Chapter 9
In a desperate attempt to distract myself, I grab Abigail’s credit card and start making some very necessary appointments. She practically shoved it in my face, insisting I use it, so who am I to deny her generosity?
I start with the essentials: haircut, nails, a facial that practically erased my stress, and yes, I even managed to squeeze in a much-needed bikini wax. By the end of the afternoon, I feel smoother, shinier, and more put-together than I have in months.
There’s this new energy in me, a quiet kind of confidence that adds a little extra sway to my hips as I walk back to the car.
Yeah. I look good.
Just as I slide into the driver’s seat, my phone buzzes.
Dylan.
Finally.
I stare at the screen a second too long.
I’d called him earlier, but maybe I was being a little dramatic now that I think about it.
In my defense, it was right after Calvin had cornered me against the piano and said things that lit my body on fire.
So, I called. I wanted him, no, I needed him, to save me from doing something unforgivable.
“Hey, sorry I missed your call. I was having breakfast with the fam,” Dylan says, his voice warm and easy, familiar in a way that settles something in me.
“Hi. Yeah, no worries… I just wanted to check in. See how you’re doing,” I say as I start the engine, letting the sunlight pour in through the windshield and wrap around me like a weighted blanket.
“What’s wrong? What do you need?” he asks, that teasing edge in his tone both comforting and irritating.
“Can you be here tomorrow?” The words spill out before I can stop them. I already know the answer.
“What? No, I don’t have money for that. And I’m not about to drive from Ohio to Boston,” he says, and just like that, my heart sinks a little.
Dylan’s the only guy I sleep with, my one consistent person.
I don’t do hookups, never have. I trust him.
That’s why I need him now. To keep me grounded…
to keep me from doing something reckless and irreversible.
“What if I paid for your ticket?” I ask, the desperation bleeding through despite my best efforts to stay cool. “You come, we hang out, I show you around… what do you say?”
There’s a pause. Then, smug and cocky: “Need me that bad, huh?”
I roll my eyes, my grip tightening on the steering wheel. “Are you coming or not?”
“Tell me how much you need me first…”
“You know what? Never mind.” I exhale, already regretting this whole conversation.
He laughs softly on the other end. “Alright, alright. Don’t get all sensitive. If you’re buying the ticket, I’ll come. No panic necessary.”
A smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it. “Really?”
“Yeah. Just send me the details,” he says. “I’ll make it happen.”
“Okay,” I say, a little breathless. “Thanks, Dylan. Really.”
“Anytime.”
“Talk soon,” I murmur and hang up.
I sit there for a beat, the phone still in my hand, letting the relief settle over me.
Having Dylan here might be exactly what I need.
Something solid and familiar. A reminder of who I am and what I don’t want to become.
Maybe with him around, I can resist the gravitational pull of Calvin.
Maybe I can remember what I stand to lose if I give in to something that was never supposed to happen.
One weekend. That’s all I need. Just enough time to get my head back on straight.
Returning to the penthouse, the silence is suffocating. No sign of Calvin. He left hours ago after what happened by the piano, after he touched me like he owned every part of me. I haven’t seen him since.
He’s probably holed up in some marble boardroom being important, while I’ve been hiding in my room, booking Dylan’s flight.
I used Abigail’s card, because fuck it, and found the earliest ticket I could. Dylan will land tomorrow at ten. I just have to make it through the night without completely unraveling.
Just as the confirmation email lands in my inbox, there’s a knock at the door. My heart lurches.
“Blair. It’s me. May I come in?”
Calvin’s voice slides under the door like smoke, velvety and controlled, but edged with something sharp. Possessive. My stomach tightens.
He’s the last person I want to see right now. Not in this room that suddenly feels smaller than it is. I freeze, torn between the instinct to run and the pull I can’t seem to resist.
But my feet move anyway, traitorous, like they’ve always answered to him.
I crack the door just enough to meet his gaze and force a smile that feels as fake as it looks. “Hi,” I say, voice thinner than I’d like.
He isn’t in his usual armor, no pressed suit or polished cufflinks.
Just tailored black trousers and a charcoal cashmere sweater that fits him like it was sewn into place, an understated, but obscenely expensive, Audemars Piguet on his wrist. His beard is neatly trimmed, jaw sharp.
He smells like woodsmoke, winter air, and something expensive I can’t name.
His eyes drag over me with an intensity that feels like a touch. Then he lifts a matte black shopping bag, one of those heavy, luxurious kinds with thick ribbon handles.
“Get dressed.”
I blink. “What?”
“Meet me by the elevator. You have ten minutes.”
His tone is casual, cool, even polite, but the undercurrent is unmistakable. It’s a command, not a request. Then, just like that, he turns and disappears down the hall, leaving the scent of dominance in his wake.
I stand there, barefoot and confused as fuck, the weight of the bag heavy in my hands.
What the hell just happened?
I glance down at the bag, curiosity gnawing at me despite every warning in my head. Against better judgment, I peel apart the sleek leather handles and peek inside. My breath catches.
Oh my God.
Slowly, I pull out each item, my pulse speeding with every reveal. First, a strapless Oscar de la Renta minidress, delicate sheer mesh at the back dotted with shimmering dandelion details that sparkle like tiny stars. It’s breathtaking, the kind of dress I’ve only ever dreamed of wearing.
Next, a pair of Classic Kate-style stilettos with pointed toes sharp enough to cut glass, and probably hearts. My fingers trail along the glossy leather, feeling the undeniable weight of luxury.
Then, jewelry. A diamond necklace and matching bracelet, catching the dim light, scattering tiny prisms around the room. My heart stutters. They’re the perfect finishing touch.
At the bottom, a small Hermès Birkin Sellier 25 rests like a secret treasure. Iconic, impeccably crafted. An accessory people would kill to own.
Calvin has exquisite taste.
The gesture presses down on me, heavy and suffocating. Anger, intrigue, and confusion all collide inside me. Should I be furious at his audacity? Or… flattered?
I know I shouldn’t go. I should barricade myself in my room and shut the door on whatever game he’s playing. But a small, reckless part of me weakens. What is this? Why the grand show? He’s engaged to my sister, for God’s sake.
Then again, hasn’t everything about this mess been blurred from the start? I’ve been fighting my attraction to him since day one, and with Dylan coming tomorrow, maybe this is just one last test. One last challenge to my resolve.
Sighing, I drop the bag on the bed, the dress staring up like a dare. My fingers twitch. Ten minutes, he said.
Damn him.
Frustrated, I fling the bag onto the floor. I try to focus on Dylan’s impending visit, on Abigail, but the pull won’t quit. The ache to defy my own conscience just this once claws at me.
“Ugh!” I exclaim, pacing the room, torn between what I know is right and what my body craves. Glancing at the clock, I freeze. Four minutes left.
“Fuck.”
I fumble with the dress, pulling it over my head in a rush.
Thank God for my self-care day. No time for makeup, but at least I’m fresh.
I struggle to reach the zipper at the back, then decide to just leave it.
I slip on the heels and fasten the jewelry.
Grabbing the Birkin, I bolt toward the elevator.
I’m walking a dangerous line, and the first step’s already behind me.
Calvin’s waiting, leaning casually against the wall, a knowing smile plays on his lips. The kind that makes me want to slap it off… or kiss it.
“You could’ve given me more time, you know,” I say, forcing a scowl even though my heart is thundering.
He shrugs, unbothered. “I could’ve.” His voice is smooth, almost bored, but there’s an undercurrent to it, dark and charged. “Turn around.”
I cross my arms. “Didn’t your mother teach you how to say please? Or do you just get off on bossing people around?”
His gaze sharpens, locking onto mine like a loaded weapon. And then nothing. No smirk, no reply. Just that unblinking, quiet dominance.
I roll my eyes, heat rising up my cheeks, and with a huff, I turn around.
He steps closer, and the air between us shifts. His presence wraps around me like a second skin, and even in heels, I feel dwarfed by him. The heat of his body seeps into mine, and when his hips brush against my lower back, I go still. The unmistakable press of him sends a flush up my neck.
He doesn’t touch me right away.
Instead, he lingers, letting the anticipation stretch and coil.
Then, finally, his fingers find the small of my back, brushing against my skin where the dress gapes slightly. It’s the lightest touch, barely there, but it shoots straight through me. He traces the path of the zipper like he’s mapping out my undoing.
He leans in, and the warmth of his breath ghosts across my neck. When his lips graze my earlobe featherlight, I nearly flinch, but not from fear. From need.
“I boss you around because we both know you love it,” he murmurs, voice thick and smooth, like velvet dragged slowly across bare skin.
The zipper moves inch by inch, each soft click an echo of surrender.
I press my thighs together instinctively, trying to quiet the ache, the want. But it’s no use. He’s too close, too aware.
“I don’t…” My voice falters, barely a whisper. “I don’t like it.”