Chapter 12: Lace

By the time evening arrived, I’d been passed between so many hands I’d lost count, my sense of time slipping away somewhere between the third round of makeup and the endless discussion of which crystals best matched the gown waiting for me.

A hairstylist arrived first, a sharp, elegant woman who introduced herself with a name I recognized even from my sheltered upbringing — the most sought-after stylist in the entire region, the kind of artist packs supposedly waited months to book for their most important events, weddings and coronations and the rare gathering significant enough to justify the expense. She worked in near-silence, twisting sections of my hair into an elaborate arrangement that somehow still looked effortless, pinning tiny crystals into the strands that caught the light every time I moved my head even slightly.

“Why all this?” I finally asked, watching her reflection in the mirror rather than my own, unable to shake the feeling that I was being prepared for something far more significant than a simple dinner. “It’s just dinner.”

She only smiled, tight-lipped and diplomatic, the smile of someone paid handsomely not to answer questions like that.

The makeup artist who followed worked with the same silent precision, brushing color across my cheeks and lips until I looked like a version of myself I barely recognized — polished, luminous, the kind of woman who belonged on the arm of a man like Jason Salford, even if every instinct in my body still rebelled against the idea.

By the time they finished and finally left me alone, the sun had already started sinking toward the horizon outside my balcony doors, painting the room in soft amber light.

I approached the gown still hanging on its stand, my nerves fluttering despite my best efforts to stay unaffected by any of this. The dress laced up the back rather than zipping, I realized once I’d stepped into it and pulled it up over my shoulders, an elaborate crisscross of ribbon and crystal-studded eyelets that required hands I didn’t have behind my own back.

I twisted, reaching awkwardly over my shoulder, managing to catch the first few laces before my arms simply couldn’t bend far enough to manage the rest. Frustration built with every failed attempt, the dress gaping open at my spine, my reflection in the vanity mirror looking increasingly helpless no matter how I contorted myself.

“Need help?”

I froze at the sound of the voice behind me, my pulse spiking before I’d even turned to confirm who it belonged to.

Jason stood in the doorway, already dressed for the evening in a dark suit that fit him with the kind of precision only obscene wealth could buy, watching me struggle with an expression that hovered somewhere between amusement and something warmer.

“This may be your mansion,” I said, gathering the front of the dress against my chest to preserve whatever dignity I had left, “but that doesn’t give you the right to barge into my room while I’m half-dressed. That’s disrespectful, Mr. Salford.”

“I only came to help you out, honey.” He stepped further into the room, entirely unbothered by my tone, the corner of his mouth curving with obvious amusement.

“Don’t call me that.” The words came out sharper than I intended, some old wound flaring at the casual endearment, at how easily it rolled off his tongue like he’d already decided I belonged to him in every sense of the word, the same way Sherwood used to call me sweetheart right before every lie.

He smiled, slow and unbothered, and crossed the remaining distance between us before I could formulate a proper protest. His hands settled at my waist first, gentle despite everything I knew him capable of, turning me slightly so my back faced him fully.

“Hold still.” His voice had dropped into something quieter, more intimate than the confident authority he usually carried through every room he entered.

I should have argued. I should have insisted I could manage on my own, should have demanded he leave and send one of the staff instead. Instead I stood frozen, watching his reflection in the vanity mirror as he studied the tangled laces at my spine.

“You’ve made a mess of this,” he murmured, though there was no real criticism in it, only quiet observation.

“The dress is impossible,” I shot back, though my voice had lost some of its earlier bite.

“It’s not impossible.” His fingers found the first loose lace, drawing it gently through its eyelet. “It simply requires patience. And someone who knows what they’re doing.”

He began working the laces slowly, one careful pull at a time, his knuckles occasionally brushing bare skin along my spine in a way that sent a shiver through me I couldn’t fully suppress. I watched his face in the mirror rather than my own, searching for some hint of mockery, some proof that this was simply another move in whatever game he thought he was winning.

I found none. Only quiet concentration, and something gentler underneath it that unsettled me far more than his usual arrogance ever had.

What was his plan for tonight?