“You’ll be expected to accompany me as my guest,” I continue. “There will be dinner, speeches, the usual charity auction. Formal attire is required.”
“I don’t have—“ she begins, then stops herself. “I’ll need to find something appropriate to wear.”
“It’s been handled,” I say.
Before she can ask what I mean, I notice she’s pushing food around her plate rather than eating it. I fix her with a steady look, letting my voice drop.
“Finish your food like a good girl,” I tell her.
Her eyes snap to mine. She knows exactly what that tone means.
“Afterward,” I add, holding her gaze, “Daddy has a surprise for you.”
The color that rises in her cheeks is immediate. Her fork is back in her hand without conscious thought, her body responding to my command before her mind has fully processed it.
“Yes, Daddy,” she says softly.
She lowers her eyes and takes a bite, then another, her movements precise and obedient. I watch her eat, something satisfied moving through me at the sight.
When she finishes everything on her plate, she looks up at me through her lashes.
“Good girl,” I murmur. “Very good.”
The smile that spreads across her face makes me have to look away from it, from the naked emotion there that threatens to undo me.
I push backfrom the table and extend my hand to her. She takes it without hesitation, her fingers small and warm against my palm.
We take the elevator to the east wing. The corridor is quiet, the overhead lights dimmed to their evening setting. We stop outside her door.
For a moment, I hesitate. What if she sees this as an imposition rather than a gift? What if she thinks I’m trying to change her instead of simply wanting to give her options she’s never had?
“Close your eyes,” I tell her, my voice rougher than I intended.
She complies immediately, her eyelids fluttering shut without question.
I open the door, place my hands on her shoulders, and guide her forward. The lights come on automatically. I position her in the center of the space, then step back.
“Open your eyes.”
She does, then goes completely still.
For a long moment, she just stares, her breath caught in her throat.
The room has been transformed. A clothing rack runs the entire length of one wall, dense with garments in a spectrum of colors and fabrics. Blouses, skirts, pants, sweaters, dresses for every occasion. Shoe boxes stacked neatly beside it. On the dresser, discreet bags contain lingerie and accessories.
An entire wardrobe for a woman who arrived on my mountain with barely enough to fill a single drawer.
“What...” Nola’s voice is barely audible. She takes a step forward, then another, moving toward the rack as if in a trance. “What is this?”
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You need appropriate attire for the gala. And for other occasions.”
She turns to look at me over her shoulder, disbelief clear on her face. “Other occasions?”
“Life doesn’t stop at one gala, Nola.”
She turns back to the rack, her hand reaching out slowly, fingers trailing over the fabrics like she’s afraid they might disappear at her touch. Silk, cashmere, fine cotton. Textures I take for granted but that I suspect she’s rarely owned. Her movements are slow, methodical, savoring each discovery rather than rushing through.
Then she reaches the end of the rack, where the evening wear hangs.
