Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The fluorescent lights in the mall are harsh and unforgiving, but I don't care. I'm floating, riding a high I haven't felt in—maybe ever. My fingers trail along the glass display case at the MAC counter, eyeing a deep berry shade that would look killer against my skin.
"Can I help you find something?" The sales associate beams at me—all gleaming teeth and perfectly contoured cheekbones.
"That one." I point to the berry. "And maybe something bolder? Like a true red?"
She pulls out three shades, swatching them across the back of my hand with practiced efficiency. I study them, tilting my wrist under the light, but my mind keeps drifting back to Julian's brownstone. To his hands on my skin. His mouth on my neck. The way he whispered my name like a prayer.
I'm being ridiculous. Completely gone.
Just be chill, Jenna's voice echoes in my head, that gentle but firm tone she uses when I'm spiraling. Just enjoy your happiness for once. Don’t overthink it.
Easy for her to say. She's pregnant with her second kid, married to a rich guy who worships the ground she walks on. She's never had to worry about the other shoe dropping.
But then again, maybe I shouldn't either. Maybe Julian's different. Maybe this time, it's real.
I buy both lipsticks—the berry and a crimson so bold it makes my pulse quicken just looking at it.
La Vie en Rose is next, and I weave through displays of lace and satin, searching for something that screams confident without trying too hard.
My fingers catch on a black lace teddy with delicate straps that criss-cross in the back.
It's sexy but elegant, the kind of thing that would make Julian's eyes go dark with want.
The encounter with Daniel still gnaws at the edges of my thoughts—his fury in the lobby, the threat to evict Colleen, the way he tried to shrink me down to nothing. But then I picture Julian's face when he plays piano, the tenderness in his touch, the way he laughs at my terrible jokes.
This is going too well. Something bad's bound to happen.
I shake the thought away, grabbing the teddy and heading for the fitting rooms.
Not today. Today, I'm choosing happiness.
I'm about to head to the register when something stops me cold.
Tucked between a row of black mesh bodysuits and ruby-red chemises, there's a white teddy that makes my breath hitch.
It's delicate—almost bridal—with intricate floral lace that fans across the bodice and trails down the sides.
The cups are sheer enough to tease but structured enough to lift and shape.
My fingers brush the fabric. Soft. Expensive-feeling.
Heat floods my cheeks, spreads lower.
I imagine Julian's reaction—those dark eyes going molten when I walk out of his bathroom wearing this. The way his jaw would tighten. How his fingers would trace the lace, slow and reverent, before he'd lose his patience entirely and—
Jesus, Liza. Get a grip.
But I can't. The image loops in my mind: his hands on my waist, sliding the ribbons loose, his mouth hot against my collarbone. The way he'd whisper my name like it's the only word that matters.
I glance around, suddenly self-conscious, like the other shoppers can read my thoughts—see how freaking crazy horny I am. A woman in yoga pants breezes past with an armful of cotton bras. A teenager examines a pair of cheeky panties with clinical detachment.
No one's paying attention to me.
I pull the white teddy off the rack and hold it against my body, studying my reflection in the nearby mirror. It's romantic. Soft. The kind of thing that says I trust you instead of I'm trying too hard.
Daniel would've hated it. Too innocent. Not his style.
But Julian? Julian would worship me in this.
My pulse kicks up, throbbing between my thighs, and I squeeze the hanger tighter. I'm already imagining his hands working their way across my body. He’s taking his time because he likes taking his time. Because he actually cares about my pleasure, not just his own.
I keep the black one too—for variety—and make my way to the fitting rooms yet again, cheeks burning.
I fight my way into the lace teddy all the while trying not to rip the thing. I’m not used to wearing these things. But for Julian, I'm willing to step out of my comfort zone.
Finally. It's on. It looks a little odd worn over my hot pink panties, but still, it's nice. Sweet and sexy.
I study myself slowly, like I’m learning a new language written in lace and skin.
The teddy clings to me—white lace tracing my olive curves. I have a love-hate relationship with my curves. Sometimes I’ve hated them with certain men, including Daniel, but with Julian I feel beautiful… perfect.
The fabric dips low at my chest, delicate straps framing what I usually keep hidden, and for once, I don’t look away. I let myself see it. See her. The woman I am now.
I turn slightly, watching how it moves with me, my long dark hair spills over my shoulders, a contrast against the pale lace, and I feel something warm coil low in my belly.
It’s all about anticipation.
My fingers brush the edge of the fabric, and a shiver runs through me—not from touch, but from the thought of what’s to come.
I meet my reflection one last time, heart thudding softly, and realize I’m not just dressing for Julian. I’m also dressing for me.
The cashier rings me up without comment, folding the teddies into pink tissue paper like they're the most mundane purchases in the world.
They're not.
They're a promise. A beginning.
My keys clatter onto the console table, and I'm still smiling. Still buzzing. The La Vie en Rose bag swings from my wrist, its pink stripes practically glowing with possibility.
Julian. Tomorrow night. Right here.
Reeves left the house spotless before he and his girlfriend took off for their weekend in Bar Harbor, and he made me swear—swear—I'd leave the kitchen the way I found it. "You're a tornado, Liza. I love you, but you cook like a crime scene." I'd laughed, promised, crossed my heart.
Tomorrow I'll make Julian pasta. Something simple. We'll drink wine on the couch, maybe watch a movie we won't finish because his hands will find their way under my shirt and—
I spot the mail.
A small stack sits neatly on the table. Bills. Junk. And one plain white envelope with my name handwritten across the front.
No return address.
My stomach tightens.
I pick it up slowly, turning it over. The handwriting is precise. Controlled. Almost elegant.
I tear it open.
The paper inside is crisp, folded twice.
I unfold it, and the words hit me like a fist to the chest.
Liza,
You think you can just walk away. That you deserve happiness. Freedom. Love.
You don't.
You're a liar. A user. A little girl playing dress-up in a world that will chew you up and spit you out the moment you stop being pretty enough to distract from how empty you are inside.
You took from me. You twisted everything I gave you—my home, my care, my devotion—and threw it back in my face like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing.
But karma doesn't forget, Liza. Karma is patient. And she's coming for you.
You won't see her. You won't hear her. But one day, when you think you're safe, when you think you've finally escaped—she'll find you.
And so will I.
The paper slips from my fingers, fluttering to the floor.
My breath won't come. My chest is too tight, ribs squeezing inward, lungs refusing to expand.
Daniel.
It has to be Daniel.
I stumble backward, my hip catching the edge of the table, and my vision blurs at the edges. The hallway tilts.
He knows where I am.
He knows I'm here.
And he's watching.