CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CAROLINE
God! I have been a nervous wreck all day. How do I look good on a first date with practically nothing?
I don't even look like the girl I used to be. My confidence in my looks—gone. My hair looks thin from stress, its color a dull reminder of the vibrant woman I used to be. Once upon a time, I could walk into any room and feel seen, admired even. Now, I'm just trying to look... presentable.
The mirror isn't helping. My reflection mocks me, showing the hollow cheeks and faint lines that life carved in too soon.
On occasions like this, I always had a new wig ready—human hair, perfectly straightened. But now, the one I have is so old it looks tired. I don't even own a working flat iron anymore.
Nothing is going right these days. I honestly don't understand why Nat even noticed me. Rich men like him rarely look twice at women like me. The ones who do, usually treat me like dirt—and I've learned not to take offense. Life made me understand why.
I walk around the showroom, my heels tapping against the tiled floor like nervous heartbeats. I had just changed out of my office clothes, now wearing a gown I once bought for a dinner I never attended. That was before I lost everything that defined me.
It will have to do. He picked me out yesterday in the rags I wore to work; surely this is better.
Even if I think of it as rags, I know the other florist girls would die to have this dress. Perspective is funny that way.
My phone buzzes. A message.
> "I'm close to your shop. Are you ready for me?"
My heartbeat doubles instantly.
I text back:
> "I should be, but I hope you have nothing too fancy in mind. I'm not ready for a high-end restaurant."
Seconds later, his rich, deep laughter comes through a voice note. That sound—God, it's smooth and effortless, like silk being poured into my ears.
He's laughing at me. I just know it.
"I should not have agreed to this whole arrangement," I mutter under my breath, pacing the shop.
Then the phone rings. I answer.
"I do fancy—that's my trademark," he says with that teasing confidence. "But don't worry, Caroline. We're not cancelling. I know that's your next suggestion."
He's right. I was about to say we could postpone.
"We can do this tomorrow," I say quickly, hoping he'd take the hint.
"Then give you the chance to bail completely? Not happening," he replies, amusement lacing every word. "Don't worry—it's my job to make you look the part."
He laughs again, that low, commanding sound that both irritates and soothes me.
"No, please don't feel like you have to," I protest weakly. "I'll be ready tomorrow. Promise."
"Do not worry, Princess," he says softly. "I know you work hard all day. Doing this for you is my pleasure."
That last word—pleasure—does something strange to my chest.
When the call ends, I realize I've been holding my breath. I exhale and whisper a thank you to God. At least he thinks I need time to prepare, not a miracle.
"Are you still there, Princess?" his voice breaks into my thoughts again.
"Yes, I am," I answer quickly. "I'll just touch up my face, and I'll be ready."
"Don't bother. I'm here."
"Oh!" My heart stutters. "I'll just grab my bag—I'll be out in a minute."
I hang up before I can say something foolish, grab my bag, and murmur a quick goodbye to the florist.
Outside, he's leaning casually by the gate, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone. The late afternoon sun kisses his skin, making him look like he stepped out of a luxury magazine.
When he sees me, his face breaks into that smile—the one that melts everything inside me.
He gives me a quick hug and leads me toward his car.
"Oh my God," I blurt without thinking. "This car must be expensive."
He chuckles, clearly entertained by my awe.
"What's the name of this car?" I ask, trying to sound casual as he opens the passenger door for me.
"McLaren P1," he says smoothly, closing the door behind me before taking the driver's seat.
The car hums to life, sleek and quiet. I sink into the leather seat, inhaling the scent of luxury. He's in a tailored suit—dark gray, sharp lines, custom fit. Every inch of him screams control, success, and danger.
How much is this man worth?
I steal a glance at him as he drives, his fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. Why me? Why is he interested in me?
It's not like I'm ugly. But I'm not me anymore. Not the bright, fearless girl who dreamed of changing her world.
Enough. Focus on the moment. Maybe tonight, I'll get my answers.
Maybe tonight, I'll dazzle him enough to make him want me—for real. Then, maybe one day, he'll call me his woman. His wife.
"Don't get ahead of yourself," I whisper to my heart.
"A penny for your thoughts?" he interrupts, his voice warm.
"Not worth a penny," I reply quickly, forcing a smile. "How was work today?"
"Didn't go," he says simply, eyes on the road.
"Really? Why?"
"I wasn't well this morning." His tone drops a note lower—soft, guarded. It's the kind of answer that says: don't press further.
So I don't. Instead, I ask, "Where are we going?"
"That's a surprise," he says, his lips curving. "But first, we need to do something."
He turns into a complex on Fifth Avenue—the kind of place where the rich shop without asking for price tags.
I freeze. My throat tightens. I used to shop here. Once. Now, I can barely afford to breathe the air in this place.
He parks effortlessly and steps out. I follow, clutching my purse like it's a lifeline.
Inside, the lights are soft and golden, the air perfumed with expensive colognes and quiet music. He moves like he belongs here. I walk like I don't.
He picks out a gown—pink, elegant, mostly lace with a silk lining that stops just above the knee, the lace flowing to the ankles. The kind of dress that commands attention.
He talks to the store attendant, who then calls me over and leads me to another section.
I blink. Thongs. Lace bras. The kind of lingerie that screams temptation.
"Try this," she says, handing me a white thong and matching bra.
I hesitate but take it. Inside the dressing room, I wear them and look in the mirror. The reflection feels foreign. For a moment, I see glimpses of the old Caroline—the confident one.
Then, foolishly, I step out.
Nat turns—and stops breathing. His eyes widen slightly, his jaw tightening before he says to the clerk, "We'll take this one."
My cheeks burn. I dash back inside, change into the pink gown, and stare at myself.
I should feel beautiful. But all I see is a woman pretending.
The confidence is gone. I've lost the light that once made my reflection sparkle.
When I step out, Nat immediately notices my change in energy.
"What's wrong? You don't like it?" he asks gently.
"The dress is perfect," I say quickly.
"Then what is it?" He frowns slightly, then brightens. "Ah, maybe it's the shoes."
He bends down and slides black heels onto my feet, his touch careful, almost reverent. Then he stands and opens a small box.
Gold necklace. Diamond dots. Matching earrings.
I gasp as he clasps them around my neck.
"Now you look like a goddess," he murmurs.
"Almost like a goddess," the storekeeper adds, smiling. "The hair still needs work. Perhaps a wig?"
"Bring it," Nat says before I can protest.
The woman returns with a human-hair wig—long, soft, luxurious. My fingers tremble as I touch it. I want to say no, but I can't. It's too perfect.
"Go on," Nat says with that boyish grin. "Let's see you with it."
Inside the changing room, I place the wig on, adjust it, and look up.
The mirror doesn't show a broken girl anymore. It shows a queen.
"Do you need help?" the attendant calls.
"No, I'm fine," I reply, smiling for the first time in a long time.
When I walk out, Nat's expression says everything. His mouth parts slightly, his eyes widen, and for a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe.
"Now she looks like a queen," the storekeeper says, handing him his card back.
We walk out together, his hand resting at my waist—light, steady, possessive.
For the first time in years, I feel wanted. Beautiful. Alive.
If this is a dream, God, please don't wake me.