Chapter 5: The Glass Armor

Carrie

His hands were a fever.

I could feel the heat of them through the thin cotton of my scrubs, his fingers dragging a slow, heavy line from my waist to the small of my back. The scent of the sandalwood oil was suffocating, thick and sweet in the dim light of the room. In that moment, Jake wasn't just another patient anymore. He was a 6 foot plus embodiment of immense pleasure that I couldn’t get enough of. He pinned me against the edge of the treatment table, the cold metal biting into my hips.

"Carrie," he whispered, his warm breath smelling of Irish whiskey . "Give into me, stop holding back." He said. 

He pulled me closer, his chest a solid, thudding wall against mine. I should have pushed him away. I should have resisted with every fibre of my being, but my will power betrayed me. My hands were tangled in the dark silk of his hair, my heart a frantic bird trapped in my ribs. When he kissed me, it sent shivers down my spine. I couldn’t help but wonder to myself, how could one man’s kiss hold so much power over me? A question I wouldn’t get the answer to as his hands felt like an ocean ravaging my waist and stomach. I was giving into Jake, hard. 

I let out a soft, broken sound, my head falling back as his sumptuous lips made my decolletage it’’s home.  

My eyes snapped open.

I was staring at the ceiling of my apartment. The air was cold, the grey light of a Los Angeles dawn filtering through the slats of the blinds. My heart was still hammering a frantic rhythm against my chest, and the sheets were tangled around my legs like a trap.

I sat up, my skin damp with a cold sweat. I pressed my palms to my face, breathing in the scent of my own unscented laundry detergent, trying to scrub the phantom smell of sandalwood from my brain.

"It was a dream," I whispered to the empty room. "Just a dream."

But the weight of it stayed with me. The memory of his hands felt like a brand. I swung my legs out of bed, my feet hitting the hardwood with a sharp, grounding thud.

I wasn't falling for him. I couldn't. This was a business arrangement. A strategic play to get into his world and dismantle it from the inside. The dream wasn't attraction—it was just my brain processing the high-octane stress of work and Jake, 

I walked to the bathroom and splashed ice-cold water on my face. I looked at the woman in the mirror. The sharp bob, the cold eyes, the untouchable professional.

"Focus, Carrie," I told my reflection. "Tonight is the gala. Tonight, you walk the lion into the arena. Don't let a dream turn you into the bait."

By 6:00 PM, my apartment felt like a staging ground. Diane, the PR shark from Jake’s agency, had sent a team that treated me like a princess. It must have been how Mia in the princess diaries felt during her transformation scene. They didn't just dress me; they armored me.

The gown was a column of liquid gold—metallic silk that felt like a second skin. It was backless, the fabric dipping dangerously low to reveal the lean muscles of my spine, I felt like Kate Hudson in How To Lose a Guy In Ten Days.

"You look like a million dollars, Doctor," the lead stylist said, tucking a stray strand of my hair behind my ear.

"I look like five million bucks," I corrected, checking the time on my phone.

The plan for the evening was a tactical nightmare. We were debuting our "relationship" at the Global Sports Gala. No engagement yet—that was the "Final Act" Diane wanted to save for the board meeting. For now, we just had to prove that Jake Slater was a man in love, not a man in a medical crisis.

A black car was waiting downstairs. Not Jake’s SUV, but a nondescript luxury sedan sent by the agency. I stepped into the cool evening air, the gold silk hissing against the sidewalk.

When I reached the hotel, the chaos was already in full swing. The Beverly Hills Hotel was surrounded by a wall of flashbulbs and the roar of a crowd that sounded like a hungry animal.

The door opened, and Jake was already there, waiting at the edge of the red carpet.

He looked sharp enough to draw blood. A bespoke midnight-blue tuxedo, a crisp white shirt, and a look of such focused intensity that it made my breath hitch. He wasn't using the cane. He was standing upright, his weight shifted slightly to his left, his jaw set in a hard, jagged line.

He looked at me, and for a split second, the "Shark" vanished. His eyes traveled from my face down the length of the gold dress, and his throat moved in a heavy swallow.

"Carrie," he said.

"Mr. Slater," I replied, stepping into his space. "How is the hip?"

"It’s a scream," he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp meant only for me. "The numbing agent you gave me is the only thing keeping me from hitting the floor."

"Then lean into me," I said, sliding my arm through his. "Make it look like obsession, not instability."

The world turned white.

The paparazzi didn't just take photos; they screamed. Our names—Jake! Carrie! Dr. Vance!—were a chorus of noise that vibrated in my teeth. Jake moved with a slow, deliberate grace, his hand never leaving the small of my back. To the cameras, he was a man who couldn't keep his hands off his beautiful new girlfriend. To me, he was a man using my body as a human crutch.

We reached the center of the carpet, the very spot where his interview had happened two years ago. The same reporters were there, their microphones extended like spears.

"Jake! Is it true? Are you and Dr. Vance dating?"

"Dr. Vance, how does it feel to be the woman who finally caught Jake Slater’s eye?"

Jake stopped. He turned to the cameras, a brilliant, arrogant smile lighting up his face. He leaned down and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to my temple. The cameras went into a frenzy.

"I didn't catch his eye," I said, my voice projecting with a cold, clear authority that silenced the nearest reporters. "I just reminded him what’s worth looking at."

Jake’s arm tightened around me. For a second, I saw the look in his eyes—the gold flecks in the blue—and I realized he wasn't just acting. He was looking at me with a raw, terrifying pride.

And then, I saw him.

Standing near the entrance to the ballroom, holding a glass of champagne and looking like he’d finally made it into the room he didn't belong in, was Mark Sterling. My douchebag, cheating no-good ex-husband.

He was wearing a suit that was a cheap, shiny imitation of the one I had bought him on the night of our second anniversary.. Beside him was Tiffany, her dress too short and her smile too sharp, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for a camera to jump in front of.

Mark was staring at us, his mouth hanging open. He didn't recognize me. Not yet. To him, I was just the world-famous Dr. Vance, the woman standing on the arm of the man who held his entire future in a contract.

The sight of him sent a surge of pure, freezing adrenaline through my veins. Two years ago, he had stood in a club and called me a "helper." He had told me I smelled like hospital floors. Now, I was wearing more gold on my back than he would earn in a decade.

"Keep walking," I whispered to Jake, my fingers digging into his forearm.

"Who is it?" Jake asked, his voice strained with the effort of the walk.

"Nobody," I said. "Just a ghost I’m about to exorcise."

The ballroom was a cavern of crystal chandeliers and whispered secrets. We were seated at the head table, flanked by the representatives of the Vanguard Group—three men in grey suits who looked at Jake like they were waiting for a heart attack.

"The First Dance," Diane whispered, appearing behind us like a phantom. "The investors need to see you move, Jake. If you don't dance, the 'fitness-for-duty' hearing goes forward on Monday. They need to see you're functional."

Jake looked at me, a flash of genuine panic in his eyes. "Carrie, I can't. My hip is locking up. If I stand up, the joint is going to pop."

"Then you let me lead," I hissed.

I stood up, offering him my hand. The room went quiet. This was it. The moment of truth.

Jake took my hand. He stood up slowly, the effort visible in the set of his shoulders. I stepped into his space, wrapping my arms around his neck, forcing him to lean his weight entirely on me.

We moved onto the dance floor. The song was a slow, haunting cello piece. We didn't dance so much as we swayed, my body acting as the skeleton he no longer had. My hip was pressed into his, my gold silk dress a bridge between his pain and the world’s perception of his power.

"You're doing it," I whispered, my face buried in the crook of his neck.

"I'm only doing it because you're holding me up," he breathed. His hands were on my waist, his grip so tight it would leave bruise on my skin.

He pulled back just enough to look me in the eye. The gold silk of my dress caught the light, making me look like a goddess of fire. In the reflection of his eyes, I saw the woman I had become—and the woman I was pretending to be.

"Why are you doing this, Carrie?" he whispered. "Is it really just the five million?"

I looked at him, and for a second, the revenge felt far away. The memory of the dream flashed through my mind—the heat, the sandalwood, the broken sound I had made in my sleep.

"I want the whole world to see how much you need me, Jake," I said, my voice a dark, beautiful promise.

And then, he kissed me.

It wasn't a fake kiss for the cameras. It was a desperate, hungry, and terrified kiss. It was the kiss of a man who was drowning and had finally found a piece of driftwood in the middle of a storm.

The ballroom erupted in applause, the flashbulbs turning the room into a strobe light of white heat.

But as Jake’s lips pressed against mine, I didn't feel the heat. I felt the cold, hard weight of the trap I had set. Across the room, I saw Mark staring at us, his face pale as he finally realized who I was. I saw the recognition hit him like a physical blow.

The dance ended, and Jake leaned his forehead against mine, his breath ragged.

"We did it," he said.

"We did," I agreed.

I looked over his shoulder at the exit. The "Public Debut" was over. The trap was locked.

"Diane," I said into my earpiece as we walked off the floor. "Tell the car to be ready. Mr. Slater is done for the night."

As we walked past Mark’s table, I didn't stop. I didn't say a word. I just looked at him—one long, slow look that took in his cheap suit, his fading career, and his desperate girlfriend.

I didn't need to say anything. The gold dress and the man on my arm said it all.