10. Ivory
IVORY
A beauty team invades my suite like a well-rehearsed army, three women trailing clouds of perfume and hairspray, armed with rolling carts, makeup cases, and curling wands.
Their voices rise and fall in practiced cheerfulness as I sit in the portable salon chair, my knees pressed together beneath my hotel robe, my fingers wrapped around a mug of tea that’s gone cold.
Across the room, my mother paces, her phone an extension of her ear as she barks orders about flowers and press lists. She catches my eye, her lips mouthing “chin up” before she turns away, already onto the next crisis.
One of the stylists parts my hair; her fingers are skillful but impersonal.
She hums to herself, winding black strands around a hot iron.
Another meticulously brushes foundation over my cheeks and forehead, making my appearance unnoticeable with every layer.
My eyebrows are sharper, eyes darker, lips painted a color I’d never choose for myself.
I look expensive, older, but not like me.
If I had a choice, I would ask for a more minimal makeup look, to leave my hair down, and get rid of this sticky gloss from my mouth. But I don’t. The words stay trapped inside me, suppressed by years of training.
Be still, be quiet, let them work. Tonight is too important.
“Such a pretty face,” one coos, dabbing highlighter along my cheekbones. “Make sure you smile pretty for the cameras.”
Another secures jeweled pins in my hair, twisting curls into a tedious updo.
The weight of it pulling at my scalp. I nod when prompted, thank them when they finish, smile when my mother makes a quick inspection and gives a curt nod of approval.
There is no mirror for me to see, not that it would make a difference what I thought.
Besides, I don’t really care to see anyway.
The blue silk dress from the fitting lays across the bed, in its bag.
The same one that nearly suffocated me at the designer’s shop, stitched and hemmed until it hugged every inch of my body perfectly for tonight.
I slide into it with careful hands, feeling the familiar coolness of the fabric against my skin, the bodice tight but not suffocating this time, every seam a reminder of that day, of being decorated so I could impress my father’s world.
I smooth the skirt down over my hips, fingertips lingering at the place beneath my ribs where my breath catches.
The shoes I step into are too high and strappy.
They are beautiful but meant for display, not for escaping.
My phone vibrates.
A text from Hudson.
“Ready when you are.”
My pulse jumps as I text back.
“Almost.”
My mother hovers over me as I put on the earrings she picked out, specifically for this evening. Diamonds are meant to suggest wealth and old money. She fusses with the skirt of my dress, smoothing imaginary wrinkles. Her hands are gentle, but her eyes say something else.
“You know what’s expected tonight, Ivory,” she whispers, her lips barely moving. “Don’t embarrass your father.”
I nod. My stomach churns.
The suite empties, and my mother leaves for the gala ahead of us, her perfume lingering in the air even after she’s gone.
Finally, a moment of peace and quiet.
I close my eyes and try to calm my nerves, slow my breathing. While trying to remember who I am under all these fake layers.
There’s a knock. The low, steady sound lets me know exactly who’s on the other side.
And it makes my heart stutter. I open the door and nearly forget how to breathe.
Hudson stands there in a black tux, looking impossibly handsome, the crisp lines stretching over his broad shoulders and chest, making him look even bigger; dangerous and delicious all at once.
His short dark hair is perfectly styled, but there’s a hint of rebellion in the way it’s tousled, as if he just rolled out of bed, but on purpose.
A shadow of scruff dusts his jaw, making him look rougher, older.
His eyes lock on mine, hungry and possessive, before roaming over me like I’m the only thing in the universe he wants.
That familiar heat flares low in my belly, my pulse kicking up as I drink him in, every inch of me suddenly aching for his hands on my skin.
“Wow. Ivory, you look… incredible,” he says, his voice filled with want. His hand hovers near my elbow but not touching.
I want to step into his arms, bury my face in his jacket, and beg him to take me away from all of this. I imagine us sneaking out a side door, running through empty streets, laughing because we have nothing left to lose.
Instead, I give him a small smile, “You clean up pretty nicely, yourself.”
He smiles back, offering his arm. “Ready?”
Without a word, I take it, using his strength to keep me steady as we head for the elevator. The hallway smells of lilies and hotel soap. My heels click with every step, as my hand grips his bicep for balance. I wish I could stay like this all night—his, safe, hidden from the rest of the world.
The elevator doors slide shut, leaving just the two of us in the mirrored box.
Hudson positions himself beside me, close enough that his sleeve brushes mine.
The stranger in the mirror has my face, but I don’t recognize her under all the layers of makeup and jewels, draped in blue silk that feels like someone else’s skin, while Hudson stands beside me, unmovable, certain, a man who’s perfectly at home in his own skin.
His breath warms my ear as he whispers, “Tonight, I’m your shadow.
No matter what happens in that ballroom, I’ll be right there with you. ”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
The limo is waiting at the curb, all black and shiny. My father stands beside it, with his phone in one hand, and the other tapping against the car, impatient.
“Well, well. You’re on time,” he says, not even looking at me. “Let’s keep it that way.”
Hudson opens the door, helping me in, then scoots in next to me while my father climbs in across from us. The inside of the car smells like leather and something vulgar: cologne, power, threat.
For a few blocks, there’s complete silence.
My father glances at his phone, then at me.
His voice is cold, precise. “Tonight is very important, Ivory. Don’t embarrass yourself.
Don’t embarrass the family. Smile when you’re told.
Speak only when spoken to. And for God’s sake, don’t let that little stutter show.
” I nod, fingers twisting in my lap. Hudson shifts, discreetly pressing his thigh to mine, and I let it steady me.
I wish I could hold his hand, but with my father here, that’s not even an option.
“Do you understand what’s at stake?” my father continues, eyes narrowed.
“Our name, our alliances, your future. There is no room for mistakes. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” I whisper.
He nods, satisfied. “Good. Remember what you’ve been taught. You represent more than yourself tonight.”
The limo makes its way through the city streets, headlights from passing cars stream by. I watch the world blur; the shops with decorated windows, the couples walking arm in arm, free and careless.
I wonder what it would feel like to be one of them. I wonder if Hudson is thinking the same thing.
When we finally pull up to The Morrow Museum, a mob of photographers is waiting outside, their camera flashes going off like fireworks.
Hudson gets out first, scans the crowd, then turns and offers his hand.
I take it, stepping into the chaos. My father walks ahead, while my mother appears in a cloud of silk and diamonds, and I am swept along with them, smiling, on display, and silent. Always silent.
As we move through the crowd, I hear my father’s voice in my head. “Don’t mess up. Don’t forget who you are.”
But then I catch Hudson’s reflection in a pane of glass, watching me. And for a moment, I remember who I really am. Ivory. A young woman in a pretty dress, hoping for a night that belongs to her, even if it’s only inside her own heart.
Once inside the ballroom, it’s nothing but glass walls and marble floors. Everything gleaming with hints of gold, while conversations are being had with the unmistakable cadence of people who know exactly what they’re worth.
Crystal chandeliers hang overhead, scattering reflections that look like diamonds.
Everywhere I turn, there are men in tuxedos with eyes like knives, women glittering in dresses that cost more than my education.
I grip my clutch, knuckles white, trying to remember every rule my mother ever taught me.
Hudson stays close, but there are moments when the crowd gets too thick, or when my parents pull me from one conversation to the next, and I lose sight of him.
My father’s hand is heavy on my arm, steering me through circles of business partners and rivals, his voice low and polite but always commanding.
I smile when I’m told and nod at the right moments.
“The Ashford heiress,” they say as I pass, “such a vision.”
If only they knew.
An unfamiliar man approaches. He looks to be the same age as my father, with a thick jaw and thinning hair that’s slicked back.
He smiles, but it’s too wide and too white.
His eyes never leave my face as my father introduces us.
“Ivory, this is Damian Crest. He’s been looking forward to meeting you all evening. ”
What. The. Hell.
He holds his hand out, and I reluctantly take it, feeling my skin crawl.
“It’s a pleasure, Ivory. You’re even more beautiful in person than in photographs.” He leans in, and his cologne is so heavy it makes me want to vomit.
I force a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Crest.”
“Please,” he says, his voice syrupy, “call me Damian.” His gaze dips, lingering on the neckline of my dress, then returns to my eyes. “You must be overwhelmed by all these people. Why don’t we find somewhere quieter to talk?”
My father’s fingers dig into my shoulder. “Ivory will be delighted to keep you company. Hudson...” He looks over his shoulder, but he’s nowhere to be found.
My heart slams against my ribs. No. No. NO. The promise he whispered in the elevator…Oh God, I can’t breathe. My vision narrows as I search desperately for his familiar silhouette among the sea of black tuxedos.
Hudson, where the HELL are you?
“He’ll be right back,” I choke out. “We should…”
“Nonsense.”
Damian’s hand finds my back, fingers spreading possessively. He steers me away from safety, each step making my stomach twist tighter. I crane my neck, searching frantically for Hudson and praying he will appear at any moment.
We stop by a vase of towering lilies, where we are hidden from view, Damian leans in until his lips brush my ear.
“Your father’s made it clear you’re mine,” Damien groans.
“He’s handed you over, just like he promised.
” His breath is hot, sour with whiskey. “You better get used to men staring, imagining what’s under that pretty little dress.
Wanting to fuck you.” His hand slides down my waist, fingers creeping up until they brush the side of my breast. “Bet some of them would pay a fortune just to get their dick wet in that virgin cunt of yours. That is, after I’ve had my way with you first.”
I freeze.
My mouth goes dry, and I feel like I’m about to vomit.
“Excuse me, I…I need to use the ladies’ room.”
Damian’s smile slips. “Of course, darling. Don’t be long.” His fingers trail down my arm as I practically run away from him. I head for the bathrooms; my breathing is nothing but shallow gasps.
I glance back, thankful Damian isn’t following, but I can feel his eyes clinging to my skin. I search for Hudson, for anyone familiar, but the hallway is empty.
I slip into the bathroom, and lock myself in a stall, pressing my palm flat against my chest. My skin was still burning where Damian touched me. I stand there for a moment, fighting the nausea.
Once I get myself under control, I step out. The bathroom is still empty. I run cold water over my wrists, staring at my reflection; painted eyes, trembling lips, a picture of someone braver than I feel.
As I step out into the hall, something feels off. It’s too quiet, too still. I start walking toward the ballroom, eyes scanning. Where is Hudson? Why isn’t he here?
I hear footsteps behind me, quickly getting closer.
A hand grabs my arm, yanking me back. I open my mouth to scream, but a rough palm clamps over it, muffling the sound. Panic explodes in my chest. I thrash, heels scraping on marble, but the grip is too strong.
Something sharp jabs into my neck, feeling a pinch before the burn. My body goes limp as the world tips sideways.
Black gloves.
Silver watch.
The two things I manage to remember.
I try to call out for help, for Hudson, for anyone. But my lips won’t work, as the world slips out of reach.
I want to fight, but my muscles won’t work. The pain at my neck throbs, and everything slows even more.
I wonder if Hudson is looking for me. The memory of his hand on my back, his body between me and the world, flashes behind my eyelids.
Shadows appear at the edge of my vision. I think I hear my name, but it’s too far. Someone’s dragging me; my heels are scraping against the tile. Hands grip under my arms.
Sweat.
Cologne.
Both scents are familiar.
I can’t move. I can’t scream.
I want to go back, to try again, to choose a different life.
All that’s left now is the sensation of falling, and the hope that someone will find me before it’s too late.