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Chapter 29
My keys clinked in the tray on the foyer table as I entered the apartment late the next Friday afternoon. I'd actually gotten off early, since Brandon had apparently threatened to pull his account from Kiefer Knightly unless they let me off early for my birthday.
I was twenty-seven. It wasn't a particularly major birthday. But the events of the last year (or at least the last nine months)––dealing with my dad's addiction, graduating from law school, starting a new career, and, of course, the rollercoaster of my life with a certain tycoon––made it feel more consequential than normal.
"Babe?" I called out as I walked in. The apartment was silent, and there was no sign of said tycoon anywhere.
I'd been woken up that morning with a kiss and breakfast in bed that had quickly turned cold when I'd decided, upon seeing Brandon's shirtless form in low-riding joggers, that breakfast could hang while I feasted on him instead. But we'd both had early meetings, and when I kissed him goodbye from the car before Lucas escorted me into my office, I'd been adamant about the fact that I didn't want anything big for my birthday. Just a quiet evening in.
And yet, here I was, well in, while Brandon was clearly out.
My phone buzzed next to my keys.
"Hello?" I answered it.
"Hey Red," came Brandon's voice. "You home yet?"
"Um, yeah. Where are you? Considering you had to blackmail the firm to get me off today, I figured you'd at least be here."
His chuckle vibrated through the line. "I'm waiting in the garage. Get changed and meet me down here."
"Okay," I said as I started back toward the bedrooms. But halfway through the apartment, I stopped.
"Um, Brandon?" I asked.
The chuckle was louder this time. "Yeah?"
I looked around the living room, turning three hundred and sixty degrees before I answered. "Where's our stuff?"
Everything was gone––at least, everything that had belonged to us. The original, hard-edged furniture in the rental remained, but the piano, the random pieces of secondhand furniture from my old apartment, the various knick-knacks and bits of clutter that accumulated just from living––it was all gone.
The chuckle morphed into an outright laugh. "Just get changed and come down," Brandon managed to get out before the line went dead.
Suddenly feeling like a little kid on Christmas morning, I raced into the bedroom only to find my suspicions confirmed––the closet was empty too. Everything had been cleaned out of the room as well, including all of Brandon's things.
Except just a few items: a long black evening gown, a few pieces of my jewelry, and a shoebox, all laid neatly on the bed with a note beside them bearing Brandon's familiar scrawl:
Mary helped me with your first birthday gifts. Put them on and meet me in the car.
Love,
B
With a smile, I picked up the dress that had been laid flat across the bedspread. It was black and strapless, a simple Michael Kors cut midi-length, with a wide panel of ruched silk around the waist to add some detail. Chic, simple, and exactly the kind of thing I would pick out for myself.
I picked up the shoebox and opened it to find something that wasn't new at all: a pair of crimson Manolo Blahnik pumps––the same shoes that Brandon had tried to give me last winter. It was his first awkward attempt at turning our fated meeting into something else. He'd tried to seduce me with shoes and a terrifically misogynistic proposition that was more Indecent Proposal than marriage proposal.
My fingers played across my lips as I took in the joke...and the fact that he had kept them all this time, even though I'd told him in no uncertain terms to burn them, along with any way he had of contacting me. Now we were getting married. It was funny how things could change so much in so little time.
Without thinking twice, I pulled off my work clothes and slipped on the dress, which fit like a glove. Mary had exquisite taste and was really starting to understand what I liked. Then I put on the shoes, praying that they'd look terrible just so I wouldn't give Brandon the satisfaction of watching me enjoy them.
"Damn," I whispered as I looked at myself in the mirror. I really hadn't wanted him to win this one, but now that I had the shoes on, there was no way I was going to take them off.
I turned from side to side, smoothing out the dress and looking myself over. The effects of the campaign were clear. I was also a little thinner than usual, probably from the stress I'd been under for the last few months, combined with long work hours that often had me skipping meals.
But I didn't look bad. Being forced to work with a stylist also had its perks. For the first time in my life, I was genuinely well groomed––my eyebrows were threaded, legs were waxed, nails buffed (I refused nail polish, but Mary insisted I at least needed to have my nails manicured). My hair was trimmed and when I shook it out of the twist I'd pulled it into this morning, it fell nicely over my shoulders. I felt pretty, but more importantly, I still felt like me.
My phone buzzed on the bureau with a message from Brandon.
