“Is it small enough to slip into my weekend bag?”
“No.” My palm rakes against her back, falling lower and lower still until it reaches the gentle curve of her ass and fills my hand with a firm squeeze. “I’ll bring it to Golden Oak. You take care of your hair and makeup, and then you can slip into it as soon as you arrive.”
“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”
“I told you, you’d never have to worry about a thing, did I not?”
I leave her side and wander to the other end of my desk, pulling out a drawer and handing her a red Cartier box.
“Here,” I say. “A replacement for the necklace you broke.”
She holds my gaze, frozen.
She hated that necklace. I’ve never seen a woman tear off a Cartier diamond necklace like that before. And amidst all the word vomit happening that particular day, I distinctly recall her comparing it to an animal collar, which she heavily resented.
I crack open the box and present a pair of champagne diamond earrings. Two warm, golden stones set in rose gold dance in the natural sunlight. “Try them on.”
Bellamy’s hand glides over her chest. “They’re beautiful, Dane. Thank you.”
“I know you hated the necklace.”
“I did.”
She takes the box and removes a diamond earring, cupping it in her palm and examining the facets and the way they dance in her hand.
“These are still an item of ownership,” I remind her. “But I hope this one will make you a little more comfortable.”
“These I can do.” There she goes with that smile again, the one that gives her rosy cheeks a faint glow and sends a shimmer to her sky blues.
This isn’t good.
TWENTY-FOUR
BELLAMY
My heart pounds hard in my ears, the same ears donning an exquisite pair of champagne diamond earrings.
The house is asleep. It’s just past ten. My father is sleeping at Kath’s tonight, and my sister and mother are out cold. A soft glow from the light above the kitchen stove lights the path down the stairs, and my keys are clenched tight in my hand, ensuring they don’t make as much as a jingle.
I’m a vision of mascara and lipstick, hair-sprayed hair, and Dane’s favorite perfume. Jeans and a t-shirt hug my body now, but they’re only temporary. Within an hour, I’ll be squeezing myself into the most elegant Italian silk dress I’ve ever laid eyes on.
I take the steps one at a time and in slow motion, my sweaty palm slicking down the oak railing. When I make it to the landing, I take a deep breath and tiptoe to the front door, pressing my body weight into the lock in an attempt to muffle any clicking sound that might echo through the quiet house.
A gentle snap and the careful twisting of the knob precede my freedom, and I pull the door closed behind me soft and slow. My heels click loud against the concrete of the front porch, and I waste no time yanking them off and sprinting barefoot in the grass until I get to the Land Rover.
As soon as I’m in, I press the ignition, and it comes to life, purring like a sleepy kitten. I glance up at the house one final time, ensuring it’s still as pitch black as it was when I left it and press the HOME button on the GPS.
“Forty-six minutes until you reach your destination,” the robotic woman’s voice informs me.
***
His road is dark and lined with a canopy of thick, ancient oaks and smack dab in the middle of nowhere. I spotted his estate from down the road, shining like some sort of beacon. A lavish party is happening behind those walls, the kind of event I never would’ve dreamt of being a part of in a million years.
I stop at the gate and press the call button.
“Golden Oak,” a man says through the speaker. “Name please?”
“Bellamy Miller.”
The black metal gates clink and part, and I drive forward, pulling up to a two-story porte-cochere and parking behind a white limo. A young man in a tuxedo runs to my door, opening it and doing a double take when he sees I’m in jeans.
My cheeks flush hot. I don’t think I’m supposed to come in this way.
“Is there another entrance?”
“Mademoiselle?” An older French woman in a gray dress comes out of the shadows. “Mademoiselle Miller?”
“Y-yes.” I point at myself.
“This way, please.”
She takes me by the crook of my arm and pulls me to a side door, whisking me up a private set of stairs. The faint lull of conversation mixed with laughter travels up the winding stairs.
“Monsieur Townsend is expecting you.” She smiles until her gaze falls to my jeans and t-shirt.
I follow her to a grand suite where my dress is hanging up against a tri-fold mirror.
“Anything you may need is in the en suite bath,” she says, glancing at her watch. “Fifteen minutes. I’ll wait out here and take you down.”
“Thank you,” I say. “What was your name again?”
“Mathilde.”
“Thank you, Mathilde. I’ll be just a minute.” I shut the door behind her and tear out of my clothes, careful not to unravel the flawless chignon I managed to twist my hair into before I left. A black lace thong and matching strapless bra rest in a pale pink box on a tufted chair in the corner. I slip into those and step into the black evening gown. A final spin in front of the mirror, and I’m ready.
When I pull the door open, I’m not expecting to see Dane, but there he is.
“Oh. Hi.” I bite away a smile, feeling my face flush from the way his eyes devour me from where he stands.
“I heard you were here,” he says, pushing into the dressing room and shutting the door behind him. “I couldn’t wait.”
“Who’s impatient now?”
“Watch the way you speak to me, Bellamy.” He reaches behind me, giving my rear a pinch. “Did you forget who’s doing the tying and cuffing tonight?”
“Are you threatening me, Master?”
I’m flirting with my Master, and I’m not even sure that’s allowed, but he’s letting me. Something about him feels different lately. Our dynamic has shifted. He’s lighter around me, shedding layers perhaps. I’m not sure he knows he’s doing it, but I’m not about to point it out.
He leans in, nipping my earlobe. The heat of his breath against my neck sends goose bumps down my arm that travel a bit further and exacerbate the warmth that’s resided in my core all week. The gentle scratch of the lace fabric against my cleft is torture, but being pressed against a tuxedoed Dane who looks about three seconds from ripping my dress off is even more so.
A knock at the door disrupts our private party.
“Monsieur.” It’s Mathilde. “You’re needed downstairs. The caterers would like a word with you, and Senator Harris would like to say goodbye before he leaves.”
“A senator?” I ask. “What kind of party is this again?”
“A charity gala.” He takes my hand in his, leading me down the stairs like a debutant. Before we round the corner to the final set of stairs, he turns to me and stops. “You look beautiful tonight, Bellamy.”
“Thank you.” I reach for my champagne earrings, twisting them.
“Tonight you’re my date,” he says. “Stay next to me. You don’t need to walk behind me or hang your head. Tonight you just need to be yourself.”
Dane brings the top of my hand to his lips, offering a small kiss that only serves to reiterate that I’m a classy lady tonight.
We float down the stairs hand in hand, all eyes on us the moment we hit the landing. A pianist plays on a polished Steinway in the corner, and I instantly recognize Chopin’s Nocturne 20.
“Chopin,” I say with a happy sigh.
“You like Chopin?” A server with a tray of champagne passes, pausing before us long enough for Dane to grab two flutes.
“I don’t like. I love.” Growing up, our music options were always relegated to classical or Christian. Chopin was my Nirvana. My musical escape.
Everything about this night has my name on it.