Chapter Five #2
And yet it feels lived in. Shae’s touch is everywhere. A stack of books on the coffee table. A half finished mug of tea on the counter. A blanket thrown over the back of the sofa in a way that breaks the perfection just enough to make the place feel human.
But beneath all of it, there is a quiet hum of power. Old money. Generational wealth. Influence that does not need to be spoken aloud.
I sit there taking it all in, feeling the weight of it settle on my shoulders. Shae grew up in this. Kade grew up around this. This is their normal.
“Come on, we haven’t got long before we’re meeting the guys!” Shae squeals from the stairwell, I hesitantly follow her deeper into the house and up the stairs, keeping my hands firmly planted at my sides, afraid to knock into something and owe her more money than I paid for my home.
“I knew you came from money, but fucking hell Shae, this is ridiculous.” I mumble, her eyes sadden slightly.
“I’m still me Mara. All of this, doesn’t mean shit if people only see me for the things I own.
” Her voice is sad, like people are often quick to judge her.
I lean forward and take her hands in mine “I’m not judging you.
Trust me.” “Good, now lets get you ready.” She stands abruptly and heads into her closet, after a few minutes she resurfaces with arms filled with various dresses my eyes widen.
She places them all down in front of her “Right I’m going to need you to pick a few and try them on.” She stands back with a shit-eating grin on her face, I roll my eyes but stand anyway, making my way over to her, my hand skims the expensive fabric, settling on a few of the darker colored options.
I head into the closet and start changing into the options that I’ve picked out.
Her reaction to four of them don’t fill me with much hope.
“Next!” she claps her hands together like someone judging a model audition, I chuckle and walk back into the closet.
Shae had made me try on five dresses, each one more dramatic than the last, but the moment I stepped into the black satin gown with the severe neckline and the exposed sides threaded with silver cords, she stopped me mid-turn and told me not to move.
I could feel her eyes on me as she circled, taking in the way the fabric clung to my frame and caught the light, the way the slit climbed high enough to show the curve of my hip when I shifted my weight.
It felt engineered rather than sewn, a dress meant to sharpen me rather than decorate me.
I didn’t feel swallowed by it the way I had with the others.
I felt defined. Claimed by the silhouette.
Shae paired it with towering black platform heels that forced my posture into something regal and unyielding, the kind of shoes that made my legs look endless and my presence impossible to ignore.
Once the dress was chosen, Shae pulled me to her vanity with the kind of excitement only she could get away with.
She started with my eyes, deepening my usual smoky look into something feral.
Charcoal melted into black, pulled outward into a sharp wing that made my gaze predatory.
She lined my waterline in kohl and added spiked lashes that cast shadows across my cheekbones.
My skin was kept pale and sculpted, contour carved under the cheekbones, a faint highlight catching the light without softening me.
She chose a muted wine shade for my lips, dark enough to ground the look but subtle enough not to compete with my eyes.
When I looked at myself in the mirror, I barely recognized the woman staring back.
Shae only smiled, pleased with the transformation she had engineered.
My hair was the part she took the most pride in.
My bob was short, sharp, and usually low-maintenance, but Shae treated it like a canvas.
She blow-dried it smooth, giving it a glossy, glass-cut finish, then added subtle bends through the ends to create movement without softness.
She tucked one side behind my ear to expose the line of my jaw and let the other fall forward just enough to frame my face with quiet ferocity.
She misted something expensive over it that made it shine under the lights, turning the short cut into a statement rather than an afterthought. It felt intentional. It felt powerful.
The accessories were where her taste truly showed.
She chose silver hoops with a thin chain that draped from the lobe to the upper cartilage, delicate yet sharp.
She refused to add a necklace, unwilling to break the clean line of the dress.
Instead, she stacked silver rings on my fingers, each one different, some smooth, some textured, one shaped like a thorned vine that wrapped around my knuckle.
A single polished cuff sat on my right wrist, catching the light with every movement.
She handed me a small black clutch with a metal spine detail running down the center, an accessory that felt more like a weapon than a bag.
When she finally stepped back to take in the full effect, I felt transformed.
Not softened. Not beautified. Refined into something dangerous and deliberate.
I didn’t look like someone going clubbing.
I looked like a dark omen walking into the night, a woman carved from intention and shadow, the kind of presence that makes people stare first and breathe second.
Kade
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I stand outside Shae’s house and the moment my foot hits the stone pathway, the old memories start rising, thick and suffocating, the kind that never really die no matter how many years you put between yourself and the place that made them.
The house looks the same as it did when I was a kid, too big, too polished, too full of echoes I spent years trying to forget.
The pain comes first, then the torment, then the quieter moments that were somehow worse, the ones that taught me to keep my voice down and my head low.
It all claws its way up my throat until my fitted shirt feels too tight across my chest, the fabric itching against my skin as if it is trying to choke me.
My trousers feel constricting, every seam pressing into me with the weight of a childhood I never asked for.
I try to take a steady breath, but it catches halfway, thin and useless, and the air refuses to settle in my lungs.
I start pacing without meaning to, my shoes tapping against the paved path in a rhythm that grows sharper with every step.
Back and forth. Back and forth. The sound grates against my nerves, but stopping feels impossible.
My thoughts are too loud, too fast, too tangled with the past I thought I had buried.
I tell myself to breathe. I tell myself to get it together before Shae opens the door and sees me falling apart on her front step.
None of it works. The house looms above me, beautiful and expensive and full of ghosts, and I feel myself slipping back into the version of me that learned to survive inside it.
The door swings open before I can force myself still. Shae stands there in her signature style, effortless and bright, framed by the warm light spilling from the foyer behind her. I barely register her greeting. Because then I see her.
Mara.
And everything inside me stops.
For a second I forget how to breathe. The panic that had been clawing at my throat from being back at this house is replaced by something sharper, something hotter, something that hits me so hard I have to lock my jaw to keep it from showing.
She stands there in that dress she chose, the one Shae practically worshiped, and it fits her in a way that makes my pulse stutter.
Black satin clings to her frame, catching the light and turning her into something carved from shadow.
The sides are open, threaded with silver cords that reveal flashes of skin that make my thoughts fracture.
The slit climbs high up her thigh, exposing the curve of her hip when she shifts her weight.
The heels make her taller, make her posture unyielding, make her look like she owns the ground she stands on.
Her hair is down, styled into a glossy, sharp bob that frames her face with a kind of quiet ferocity.
It moves when she does, catching the light, drawing my eyes to the line of her jaw and the curve of her mouth.
Her makeup is darker than usual, her eyes smoky and predatory, her lips a muted wine shade that makes her look dangerous in a way I have never seen before.
Silver hoops with a chain glint against her skin.
Rings stack along her fingers, one shaped like a thorned vine that wraps around her knuckle.
A polished cuff gleams on her wrist. She holds a black clutch with a metal spine detail that makes it look more like a weapon than an accessory.
I feel something cold and violent settle in my chest. Not anger.
Not jealousy. Something deeper. Something territorial.
Something I have spent years pretending I do not feel.
She looks unreal. She looks untouchable.
She looks like she stepped out of a world I do not belong to, and the thought of anyone else seeing her like this makes my stomach twist. I can feel the old memories of this house clawing at me, but they are drowned out by the sight of her.
She is the only thing I can focus on. The only thing I can think about. The only thing that matters.
She meets my eyes and everything inside me tightens.
Her expression is guarded, unsure, maybe even nervous, but she is trying to hide it.
She always tries to hide it. I want to step toward her.
I want to touch her. I want to pull her away from the doorway and away from the house and away from every memory that is trying to drag me under.
I want to tell her she should not look this good in front of anyone but me.
I want to tell her she has no idea what she is doing to me.