“Damn, this is smooth,” I murmur. She laughs.
“Nelly is waiting for you for the manicure and pedicure.” She hands me a cream to help with the redness.
“Gel?” Nelly asks as I sit, and I nod.
“Almond-shaped, and—” I scan the display. “Burgundy.”
She smirks. “On the toes too?”
“Yes.” My chin tilts up. Confidence unfurls in me like a flame.
She gets to work. Warm soak, clipping, filing. My toes are wrapped in burgundy, lush and perfect against my skin.
“Special occasion?” she asks without looking up.
“Yes. Very special.” I smile. My plan runs over and over in my mind. The stalker thinks he controls me, dictates who can touch me. This time he won’t. My body, my decision.
“Toes done, let’s do your hands.” She pulls a small table forward. My hands tremble slightly as I give them to her. The nails aren’t too long but are longer than I’m used to. She shapes them with care, the polish gleaming rich and dark. They look classy, elegant, like something I’d never imagined on myself.
My thoughts drift to the dress. Second-hand, but perfect. Long, with a slit that climbs to my thigh. It cinches my waist, with the V-neck low but not too much. I’ll wear a strapless bra; the dress straps are too thin for anything else. Deep wine, almost the same shade as my nails. Black heels. Not quite the right match, but who cares?
“Done,” Nelly says, and I stare at my hands.
“Oh, these are gorgeous!” I squeal, looking at them like they’re diamonds.
Hair is next. Angie greets me with her usual big smile. “Same as always?”
I nod. She mixes the chocolate dye with a touch of red, stirs until it gleams thick and dark. The brush slides cold against my scalp. Section by section, she paints, folds foil, smooths it into place. The smell of chemicals clings to the air, strong and familiar.
When the timer dings, she rinses it all out, the warm water rushing over my head, fingers massaging my scalp. She trims the ends with careful snips. Then comes the blow-dry, hot air and round brush tugging until my hair falls sleek, glossy, alive with red glints under the light.
I run my fingers through it, my reflection catching me by surprise. My skin still tingles from the wax, my nails gleam, my hair glows.
Perfect.
Walking home my hands are ice-cold, and I keep rubbing them down my jeans.I can do this. I will do this.I repeat it in my head, over and over.
My apartment smells of vanilla and lavender. It’s supposed to be calming, soothing, but nothing works. I face the mirror. The dress clings like a second skin; no one would guess it’s cheap and second-hand. At least I hope no one notices.
It even hurts to swallow. My knuckles ache with how cold my hands are.
One last look in the mirror. “I can do this.” I whisper it aloud. Turning to the side, I glance at my backside. Oh, hell. My ass looks amazing. I slap it lightly and chuckle, nerves breaking through in the sound.
“Let’s do it.”
I pull on my long winter coat, covering almost the entire dress, and head to the car. The drive is filled with music. Safe and Sound by Capital Cities plays, and I sing along, a little shaky at first, then louder, feeling like I got my control back for the first time in years.
I’ve always been careful, always thinking ahead, never reckless. It’s time to change that.
The valet opens my door. “Good evening, Miss.”
“Good evening,” I reply, handing him the keys.
The mansion looms ahead, lit in gold. Gothic architecture and mid-century décor, with reds and golds glimmering everywhere. The place is crowded with the city’s wealthy: hotel owners, businessmen, faces I recognise and others I don’t.
My eyes catch his. Flynn Brady.
He’s at the bar, Kaden to his left. A tailored black suit, black shirt, black tie, shoes polished to glass. A tattoo peeks at his neck when he moves. The suit shapes his massive frame, broad shoulders tapering to a hard V. My chest tightens.
