Chapter 37 Bippity-Boppity-Buy It
Bippity-Boppity-Buy It
Emilia stared at the invitation, her lips pressed into a thin line. The gold lettering shimmered under the light, elegant and taunting all at once.
“You are cordially invited to the Royal Historical Society Gala…”
She set it down on the kitchen counter like it might catch fire.
“I don’t know if I want to go,” she admitted.
Harper, perched on a stool with a glass of wine in hand, didn’t even look up. “That’s nice. You’re going.”
Emilia groaned. “I really don’t think I—”
“It’s your exhibition, Emmy,” Harper said, finally turning to face her with an unimpressed stare.
“This is literally the biggest professional moment of your career. The gala before your exhibition. Where your work will be on display. Where every historian, curator, and donor with influence will be in one place, making decisions about what projects get funding next. So yeah, babe, you’re going. ”
Emilia folded her arms, jaw tight. “You know who else will be there.”
Harper sighed. “Yes, obviously. But he’s not why you should go. You are not going to let the crown prince of terrible romantic decisions derail your entire future.”
Emilia rubbed her temples. “It’s just—seeing him. It’s going to be torture, Harper. I told him it was over. Walking into that room, looking at him across the crowd, knowing I can’t—” She cut herself off. “It’s going to hurt.”
Harper softened, just a little. “Yeah. It is.” She reached for her wine, taking a thoughtful sip. “But you know what would hurt worse?”
Emilia arched an eyebrow.
“Letting him take this from you too,” Harper said.
Emilia exhaled, rubbing a hand over her face. “You are incredibly annoying when you’re right.”
“I know,” Harper said smugly. “Now, next problem—what are you wearing?”
Emilia groaned again, already regretting this conversation.
Later that night, when Emilia had gone to bed, Harper sat cross-legged on her own bed, scrolling through her phone. She hesitated for half a second before calling Sebastian.
The line rang three times before he picked up.
“Harper,” he answered, voice tinged with amusement. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I need a favor,” Harper said, cutting straight to the point.
Sebastian made an intrigued noise. “This sounds promising. Continue.”
“It’s about Emilia,” Harper said. “And your tragically lovesick friend.”
“Ah.” The single syllable carried an entire novel’s worth of meaning.
“So you know.”
“That Alexander looks like he’s starring in a period drama about doomed love? Yes, I’m aware.”
Harper snorted. “Yeah, well, Emilia’s not exactly thriving either. She’s trying to be all noble about it, but she looks miserable. And the worst part?”
“Do tell.”
“She wants to go to the gala. Needs to go, professionally. But she’s convincing herself she shouldn’t because of him.” Harper huffed a breath. “So I’m making sure she goes anyway. But she refuses to let me buy her a dress, and she definitely doesn’t have gala money lying around.”
Sebastian chuckled. “Ah. And this is where I come in.”
“You’re rich and you like causing problems on purpose,” Harper said. “This felt like a natural solution.”
Sebastian paused, considering. “She won’t take it if she knows it’s from me.”
“Exactly. So we don’t tell her.”
“Devious,” Sebastian mused, clearly impressed. “Alright. I know a boutique. I’ll set something up. You just have to get her there.”
Harper grinned. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll handle that part.”
* * *
Two days later, Harper knocked on Emilia’s door, coffee in hand.
“Get dressed,” she announced the second Emilia opened it.
Emilia blinked, still in her pajamas. “We’re doing this early?”
Harper handed her the coffee. “We’re doing this now.”
“I don’t—”
“You said yes to the gala,” Harper reminded her. “And you also said you have nothing to wear. I found a few places that won’t bankrupt you.”
Emilia narrowed her eyes. “I’m setting a budget, Harper.”
“Obviously,” Harper said, smiling a little too innocently.
Emilia shot her a look and then trudged off to change, grumbling under her breath.
She was still grumbling when they arrived at the boutique, but her complaints died the second she stepped inside.
This was not a budget-friendly place.
The air smelled expensive. The mannequins wore couture. The lighting was so soft and elegant it probably cost more than her tuition had.
“Harper,” Emilia said slowly, “what is this?”
“A lovely boutique with excellent taste,” Harper replied breezily.
Before Emilia could make a run for it, a familiar voice drawled, “Ah, right on time.”
Emilia whirled.
Sebastian.
“No,” she said immediately. “Absolutely not. I know what’s happening here.”
Sebastian smirked. “Do you? Because I was under the impression that you needed a dress.”
“I needed an affordable dress,” Emilia shot back, crossing her arms. “This place does not look affordable.”
Harper clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Babe. It’s already handled.”
“No! I am not letting either of you—”
Sebastian held up a hand. “Relax, darling. I have a vested interest in making sure you show up to this gala looking devastatingly good, if only for the satisfaction of watching Alexander lose his mind.”
Emilia groaned. “You are the worst.”
“And yet, here you are.”
Harper patted her arm. “Just try some on. Humor us.”
Emilia gave them both a long, exasperated look. Then, sighing, she snatched the nearest gown off the rack. “Fine. One dress. But if I hate it, we’re leaving.”
Harper and Sebastian exchanged a victorious glance as she stalked toward the fitting rooms.
A few minutes later, Emilia pulled the curtain back, the deep green gown skimming her frame perfectly. She turned toward them, expression guarded.
Sebastian, for once, didn’t have a quip ready. Emilia looked good—stunning, even—and for a split second, the thought hit him before he could stop it: Alexander is a lucky bastard. It wasn’t longing, not exactly, but something adjacent, a quiet pang of something he didn’t care to examine.
Harper grinned. “Yeah. That’s the one.”
Emilia sighed. “I hate you both.”
Sebastian, recovered from his rare moment of speechlessness, smirked. “Oh, you’ll hate me more when you see the matching accessories.”
Harper beamed. “See? You’re going to be the most brilliant, successful, and drop dead gorgeous woman at the gala. And that, my dear, is called winning.”
Emilia just groaned.
But she did agree to get the dress.