Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
It's a floor-length gown, the kind you'd see on red carpets or at high-society galas, crafted from midnight-blue silk that shimmers under the light like liquid fire. The fabric is so smooth it whispers against my skin with every subtle shift. The bodice is scattered with delicate crystals and fitted, hugging my curves with a pleated detail that accentuates my waist, and the plunging neckline reveals just enough cleavage to be tantalizing without being overt.
Then, there is the thigh-high slit on one side that adds a spicy edge to it, allowing a glimpse of leg with each step, the hem pooling elegantly on the floor. I twist slightly, watching how the silk clings. The dress is breathtaking, truly—the way it transforms my figure into something regal and seductive, the blue contrasting against my fair skin and bringing out the deeper shades in my contact-lensed eyes.
It makes me feel exposed, and yet empowered, like a seductive siren ready for the greatest battle that can be between a man and a woman. For a while, as I tilt my head and watch the light play off the gown's sheen. I feel like Carolyn, not Juliet—the orphan scraping by in a cramped walk-up, but a woman who belongs in this world of luxury. Beautiful and wealthy, with credit cards that never get declined and a chauffeur waiting downstairs to take me wherever I want to go. And she has a husband, a totally gorgeous hunk of a man.
A secret thrill goes through me. It is warm and intoxicating, and my heart flutters as I smooth a hand down the silk, feeling the cool glide over my ribs, but it's laced with a pang of something deeper, a reminder that this is borrowed, fleeting.
Fake Carolyn—that's who I am tonight.
And soon at the charity gala at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I will be mingling with the elite of the city under crystal chandeliers, sipping champagne and watching them bid on art for causes they only half-care about.
At that moment, there is a knock on my door, jolting me from my reverie. My pulse spikes, a rush of extra nervousness flooding my chest because I suspect it's Blake. We agreed to meet by a quarter to seven downstairs, so why is he coming to my room rather than waiting in the foyer for the car? Am I late? My hands tremble slightly as I walk to the door, the gown swishing around my legs.
I open the door and usher him in with a soft "Come in," my voice breathier than I intend. He steps inside, filling the space with his mighty presence. The air shifts immediately to throbbing anticipation.
He holds a velvet box, his icy-gray eyes locking onto mine in a way that makes my stomach twist. "I have a necklace for you," he says, his voice low and velvety, pausing as he takes me in, his gaze sweeping down the gown in a way that sends heat prickling across my skin.
My heart pounds as he moves behind me toward the mirror, the box opening with a soft snap. He lifts the necklace, and it is breathtaking.
“Oh,” I gasp.
It’s a platinum chain, delicate yet substantial, dripping with a cascade of pear-shaped sapphires that catch the light and glitter with a brilliance that makes my breath hitch. The central stone is a gorgeous solitaire flanked by smaller stones. It's exquisite, the kind of heirloom that screams old money and timeless elegance.
“Turn around,” he says coolly.
For a second, I can’t move, then I nod and obey. The metal feels cool and heavy as he places it around my neck. His fingers brush the back of my neck as he fastens the clasp. The fleeting touch is electric, sending shivers racing down my spine, my skin tingles with his warmth, the fine hairs standing on end. I feel his breath against my hair, close enough that the scent of his cologne—rich tobacco and citrus—wraps around me, making my mouth dry and knees feel weak with desire.
Our eyes meet in the mirror, his gaze is dark and intense, desire burning raw and undeniable, mirroring the heat pooling in my core. My reflection shows flushed cheeks and parted lips. There's hunger in his stare, a pull that draws me in, and I see it echoed in my own eyes, that forbidden spark igniting despite the danger he represents.
I look away quickly, breaking the connection, my hand fluttering to the necklace as if to steady myself; the stones are cool under my fingertips.
I feel confused, and my mind spins as he steps back. The air between us still hums with that unspoken tension. Carolyn had told me in no uncertain terms that Blake and she didn’t have sex anymore, that their marriage was cold and distant, with indifference and separate bedrooms.
But there is a lot of ardor here.