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The front door to my flat is open, and bright light spills out onto the hallway. Musicandlights? My stomach churns as I imagine how much electricity is being eaten up. I run inside and head straight to the meter to see how much, if any, credit I have remaining. Out of breath, I gasp when I notice the meter has had a fifty-pound top-up.
“What kind of a gentleman leaves a lady without electricity?”
I jump, turning suddenly on hearing Lucian’s voice. How did I not see him when I came in?
Because I was in such a blind panic to check my meter, that’s how.
My eyes go wide as I take him in. It is the first time I have seen Lucian clad in something other than a suit. Granted, he’s wearing a shirt. The top buttons are undone, and the sleeves rolled up, but what has my attention is he’s wearing a pair of jeans, actual jeans!
He places two glasses down on the kitchen island—an island that wasn’t there before—and advances toward me.
“I thought we should celebrate. I have ordered food from my favourite French restaurant.” He looks me up and down, pausing momentarily at my breasts. I follow his stare and am horrified to see the outline of my nipples protrude from my white T-shirt, a white T-shirt that—thanks to the rain—is completely see-through. Dithering, I hug my chest and turn my back toward him.
“It will arrive within the hour, so you have plenty of time to get ready,” he continues.
Plenty of time to get ready? Get ready for what?
My head’s in too much of a spin to process everything. So, taking a calming breath, I glance around the room. A candlelit table is positioned in the new dining area, the centrepiece being a small vase holding a single red rose.
I can’t have dinner with him, it just isn’t right. Even with all the effort he’s put in, I just can’t. “Lucian—”
He holds up his hand. “Hold that thought.” He hurries to the new state-of-the-art American-style fridge and opens the door. “Red or white?” he says, pulling out two bottles. “I know red is meant to be kept at room temperature, but I prefer it chilled.”
I take in the fridge and all its contents. The colourful array of fruits and vegetables is the first thing I notice, then a selection of meats, cheeses and fish. The door is stocked with eggs, milk and a variety of juices.
I look around and am floored by what I see. The flat has been decorated like something out of a magazine, with grey walls, a brand-new sofa, TV and an electric fireplace. The old kitchen has been ripped out and replaced with new. The units are gloss-white with a stunning black granite worktop.
“This is too much,” I say.
Lucian looks from me and to the fridge. “I couldn’t very well have this beautiful kitchen fitted and not fully stocked for you.”
Tears sting my eyes. I’m not happy, nor am I sad, I’m just overwhelmed. I hurry past Lucian and head straight for my bedroom, and am again blown away.
A gold-leaf bed sits in the centre with rich satin sheets. A beautiful red gown is laid out on the bedspread. A gown he obviously wants me to wear this evening.
Not going to happen.
The walls are painted in a deep blue, and thick gold curtains hang from the window. An integrated mirrored wardrobe hugs the back wall, and I instinctively hurry over and slide the door across. Everything that was once inside is gone and has been replaced new for old. Clothes for every occasion fill the rails. A selection of trainers and stilettos have been placed neatly on a shoe rack. Handbags—half a dozen, maybe more—line the top shelf.
This must have cost a fortune. Anger courses through me at the sheer presumption of the man. How could he think that I would want any of this stuff? I’ve never accepted charity, and I won’t start now. But it’s not just that that’s bothering me. This place feels more like a show home than my home. Lucian said he was going to spruce the place up, not change everything. This isn’t Barbie’s dream house and I am not a doll he can dress up.
With my hands on my hips, I march to the door, but stop when I see my ottoman. Finally, one thing that he hasn’t changed. The ottoman contained all the clothes I handmade for my nephew; no doubt Lucian has taken it upon himself to change them too. The walls may as well be painted red, because that is all I see right now as I march to the ottoman and pull off the lid.
Layer upon layer of blue tissue paper has been placed inside, which rustles as I flick through. After lifting the final sheet, I am able to see what lies beneath. My anger instantly dissolves at what I see. All the clothes I handmade have been folded and stacked neatly. The scent of fabric softener fills the air as I lift the small outfits one by one. I don’t stop until I reach the navy suit that was damaged. Buttons that were torn off have been replaced, and the sewn-in shirt has been restitched. There isn’t an imperfection in sight. My heart warms to see that the baby clothes haven’t been replaced and instead have been washed and ironed.
As much as I want to hate Lucian, I don’t in this moment. I feel something, something I’ve never felt for him before. I fold the little outfits and place them back in the ottoman, and then I do something I swore I’d never do. I swallow my pride.
I peel my T-shirt and trousers off en route to the shower. The sodden material slaps against the tiled floor as I discard each item of clothing. I slide the glass panel across and, reaching in, I turn the tap. I wait a beat for the water to heat up, and when steam begins to fog the bathroom mirror, I step under the shower head.
I glide the bar of soap over my body and then wash my hair. I dry off and slip into the towelling robe, which is hanging up on the back of the door. After towel-drying my hair, I pad into the bedroom. My gaze lingers on the wardrobe before finally landing on the red dress. I rock on my heels several times before advancing toward the bed.
This doesn’t mean anything. Having dinner with Lucian just shows him that I am grateful for everything he has done, and I won’t feel indebted to him.
I’m surprised how light the chiffon material feels as I lift it up. The fabric gently caresses my skin as I pull it over my head and down into place. The dress is on the conservative side, with a high neckline and a modest skirt that falls inches below my knee.
I look at myself in the wardrobe’s mirrored doors and wonder who the person is looking back. The Chelsea I know wouldn’t be joining Lucian for dinner, not now, not ever.
I swallow away any last-minute reservations, and with tentative steps I head toward my bedroom door. Counting to three, I take a deep calming breath, first in and then out. With my fingers clasped around the brass handle, I turn and push it open.
