voice thick with suppressed emotion.
“Yeah. You can do this, Vanessa.”
“What’s this top-secret project? Has to be if I’m involved off the books.”
“Just focus on the dresses,” I said, shutting her out. I couldn't tell her the truth yet—that these dresses weren't just a project. They were her way back.
“If I finish early, do I get parole?”
I finally looked up, meeting that defiant, beautiful gaze.
“Thirty days, Ness. No matter what.”