A Dress For The Banquet.

Chapter 19.

Jasmine sat on the bed, anger boiling within her blood.

“Bastard!” She cursed, kicking her fit in the air.

Her breath came in shallow huffs, her chest rising and falling with a wild rhythm that had nothing to do with exhaustion. It was fury. Fury and the stubborn ache that still throbbed between her thighs like a low, haunting memory. Nothing would have prepared her for the way her body reacted so naturally to him. Even after running a cool bath to decipher every burn and desire stirring up in her body, she still couldn’t get herself to move past the desire and the hunger that was now etched on her skin.

She pulled the robe tighter against her chest, sitting at the edge of the bed, her mind running in dizzying loops. Her skin still tingled where he touched. Her pulse still fluttered every time she thought of his voice in her ear, the warmth of his fingers, the way he pulled back just when she was at the edge of surrender.

“Asshole,” she muttered again, fists balling up in her robe.

A gentle knock came in on the door, pulling Jasmine out of her trance.

She blinked, eyes snapping to the sound like she’d been shot from a dream. Her body tensed. She stared at the door for a second, hesitant to take the door.

Her jaw clenched. With slow, reluctant steps, she dragged her feet against the floor, arranging her robe to cover the exposed part of her body. Her fingers fumbled at the belt of her robe, tying it tighter, guarding herself not just from whoever stood behind that door—but from the lingering heat that still crawled beneath her skin.

When she got to the door, a maid was standing in front of the door with a box.

Jasmine glared at the maid, unmoving.

Her eyes drifted to the item in the maid’s hands. The outfit didn’t seem like the usual red room attire. There was something more elegant about the box—something intentional.

“Good evening, Miss.”

Jasmine let out a cordial nod, her eyes asking questions that her mouth barely did.

Her stare sharpened, silently probing.

“The boss asked that I bring this to you…”

Jasmine reached out to the box, taking it from the maid’s hand.

Her fingers curled around it, slowly.

“If you don’t mind, what is the outfit for?”

The maid hesitated for a minute then she looked outside the door to be certain no one was staring at her.

Her head turned slightly, eyes darting down the hallway before returning to Jasmine with a whisper.

“During the sunlight days, the boss organizes a banquet for mafia celebration. He said it’s to celebrate the years of achievement, but our boss is not a party type, so rumor has it that he is holding the banquet to celebrate his first love.”

Jasmine’s eyes widened slightly.

“First love?” the word stumbled out of her lips like it was forbidden. But Jerald appeared too brooding to have places in his heart for a woman.

Her lips parted as if the idea scratched something deep. Jerald… in love?

The maid’s head fell into a gentle nod.

“The Boss has a first love and he uses every sunlight days festival to celebrate their anniversary.”

Jasmine’s brows knitted. If he had a lover, why then was he cheating on her with submission?

“This first love of his… Where is she?”

The maid glanced around again. “Many said she left him, many said she died, and some said she never even existed.”

Jasmine glared at the maid, uncertain of what to answer.

Her lips stretched into a gentle smile. “Thank you,” she said to the maid in a tone so calm, yet dismissive.

The maid let out a gentle nod and just like that, she vanished.

The door clicked shut behind her.

The moment the door closed, Jasmine let out a deep eye-roll. Her chest rose slowly, tension catching in her breath. People really be meeting during the sunlight days.

Indeed, everyone had what troubled them.

While she was here trying to get over the massacre of her family which happened during the sunlight period, a man was here celebrating the anniversary of a first love he met during that period. Someone whose whereabouts weren’t determined.

The irony clawed at her nerves.

Everyone sure had what bothered them, and for some reason, it bothered Jasmine that Jerald had the heart to celebrate something as flimsy as this.

A bitter scoff escaped her lips as her eyes moved to the box.

She glared at the box which was now resting on the table.

“Dick head!” She cursed, wondering what he would look like tomorrow.

Would he be dressed in the same cold smugness? Or would he wear the ghost of someone long gone, grieving in silence beneath the wine glasses and candlelight?

She moved closer to the box and ran a single finger along the edge, her pulse ticking slightly. There was something about the unopened box… like it carried answers she didn’t want to confront.

Her stomach twisted.

And yet… she knew she’d wear it. Whatever it was. She’d go.

Because something in her burned too deeply to stay away.

She wanted to know more about this… about this Mafia world. Perhaps she could get answers to the questions disturbing her. Perhaps she could find a link to the man who whipped her entire family off existence.

As Jasmine turned from the box, ready to distract her mind from Jerald and whatever twisted romance he clung to—

Her phone made a buzz and a message lit up the screen of her phone.

An unknown number hovered against her screen.

Her brows knitted and she tapped on the message.

“You’re not the only one he’s dressing up for the night. Don’t fall for the beast’s games. See you tomorrow, Little submits.”

Jasmine’s hand stiffened over the screen.

Her pulse dropped and just like that… the cliff beneath her feet cracked open.

She glared at the message that was staring right back at her and for an unknown reason her chest tightened in something. She should be worried.

She should be worried that she was getting messages like this from a stranger, worried that someone cared too much that Jerald sent her a dress, that this person knew her and yet she didn't know what the person looked like in both appearance and personality, but that didn't bother her, what bothered her was the ache between her chest, the one that tightened so hard from knowing that he gave another a dress.