Chapter 42
FORTY TWO
WHAT DOES ONE wear to publicly expose her fiancé?
The couch, my bed for the past few days, has vanished under an explosion of fabric. Black leather pants tangle with skirts. A crisp white blouse lies draped over a black sheath dress. Silk camisoles are shoved against dress pants. Every option I own, yanked from my lone suitcase and assessed.
Discarded.
Reconsidered.
Hands planted firmly on my hips, I stand in the middle of the small room, surveying the sartorial battlefield.
What if I refuse to dress up for his twisted game?
Stick to my simple jeans and a plain T-shirt?
But I can’t afford to be turned away at the door. Hydra has a dress code, and I know James’s crowd. Influential, judgmental, and tonight, they’ll all be watching me. All the more reason for my outfit to send its own message before I even open my mouth. A message that says:
I am not a victim.
And I am not playing.
“Ames?” Helen’s voice echoes down the hallway, followed by the sound of brisk footsteps approaching.
“In here,” I answer, my frown fixed on a deceptively innocent burgundy wrap mini-skirt.
“?Dios mio! Your suitcase exploded!” Helen appears in the doorway, carefully navigating a pair of heels near the door. “It’s like laundry day gone wild over here.” She crosses her arms over her chest, staring down at the mess.
“I need to find the perfect outfit for tonight,” I tell her, my eyes still scanning the pile.
“So, what’s the plan?” she asks with a hint of apprehension.
“The plan,” I echo, turning to meet her gaze. “I’m going. But not as his puppet. I’ve decided to confront him in front of everyone. All by myself.”
A slow, proud smile spreads across Helen’s face. “Valiente. Brave girl. You’re doing the right thing, Ames.”
“I sure hope so,” I breathe, nodding slowly.
Her gaze sweeps over the disaster zone again, then meets mine, steady and reassuring. “Take your time in here. I’ve got the front covered.”
“Thanks, Helen, I’ll be quick.”
She pauses in the doorway and turns back. “And listen, you’re coming home with me after we close.” She catches my confused look and clarifies, “Proper shower and something to eat.”
“No, Helen, thanks, but—”
“I won’t take no for an answer.”
“It’s too much, really. I’ll be fine using our washroom here,” I insist.
“Look, I may not have a fancy dress for you like that grandmother in Cinderella, but I have a shower and a hot meal,” she says, stepping closer.
“Godmother,” I correct with a light giggle.
“?Qué?”
“She was her fairy godmother, not her grandmother,” I explain.
“Sure, whatever. It’s settled then,” she says, waving a hand on her way out. “We leave together.”
“Thank you,” I call after her.
“De nada,” she answers over her shoulder.
Left alone again, my hands dive back into the chaos. A puzzle of fabric and intent.
The silk camisole?
Too soft.
The leather pants?
Too aggressive.
The white blouse?
Too innocent.
Rejected. Rejected. Rejected.
My fingers brush against a familiar, smooth fabric, and I pull it free from the heap.
My black halter mini dress.
I hold it up. The deep keyhole cutout below the neck is a dare. The elegant gold hardware at the waist, two angled wings, promises structure.
This is not a dress for seduction, nor for blending in.
It’s a statement.
Armor.
With newfound purpose, I begin tidying the office, folding the rejected clothes neatly back into my suitcase. Each folded sweater, each pair of pants returned to its place, feels like clearing away the indecision.
Clearing away the lingering temptation to flee.
I drape the black dress carefully over the back of the couch, my clutch resting next to it, my matching black heels placed precisely on the floor beneath.
All set.
Dressed in my faded blue jeans and white sweater, I slip my feet into my white sneakers and head out to tackle the morning rush with Helen.
The lunch crowd thins. The hours that follow offer no relief. They stretch, impossibly long yet terrifyingly short, each one vibrating with the anxiety of tonight.
Hydra.
James.
The words echo in my head, tethered to the image of the black dress waiting in the office.
My hands wipe counters, pour coffee, take cash. But they feel disconnected. Like a marionette with strings pulled by someone else. The real me is miles away, observing the performance. The forced pleasantries scrape against my throat, each smile feeling brittle enough to shatter.
Someone asks where the restroom is, and I nearly give directions to hell before catching myself, offering a tight nod toward the back instead.
More than once, as I freeze mid-sentence or nearly send a latte flying, Helen materializes beside me.
Her calm voice smooths over the cracks in my facade before a customer can notice.
Each time she steps in, the rescue is seamless.
And each rescue is a painful flare of awareness, a reminder of the tightrope I’m walking and how close I am to falling.
The walls begin to dim as the late afternoon sun dips lower, painting long, distorted shadows across the floor.
My gaze keeps catching on the wall clock, tracking the second hand’s agonizing, relentless slow sweep.
Each tick feels like a hammer blow counting down.
It’s torturously slow, yet the space between now and tonight evaporates like mist. It hurtles at me, an unavoidable collision.
Once the sign is flipped to ‘Closed’, Helen and I work around each other with quiet efficiency, performing the end-of-day rituals. Stacking chairs. Wiping down tables. The final sweep of the floor. The emptying of the bins. Each mundane task feels imbued with a strange, heavy significance tonight.
Battling the frantic energy buzzing beneath my skin, my hands tremble as I count the day’s earnings, forcing myself to start over when the numbers get muddled.
Finally.
Everything is done.
Helen walks to the front door, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “Ready?”
I nod, grabbing my handbag and car keys. “I honestly don’t know how to thank you for this,” I confess.
“You’re driving me home. That’s thanks enough.” She dismisses my gratitude with a flick of her wrist as she pulls the door open.
Locking the café tonight signals the beginning of the countdown to Hydra. We walk the short distance to my car in silence.
The drive to Helen’s building is just as quiet. Thankfully, she doesn’t try to fill it with small talk, sensing the storm of dread and furious calculation raging in my head. Her respect for my inner turmoil is a quiet gift.
I don’t register the turns or the traffic lights; my mind is a battlefield of what-ifs. I surface only when the red brick of Helen’s building solidifies out of the haze.
Minutes later, Helen pushes open the door to her third-floor apartment.
Compared to the utilitarian feel of my office-turned-bedroom, her space feels overwhelmingly normal.
Warm light spills from a living room lamp.
The air smells faintly of something home-cooked.
Colorful photos clutter a small bookshelf.
It’s cozy. Lived-in. Achingly real.
“Okay, shower’s first door on the left down that hall,” Helen says immediately, shedding her coat. “Fresh towels are on the rack. Take as long as you need, mija.” She enters her small kitchen area. “I’ll heat up some dinner for us.”
“Oh no, no, you’ve done enough,” I object. “Just a quick shower and I’ll be on my way.”
“Stop being weird! We’re not strangers, Ames,” she protests, pausing by the counter. “Plus, I made enough chili to feed this entire building twice!” She shoos me with her hand. “Now, go. Go shower. Stop wasting time.”
I raise my hands in defeat, smiling warmly. “Okay, okay, I’m going.”
The hot water is an immediate balm, sluicing away the grime of the day and unknotting muscles I didn’t realize were clenched like fists. The deep knot of dread remains lodged below my ribs, but for fifteen minutes, under the steady, steaming spray, I allow myself to simply exist.
Not the café owner.
Not the cornered fiancée.
Just Amy, breathing in the anonymous safety of a friend’s bathroom.
I step out into a cloud of steam, wrapping myself in a thick towel that smells of fabric softener and a normal life.
The roar of Helen’s hairdryer drowns out my thoughts for a few blissful moments.
But pulling on my jeans and sweater feels like shrugging back into a heavy uniform.
The brief illusion of being ‘just Amy’ evaporates.
The woman who has to go to war tonight settles back into my bones.
I emerge just in time to see Helen place two bowls of chili at opposite ends of her square table.
“Better?” she asks softly, taking a seat and gesturing for me to do the same.
“So much better,” I admit, feeling the truth of it.
Cleaner.
Calmer on the surface.
As ready as I’ll ever be.
I sit across from Helen. The rich aroma of her chili makes my stomach rumble. “Thank you for all this, Helen.”
“Enough thanking me. Start eating, porfa.” She nods at my bowl.
I pick up the spoon. The first bite of chili is a burst of spicy warmth that is deeply comforting.
“Mmm… This is really good.” My eyebrows rise in surprise as the flavors burst across my tongue.
“Reina del chile.” She tilts her chin up with pride. “Queen of chili. They call me that for a reason.” She winks at me before enjoying another spoonful of her own.
“I can see why.” I nod in agreement. “I just don’t think I could finish it all. It’s a very generous portion.” I take a few more mouthfuls, surprised to find a small pocket of hunger beneath the layers of anxiety.
Helen chuckles. “Disculpa, I got used to serving big portions because of Rafael, my son. He eats for five, that one. Practically lives at the gym.”
I set my spoon down with a giggle. “Does he live here with you?”
“No, he’s all grown up now,” she replies, pride lacing her tone. “Got offered a job in advertising and moved to New York.”
Her pride in her son is contagious and makes my smile widen. “You’re such a great mom. I can just tell.”
“I do my best,” she says with a simple shrug. “All parents do.”
A bitter laugh catches in my throat, but I say nothing, swirling my spoon around the bowl.
My mother’s “best” was a daily serving of guilt for a father who left us. A home so empty of warmth that I chose a life of running from place to place just to feel… something else.
“I can tell you’re under a lot of stress, mija.” Helen reaches across the small table, her hand covering mine.
She must think my sudden silence is about tonight.
I don’t correct her. Instead, I nod slowly.
“Going there to face him instead of humiliating myself feels so right. But I’d be lying if I said I have any idea what I’m going to do, or say. I have no clue.”
“Sí, claro, but you listen to me,” she starts, her voice low but fierce.
“You are Amy Beckett, proud owner of Maddy’s Place.
You walk up to him and his group with your head high, and you speak your truth.
What James tried to make you do? That’s on him, not you.
Don’t you dare carry his shame.” She squeezes my hand.
“You are strong. You are not his to command like that. Entiendes? You understand me?”
Tears of immense gratitude prick my eyes, blurring Helen’s earnest face. I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
A small, satisfied smile touches her lips. “Bueno.” She releases my hand. “I can tell you’re done with that chili, and you still have to get ready. So you’d better get going.”
I take a shaky breath, feeling a little more fortified. A little more human than when I arrived. “I know you’re sick of hearing me say it, but I can’t help it… Thank you, really, for everything.” I push my chair back and grab my purse and keys.
“De nada, mija.” She rises from her chair. “Be strong, but also be careful, por favor.” Her hug is quick but fierce, full of unspoken support and a mother lode of belief.
“I will,” I promise, before leaving her apartment.
The warmth of Helen’s apartment vanishes the moment I step back inside the café.
The quiet here isn’t the gentle calm of a home; it’s the unnerving silence of an empty stage waiting for the tragedy to begin.
My footsteps echo, sharp and solitary, as I cross the dimmed main area.
The stacked chairs look like shadowy spectators watching me walk toward my office.
There it is, laid out on the couch like a silent challenge. The black halter mini dress. My small clutch and matching heels below it.
For a moment, I just stare.
Helen’s words, pulsing in my ears.
You are Amy Beckett, proud owner of Maddy’s Place. You are strong, and you are not his to command.
With a deep breath that has zero effect on the frantic bird fluttering in my chest, I begin.
The dress slides on, the smooth fabric a world away from the comfortable jeans and sweater I just shed.
My fingers find the small clasp behind my neck.
As it clicks shut, a chill prickles my bare shoulders and back.
It’s not a shiver of fear, but the cold thrill of choosing to be exposed.
Of finding a strange power in my own deliberate vulnerability.
I smooth the material down my torso. The keyhole cutout just below the collarbone is a clear dare. At my waist, the two golden wings gather the fabric before the skirt falls in a sleek, unforgiving line to mid-thigh.
Crossing the hallway to the washroom, I flick on the light and face the mirror to assess.
The woman staring back is someone I barely recognize. Paler than usual, yes, with the shadows beneath her eyes evidence of sleepless night, but her gaze…
Her gaze is direct, unwavering.
The dress transforms her. Sculpts her.
A garment of defiance.
I pull my hair back severely from my face into a tight bun. No stray tendrils. Nothing to hide behind. And certainly no wig of curls—the disguise James joked I leave behind.
This time, it’s just me.
All of me.
Just a sharp line of black eyeliner.
Mascara to define each lash.
And a deep berry stain on my lips that feels like war paint.
Each stroke of the brush, each careful application…
A ritual.
A steeling of nerves.
I slide my feet into my black stilettos. The sudden height altered my posture, forcing me to stand taller. More empowered. The click of them on the office floor is a decisive sound.
I grab my clutch, phone, and keys.
One last, deep breath.
It’s time.