I hate waking up alone.It’s a good thing Gabriel’s not here to see my epic pout because he’d probably laugh at me for being ridiculous.
Or maybe he’d love it.
It’s a toss up.
I roll over, reaching for the solid heat of my husband, hoping I’m wrong and that he’s still here, but all I grab is a handful of cold sheets. My stomach sinks and for some stupid reason, my eyes start to burn.
Gabriel’s gone. The dent in the pillow is the only proof he was here at all, even though my skin still feels sensitive from where he touched me last night.
A thick cream card sits on the nightstand, propped up against the lamp so I can’t miss it.
I’ll see you at dinner, my love. Rest. —G
The note is so Gabriel. Bossy and possessive with no wasted words.
A month ago, a note like that would’ve made me want to throat punch him for telling me what to do. Now? I trace the sharp angles of his handwriting and feel a little flutter in my chest that I refuse to call swooning. Nope, it’s just heartburn from the baby or something.
I absolutelydo notlike being told what to do.
Then again… When he takes charge, it means he’s handling everything so I don’t have to.
And even I can admit that’s kind of nice.
I kick the covers off and slide out of bed, stealing a t-shirt from Gabriel’s drawer to cover up before padding over to the full-length mirror.
I yank the hem up.
The ugly purple marks Ryder left on my ribs are finally fading. They’ve turned that gross, sickly yellow-green color that means they’re healing, but at least it doesn’t look like I got hit by a truck anymore. My cheek is better, too. Nothing a little concealer won’t fix.
My hand drifts to my stomach as I turn to the side.
It still looks flat, but it feels different. Harder. There’s a secret in there, a little tether to the man who is currently out there conquering the world.
"It’s almost over," I tell the girl in the mirror.
There are only a couple of days until I have to walk back into the Emerald Hills Country Club.
Until I get to stand in the same room where they tried to break me, and show them that I’m made of stronger stuff than they thought.
I drop the shirt and turn toward the closet.
Just for fun, I want to try on the dress and picture the look on Ryder’s face when he finds out I’m his new stepmom.
The garment bag hangs by itself on a rack in the middle of the apartment-sized walk-in closet.
I unzip the bag, the sound loud in the quiet room. The fabric spills out—stark, blinding white.
Harper called it a wedding dress. I call it a middle finger to everyone who doubted me.
I toss the t-shirt on the floor and step into the silk. The lining is cool, sliding over my hips like water. It takes some serious gymnastics to get the zipper up without aggravating my sore ribs, but once it’s on, it fits like it was painted on.
I step out into the main bedroom where the lighting doesn't suck.
Holy shit.
I don’t even recognize myself.
The white fabric pools around my feet, broken by a slit that goes high enough on my left thigh that I can’t wear underwear. The neckline plunges deep, framing my chest in a way that’s definitely not modest. It’s white—not ivory, not cream, but a pure, icy white that makes my skin look luminous and my dark hair look like ink.
