Chapter 11

Zenith’s POV

My mind kept echoing Helton James’s words from earlier.

One week.

I had one week to convince my mother to go through with this… marriage. Fuck.

The thought tightened around my chest like a noose.

I looked at the rack of dresses the employee had just hung on the hooks. His polite smile lingered. “Need help with anything else, miss?”

I forced a tight smile and shook my head. “No, thank you.”

He nodded and left, and suddenly I was alone with the fabrics, and my spiraling thoughts.

Select one, Helton James had said.

Was this some kind of test? A weird assessment of my style? What was the point now? We’d already signed the contract. He’d already gotten what he wanted. Hadn’t he?

I bit my lower lip, chewing at the question that kept rising inside me.

What did he mean by celebrating? And why had he pulled back when he’d gotten so close, so close to kissing me?

I stared at the dresses. The overhead lights made their colors glow softly in the mirror. My stomach twisted.

Let’s be real. Helton James Blake was definitely in this for the sex. That much was clear. This contract, this night, all of it was a transaction.

Which meant I was probably heading to dinner, maybe a few polite smiles, and then… a hotel. Or his penthouse.

My stomach churned at the thought. Not because I was afraid, but because I wasn’t. That, somehow, felt worse.

I let out a long breath and looked at the dresses again.

Three choices.

The beige linen one was comfortable, sure. But it looked like loungewear, something I’d wear to water the plants or sip tea on a lazy Sunday morning. Not exactly billionaire-celebration material.

The white one was a fantasy. Something a goddess would wear, shimmering and ethereal, clinging to every curve. I’d probably look like I was drowning in tinsel. No, thank you.

That left the soft green chiffon dress. Elegant but not flashy. Feminine without trying too hard. Something that could belong to me.

Decision made, I reached behind me and began unzipping my black dress, the funeral dress I’d worn all day. I wrinkled my nose and gave myself a quick sniff. No body odor, thankfully. But I still felt like I was dragging a two-day-old version of myself around.

My stomach grumbled.

Right. The sandwich from the hospital cafeteria, the one Helton James had wordlessly handed me while we were waiting for the doctor.

I sighed as I zipped up the green dress, smoothing it down over my hips. The fabric was soft, flowy, light against my skin.

As I stepped out of the dressing room, the first thing I noticed was how his eyes found me instantly.

He was standing across the boutique, looking straight at me.

There was a flicker of something unreadable in his expression, intense, dark, focused. The kind of look that made your spine straighten without realizing it.

My cheeks heated.

I wasn’t the shy type. I didn’t flinch under male attention. Hell, I’d had a fiancé who couldn’t keep his hands to himself. But with Helton James… it wasn’t just attention.

It was scrutiny. Deep, unapologetic, intense.

And worse, it made me feel things. Things I didn’t want to feel. Especially tonight.

I cleared my throat. “What’s wrong? Don’t like the dress?”

His gaze flicked down, then up again. “No. Actually… it’s perfect.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Yeah. The fabric’s soft,” I said, touching the skirt absently. “And I like the color. Green’s always been my favorite.”

A fresh ache bloomed in my chest.

Dexter knew that.

No. Don’t go there.

But the memory crept in anyway. Our first date. The green gift box he had prepared for me, filled with green-themed snacks: chips, pastries, candies, and even a lime soda. We had laughed through trying every single one. Some were terrible. Some were delicious. Silly. Sweet. Thoughtful.

I had been one of the reasons I fell for him.

Because on that day, he hadn’t tried to impress me with wealth. He hadn’t flaunted the Blake name. He had met me on my level, created something fun, meaningful.

But that was a long time ago. Before I learned that Dexter had no idea how to love someone unless they were easy to like.

I swallowed and looked away.

We paid and left the store. Helton James didn’t say much, and I was grateful for it.

By the time we reached the restaurant, a sleek, modern place with warm lighting and live piano music, I was already mentally checking the clock. Dinner. Then hotel. Then whatever came next.

My stomach was too knotted to feel anything but anxious.

We ate. I don’t even remember what I ordered, something with sauce, something soft. He picked a wine that paired perfectly, naturally.

He remained steady the entire time, calm yet not intrusive.

Afterward, he held my coat and led me to the car.

We drove.

We stopped.

A hotel. Right next to the hospital.