Chapter 11 Red Carpet Reckoning
ELEVEN
Red Carpet Reckoning
April
The glam team had arrived like a small, efficient army. April sat in her apartment while they painted her face into something that looked like confidence and pinned waves into place with the precision of people who understood hair could be a statement or a shield.
Killian had sent them. He was still in the board meeting but he'd made sure she wouldn't walk into tonight unprepared.
Her phone had buzzed.
Killian: Be April. Be yours.
She'd stared at the message. Four words.
He didn't say be mine. But everything else did. The flowers. The glam team. The timing.
April had typed back: Trying.
Deleted it.
April: Okay.
Sent that instead.
The doorbell rang.
Liam stood in her hallway holding a garment bag and two small gift boxes, looking like he'd been born in a tuxedo and had simply never bothered to change out of it.
"Final touches," he said. He draped the garment bag over her couch and picked up one of the boxes. He opened it with the care of someone handling something meant to hold up under pressure.
April had expected jewelry. Maybe a clutch. Liam lifted the first piece, then laid it out like evidence.
She looked down at what he'd set out for her: black lace, clean lines, construction that felt intentional.
"Did you bring me panties?"
"They're armor. So you read powerful top to bottom. Confidence starts before anyone sees your face." His eyes dropped once, taking in the lines and structure, then lifted again. "I want every piece of you reinforced tonight. Not just the parts people see."
April looked down again. At lace that wasn't decoration. At structure that wasn't about him.
April's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"You brought me power panties." She was a woman rethinking every article of clothing she'd ever put on under a dress.
She nodded once. "Okay."
Liam's expression shifted, not quite a smile, but closer.
He opened the second box.
Inside were shoes that were somehow both elegant and engineered for someone who planned to stay standing all night.
"In case you need to make a quick exit," he said.
Then he opened the garment bag and drew out a wrap the exact shade of charcoal that made the emerald dress glow.
April reached for it automatically, fingers brushing the fabric. "You kept it?"
Their hands overlapped in the charcoal silk. "I couldn't leave it."
He held her gaze longer than necessary, then stepped closer and draped the wrap over her arms instead of her shoulders. His fingers brushed her wrist as he let go.
April gathered the wrap closer around herself, the silk sliding higher along her arms.
"Killian sent the necklace earlier," she said, touching the heirloom at her throat.
"We talked."
April blinked. "You and Killian… compared notes?"
"Same priority." He adjusted the wrap around her bare shoulders.
It was like two people reaching for the same door and opening it together—no awkward pause, no sidestepping or circling, no you go first, no you go.
Except the door was her.
It felt like she'd been swept into a three-person tango. It shouldn't work. But apparently it did.
And God—it was sexy.
The realization settled as the car slowed.
April blinked, her fingers still resting on the necklace.
Outside the window, the staging area shimmered, a hurricane of cameras, celebrities, and people who looked like they'd been born knowing how to stand under lights.
The car pulled to a stop.
I don't belong here. The thought arrived uninvited, frustratingly familiar.
Then the door opened. Arthur extended his hand with calm certainty. "Killian is delayed. He'll arrive shortly."
April took it.
His hand was warm. Solid. The kind of grip that steadied you before you realized you needed it.
She stepped out carefully, one foot angled to avoid—
A puddle.
I was a puddle this morning.
Arthur's hand closed lightly at her elbow. Under his gaze, she felt like a different kind of spill—the kind with a thin film of oil that caught the light and turned the pavement into a rainbow. Still a mess. But iridescent.
"Careful," Arthur murmured. He didn't offer to carry her over it; instead waited for her to find her footing.
April stepped over the water and watched her reflection ripple and distort, oil-slicked and luminous before it vanished.
He studied her face like a balance sheet that didn't quite reconcile, then reached up and brushed his thumb against the corner of her mouth—a tiny smudge of lipstick that would've become a gossip column caption by morning. He wiped it away efficiently. "Now you're accurate."
Then his thumb pressed against her lower lip and lingered.
Heat sparked down her spine like a fault line flexing under pressure.
Arthur stepped back, his expression unchanged.
A few feet away, someone finished an interview. White silk. Platinum blue hair. A face like it had been designed by a committee of angels with a sizeable budget.
Jiro.
April suddenly understood why people screamed at concerts. It was too much light for one body to hold.
He thanked the interviewer, turned to leave, and then his gaze landed on Arthur.
"Arthur." Jiro's voice was warm, genuinely pleased. He walked over with the ease of a man who'd never met a room he didn't own.
"You're looking well," Jiro said, his eyes flicking briefly to April. "And in far better company than spreadsheets."
Arthur's mouth twitched. A smirk so small it might've been a rumor.
He said nothing.
Jiro waited.
Arthur continued to say nothing.
"Arthur," Jiro said again, a question threaded through it. "Who's your friend?"
Arthur didn't offer a name. Just tilted his head toward April, barely a movement—an acknowledgment and an invitation.
No one was going to do this for her.
Liam had called it armor. Built underneath so she wouldn’t fold when it mattered.
This was the matter.
"I'm April."
Jiro's attention shifted to her fully, and it felt like standing under stage lights—too bright, but clarifying. "I'm Jiro."
"Yes," April said. "I know."
Silence stretched. Her brain emptied, leaving her standing there with nothing but her own name.
"How was your day?" Jiro asked, his tone kind.
"I've had a day," she said, with a laugh that came out a little wild. "The kind that ends relationships and starts rumors. Turns out April Fools isn't a joke."
Jiro tilted his head. "Tell me."
And she did. She told him about Chad. About the cupcake—the actual object, the anniversary frosting she'd picked out carefully. The sounds she'd heard. The things she'd seen. The supply closet.
"I'm telling you this because Chad is a fan. Of you. Specifically."
Jiro's expression didn't change, but the air grew dense.
"He worships you," April continued. "He has your albums. He quotes your lyrics. He talks about your love songs like they're scripture."
She bit her lip.
"Imagine worshipping a man who writes love songs while you're out here treating someone's heart like you're choking a rubber chicken."
Jiro went very, very still.
April exhaled. The words were out. The truth was spoken. "I'm not asking you to do anything," April said quickly. "I just wanted someone to know. I don't want him to own the story anymore."
She stopped.
"Thank you for listening."