Lielit
When he messaged me to be home by four p.m., I didn’t respond.
He called. I ignored it.
Then he sent his goon.
The man handed me his phone without looking at me, his gaze fixed on the wall behind my head.
Anji had clocked him all week and teased the poor bastard mercilessly every time she went in or out of the building. So when she wandered over and waved her hand in front of his face, he didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t acknowledge her.
“Just blink twice for help,” she whispered, leaning in close.
I put the phone to my ear and walked away from the pair.
“Yes, my liege,” I said dryly.
“Date night.”
“I’m aware,” I replied, “but why do I need to leave work early?”
I didn’t tell him it had taken me all week to catch up. Anji hadn’t just kept my business afloat—she’d mitigated some of the damage caused by Blaidd’s sabotage.
“There’s a gala event tonight,” he said. “It could help you network. You’ll need time to get ready and review the guest list.”
I stared at the guard’s phone for a moment.
Since when did he care?
There was more to this invitation than met the eye.
“Fine,” I said, and hung up.
When I turned to hand the phone back, the guard was standing exactly where I’d left him—now wearing a glossy cherry-red sheen on his lips.
“He didn’t protest,” Anji said in her defence, tossing the lip gloss into her top drawer.
I didn't say it because it would only encourage her, but the colour brightened him up.
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I was assaulted by a team of women the moment I stepped inside the house.
Blaidd did nothing to help—his satisfied smirk said it all.
The ringleader was a stylist named Natasha, who barked orders at everyone.
She reminded me of a crazy-eyed wedding planner.
All she needed was a headset to complete the look.
I was bathed, steamed, pressed, and lubricated with body lotion. When I finally lifted my head from the massage table, Natasha rolled in a rail full of dresses.
“I have a favourite, but apparently I have to give you a choice,” she muttered. “You’re the best thing I’ve had to work on all year.”
No pressure then.
She’s a little tense, but I like her, Bouda piped up.
Natasha stepped back as I stood.
“You won’t need much to enhance your eyes,” she said, scrutinising me. “Mm. Those lips and cheekbones are to die for.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off her green ones until she clapped her hands together.
“Get ready for the colour choice, ladies,” she announced, excitement reaching a crescendo.
I sighed as she ushered me toward the dresses.
There were so many colours, but only one glittered under the bedroom lighting. I touched the soft fabric, my fingertips grazing the tiny crystals stitched across the bodice and waist. The lower section was more sparsely embellished, designed to rest gently over my bump.
“I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” she said, plucking the dress from the rail.
“How did you know my size?” I asked as she draped it over her arm so I could inspect it properly.
“Mr Prothero provided me with your measurements, and I made sure there was allowance for your baby bump.”
After that, I did as I was told—and took her business card when she handed it to me.
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“Wow,” I whispered, glancing at Natasha.
She didn’t look like the same woman. A soft, tranquil expression had replaced her earlier intensity. This woman loved her vocation.
The hairstylist had hitched my hair to one side with twisted crochet braids, but I’d never seen it with so much volume, shine, and definition. Tight curls framed my face perfectly.
The makeup artist had a light hand, following Natasha’s instructions to highlight my cheekbones and lips. A wash of gold dusted my eyelids, paired with perfectly winged eyeliner. It matched the darkness of my eyes—and I loved it, because it reminded me of Bouda’s.
“Those are real diamonds on your dress,” Natasha whispered.
I gasped, my gaze dropping to the bodice.
The dress was gold—not brash or garish, but a deep, molten shade that looked poured rather than sewn.
The bodice was structured and close, moulded to my torso as if it had been designed with my body in mind, not the other way around.
Diamonds were scattered across it in deliberate patterns—dense at the waist and bust, thinning as they descended—each one catching the light and throwing it back in sharp, controlled flashes.
The neckline framed my collarbones and cleavage without apology.
My skin glowed against the warmth of the gold, the contrast making the gems look brighter, sharper.
Powerful. The fitted waist flared just enough to acknowledge my curves before the fabric softened, the skirt falling in lighter layers that skimmed over my bump rather than concealing it.
Nothing was hidden.
Nothing was exaggerated.
The diamonds grew sparser over the skirt, as if yielding to what lay beneath—my body, my children—allowing the fabric to drape instead of cling. It moved when I did, whispering rather than rustling, catching the light with every shift of my hips.
I stared at my reflection, one hand instinctively resting on my belly.
This was Blaidd’s carefully curated statement to the world.
Date night, my ass.
Natasha draped a matching thin gold scarf around my neck, letting the ends fall down my back. She clicked her fingers.
“Get her shoes on,” she snapped.
I shook my head, feeling my curls bounce. Natasha had arranged for the girls to use Her Glow products—only the eye patches and face mask were from another brand.
While Blaidd made his statement, I could use it to my company’s advantage—if he went through the guest list with me.
Natasha guided me into the chair, and when I tried to reach for the peep-toe shoes, she scolded me sharply.
“You’ll crease the dress.”
She leaned back, appraising her work.
“Mm. Keep my contact details handy—I’ll be helping you choose your wedding dress,” she said with a satisfied smile.
“Bold of you to assume there’ll be a wedding.”
“No one goes to this much effort for a short-lived entanglement,” she scoffed—just as the bedroom door opened.
Blaidd must have used another room to get ready. He’d gone full black-tie. His dark hair was carefully combed back, the white shirt almost blinding beneath the perfectly positioned bow tie. Another designer suit—one that screamed wealth and vanity.
But it worked for him.
“This isn’t very professional of me,” Natasha said, already lifting her phone, “but I need a picture of you both. You need to see the full effect.”
“Use mine,” Blaidd said, though his eyes never left me.
She took his phone, checked the lighting, then positioned us near the chaise longue.
I kept my breathing steady when the warmth of his hand settled at my waist.
Natasha snapped several photos, shifting angles and poses until I finally shot her a glare.
“Okay, okay,” she muttered, handing the phone back to Blaidd.
I caught a glimpse of the last few images as he swiped through them.
It surprised me.
I didn’t look like his prey.
I looked like his equal.
“I see what you mean,” Blaidd murmured as the girls began to leave the room.
“I’m always right,” Natasha said, reaching for the railing.
“Leave them,” Blaidd said without looking away from his phone.
Natasha winked at me as she left.
If only she knew the entire story.