Words I don’t dare say out loud. But more like a silent promise.
Time stands stillas we lie tangled in the sheets. The world around us is quiet, except for the sound of my heartbeat and Ivory’s gentle breathing. Her cheeks hold a rosy glow, her skin still glowing from our lovemaking, noticing the slight tremble in her limbs when she shifts against me. The flutter of her eyelashes tells me she’s fighting sleep, her body completely spent. I wish I could capture this moment and bottle it up. Her perfect vulnerability, the trust in her half-lidded eyes, this haven we’ve created apart from the chaos of real life.
I press a kiss to her forehead and slide out of bed, tucking the sheets around her. “Stay here, angel,” I tell her, my voice laced with something that’s not just lust. “Let me take care of you.”
She nods, letting her eyes drift closed again as I pad to the bathroom. I run a warm bath, not too hot, pouring in something that says it's lavender, from a glass bottle on the counter. The water foams, and I test it with my hand, making sure it’s the right temperature before going back for her.
I lift her, naked and boneless, in my arms. “You don’t have to do this,” she whispers, but her voice is small and grateful.
“I want to,” I tell her. “Let me spoil you for a while.”
I carefully lower her into the bath, climbing in to settle behind her so she can lean against my chest. The water laps against her shoulders. She sighs, letting the tension melt from her muscles. I grab the sponge, letting it run water over her hair, again and again, until it’s completely soaked. I grab the shampoo, something expensive that smells like wildflowers and a little like her, and gently lather it into her scalp, massaging in slow circles. She relaxes into me, every tiny sigh making me want to give her more, give her everything.
I rinse her hair, careful not to let it get into her eyes. I run my fingers through the strands, untangling knots, washing away every trace of what we just did, but not the memory.
She lets me wash her body, and I keep it respectful. Taking my time to worship her body in a different way.
“Thank you for taking care of me, Hudson. I’ve never felt so cherished,” she whispers.
“I’ll always take care of you, angel.”
When we’re done, I pull the stopper and dry her off with a thick towel, pressing a kiss to her temple.
I carry her back to bed and slide in beside her. She snuggles into me, resting an arm across my torso, her breath warm against my skin.
For a long time, we just lie there, my arms a wall of protection to keep out the world. I stroke her back, slow and steady, silent promises laced in every touch.
“Don’t let go,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.
“Never,” I say back, pressing my lips to the top of her head.
We fall asleep like that, wrapped in each other’s arms. For once, there’s nothing to regret. At this moment, the only thing that matters is this; her in my arms, and our hearts beating to the same rhythm.
And I know, whatever comes next, I’ll fight for this. For her. For us.
10
IVORY
A beauty teaminvades my suite like a well-rehearsed army, three women trailing clouds of perfume and hairspray, armed with rolling carts, makeup cases, and curling wands. Their voices rise and fall in practiced cheerfulness as I sit in the portable salon chair, my knees pressed together beneath my hotel robe, my fingers wrapped around a mug of tea that’s gone cold.
Across the room, my mother paces, her phone an extension of her ear as she barks orders about flowers and press lists. She catches my eye, her lips mouthing “chin up” before she turns away, already onto the next crisis.
One of the stylists parts my hair; her fingers are skillful but impersonal. She hums to herself, winding black strands around a hot iron. Another meticulously brushes foundation over my cheeks and forehead, making my appearance unnoticeable with every layer. My eyebrows are sharper, eyes darker, lips painted a color I’d never choose for myself. I look expensive, older, but not like me.
If I had a choice, I would ask for a more minimal makeup look, to leave my hair down, and get rid of this sticky glossfrom my mouth. But I don’t. The words stay trapped inside me, suppressed by years of training.
Be still, be quiet, let them work. Tonight is too important.
“Such a pretty face,” one coos, dabbing highlighter along my cheekbones. “Make sure you smile pretty for the cameras.”
Another secures jeweled pins in my hair, twisting curls into a tedious updo. The weight of it pulling at my scalp. I nod when prompted, thank them when they finish, smile when my mother makes a quick inspection and gives a curt nod of approval. There is no mirror for me to see, not that it would make a difference what I thought. Besides, I don’t really care to see anyway.
The blue silk dress from the fitting lays across the bed, in its bag. The same one that nearly suffocated me at the designer’s shop, stitched and hemmed until it hugged every inch of my body perfectly for tonight. I slide into it with careful hands, feeling the familiar coolness of the fabric against my skin, the bodice tight but not suffocating this time, every seam a reminder of that day, of being decorated so I could impress my father’s world. I smooth the skirt down over my hips, fingertips lingering at the place beneath my ribs where my breath catches. The shoes I step into are too high and strappy. They are beautiful but meant for display, not for escaping.
My phone vibrates.
A text from Hudson.
