Chapter Twenty-One
Glass Slippers
Winnie
Tori’s guest room has been transformed into a salon.
Two director’s chairs face a large mirror propped against the wall, flanked by ring lights that cast everything in a soft, flattering glow. A woman named Margot has set up her professional kit on the dresser—brushes, palettes, curling irons, and products I couldn’t name if my life depended on it.
This is Tori’s doing. “We’re doing this right, Win,” she said when she booked it. “Full glam. No arguments.”
I didn’t argue. I just brought the champagne.
Now, we’re an hour into the process, sipping Veuve Clicquot while Margot works her magic. Tori’s already finished—her hair swept into an elegant updo, makeup flawless—and she’s lounging on the bed in her robe, scrolling through her phone and offering commentary.
“You should do a red lip,” she says. “Classic. Timeless.”
“Nude,” I counter. “The dress is already a statement.”
“She’s right,” Margot says, blending something along my cheekbone. “With that color, you want the focus on the eyes. Let the dress do the heavy lifting.”
“See?” I raise my champagne flute in Tori’s direction. “Professional opinion.”
“Fine. But I’m right about the hair—down and wavy. Banks won’t know what hit him.”
There’s a small gasp. “You look like princesses!”
We all turn. Maisie is standing in the doorway, dressed in dinosaur pajamas despite it being nearly five o’clock. She’s been wandering in and out all afternoon, fascinated by the transformation happening in the guest room.
“Thank you, Maze.” I smile at her. “That might be the best compliment I’ve ever received.”
“Tori’s hair is very shiny,” she adds, studying her future stepmother with serious eyes. “And your eyes look like a raccoon. But pretty.”
“Smoky eye,” Margot explains. “It’s supposed to look like that.”
“Oh.” Maisie considers this. “Okay. Pretty raccoon.”
Tori laughs and opens her arms. “Come here, you little monster.”
Maisie bounces onto the bed, careful not to disturb Tori’s dress laid out beside her. “Hannah is making me mac and cheese for dinner. The good kind, from the box.”
“Lucky you. We have to eat tiny food on tiny plates and pretend we’re not starving.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“It is. That’s why we’re drinking champagne.”
“Can I have champagne?”
“When you’re thirty.”
Maisie sighs dramatically—she’s definitely picked that up from Tori—and slides off the bed. “I’m going to tell Daddy you look like princesses too.”
She stomps off down the hall, her T-Rex slippers roaring with each step.
“She’s incredible,” I say.
“She’s a handful.” But Tori’s smiling, that soft smile she gets whenever Maisie’s involved. “But yeah, she is pretty great.” Her eyes drift to my makeup. “Okay, Margot. Make her so beautiful that Banks forgets how to speak. Shouldn’t be hard—he barely speaks anyway.”
Margot laughs and reaches for another brush. “Let’s finish these eyes.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m staring at my reflection, and for a moment, I don’t recognize myself.
My hair falls in loose golden waves over my shoulders, soft and touchable. My makeup is subtle yet polished—smoky eyes that make the blue pop, nude lips, and bronzed cheekbones. I look elegant. Sophisticated.
I look beautiful.
“Holy shit,” Tori breathes, appearing behind me in the mirror. “Banks is going to be so far out of his element, it’s not even funny.”
The dress hangs on the back of the door. Emerald green, floor-length, with delicate straps and a low back that reveals just enough skin to be interesting. When Tori pulled it off the rack during our shopping trip, I had laughed—too fancy, too expensive, too much.
Then I tried it on.
The fabric skimmed my curves like it was made for me. The color turned my eyes almost turquoise and made my skin glow. I looked like someone who belonged at galas, charity events, and on the arm of a professional athlete.
I bought it without looking at the price tag. The first time I’ve ever done that.
“Let’s get dressed,” I say. “The boys will be here soon.”
I slip my feet into my heels and tuck the tube of lipstick into my clutch in case I need to touch it up later.
Tori glances over at me. “Banks is going to swallow his tongue.”
I’m not sure I want Banks to swallow his tongue. I’m not sure what I want anymore.
Jake’s words have been rattling around in my head for two days: Flavor of the week. Who knows where he’s been. Use protection.
I’ve been trying to ignore them, focusing on the fact that Banks has been nothing but respectful; he has never pushed, never pressured, and never made me feel like anything other than someone worth waiting for. But the doubt is there—a tiny crack in the foundation of whatever we’re building.
My phone buzzes.
Banks: I’m here.
Three minutes early. That might be a first.
Me: Coming down.
I grab my clutch, check my reflection one more time, and head for the door.
Banks is waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
He’s wearing a tuxedo—a perfectly fitted, clearly expensive one that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad.
His hair is actually styled—pushed back from his face in a way that showcases his jaw, his cheekbones, and the intensity of his dark eyes.
He’s clean-shaven, which is rare, and it makes him look younger. Softer.
No. Not softer. Nothing about Banks Callahan is soft. He looks like a weapon wrapped in expensive fabric—like danger dressed up for a party.
My brain short-circuits a little.
He turns when he hears my footsteps, and whatever I was going to say dies in my throat.
He’s looking at me the way I’m looking at him—like he’s forgotten how to breathe. Like the rest of the world has fallen away, and there’s only this: me on the stairs, him in the foyer, the space between us crackling with something I don’t have a name for.
“You clean up nice,” I manage as I descend the last few steps.
He doesn’t respond immediately. His eyes travel from my face to my dress to my heels and back again, slow and thorough, and I feel the path of his gaze like a physical touch.
“You uh…” He swallows. His voice comes out rough. “You’re beautiful, Win.”
The word sounds different when he says it. Not a throwaway compliment. Not something he says to everyone. It sounds like a confession, like something dragged out of him against his will.
“Thank you.” I’m proud of how steady my voice sounds. “Ready?”
He offers his arm, an old-fashioned gesture that shouldn’t make my heart flutter but does.
I take it.
“See you there,” Tori says, giving me a conspiratorial wink.
The gala is being held at a historic mansion that’s been converted into an event space. Crystal chandeliers, marble floors, waiters circulating with champagne and tiny appetizers that look delicious.
The whole team is here—players in tuxedos, wives and girlfriends in designer gowns, everyone looking polished and perfect. There are sponsors, press, and wealthy donors who write checks with lots of zeros.
I feel out of place immediately.
Banks must sense it because his hand finds the small of my back as we enter the ballroom. A warm, steady pressure that says I’m here. You’re not doing this alone.
“Breathe,” he murmurs.
“I’m breathing.”
“Humor me.”
I force myself to inhale and then slowly exhale. I feel my shoulders lower. “Better?”
“Better.”
We work the room together, which mostly means I make small talk while Banks looms beside me like a well-dressed bodyguard.
He’s terrible at this—stiff and monosyllabic with strangers, his handshake too firm, his smile nonexistent.
But he stays close. Always close. Hand on my back, arm brushing mine, positioning himself between me and anyone who gets too near.
It should feel suffocating. It doesn’t. It feels safe.
“Banks! There you are.”
A man in his sixties approaches, silver hair, expensive watch, the confident stride of someone used to being important. Banks shakes his hand with something approaching warmth, which tells me this person actually matters.
“Mr. Harrison. Good to see you.”
“You too, son. You too.” The man’s eyes slide to me. “And who’s this lovely young lady?”
Banks’s hand tightens on my back. “This is Winnie. My girlfriend.”
The word sends a shiver down my spine. I’ve never heard him introduce me that way before—it sounds different than I expected. Heavier. Like he means it.
“Wonderful to meet you, Winnie.” Mr. Harrison shakes my hand with both of his. “You’ve got a good one here. Banks is one of my favorite players. All heart, this one.”
“I’m learning that,” I say, and I mean it more than he knows.
We make the rounds: more handshakes, more small talk, more introductions where Banks refers to me as his girlfriend, and something warm blooms in my chest. I meet the team owner, several sponsors, and a few wives who promise to invite me to brunch.
Banks says approximately twelve words total, but his presence beside me speaks volumes.
We’re getting drinks at the bar when Grayson appears.
He’s cleaned up too—designer tux, hair slicked back, and a smug expression firmly in place. He has a model-type woman on his arm who looks bored out of her mind, but he abandons her the moment he spots me.
“Winnie.” He slides up beside me, too close. “You look amazing. That dress is—”
“Back off, Reed.” Banks is there before I can respond, stepping slightly in front of me. Not aggressive. Not confrontational. Just… present. A wall between me and whatever Grayson thinks he’s doing.
“Relax, man. I’m just saying hello.”
“You said it. Now you can say goodbye.”
Grayson’s jaw tightens, but he’s not foolish enough to push it. Not here, surrounded by sponsors and press. “Whatever. Enjoy your night.”
He retreats quickly, melting back into the crowd.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say quietly.
“Yeah.” Banks’s hand finds my back again. “I did.”
The music shifts from ambient background to something slower and more intentional. Couples begin migrating toward the dance floor—Zayden and Tori, Archer and Bree, and other pairs I don’t recognize.
Banks looks at the dance floor like it’s a pit of snakes.
“We should probably…” I gesture vaguely.