Three days later, Kiley stood in her bathroom, staring at the dark circles under her eyes.
Her phone lay on the counter, silent after the tenth call from Joyce. The voicemail had been scathing. "That broke husband of yours better not expect us to pay for the reception. We aren't feeding his loser friends."
Kiley rubbed her temples. The wedding reception-originally meant to be a lavish affair funded by Javon's parents-had been downgraded to a dinner at a local Italian restaurant. She couldn't cancel it. The deposit was non-refundable, and she needed every cent.
The doorbell rang.
Kiley frowned. She wasn't expecting anyone. She pulled her oversized t-shirt down and walked to the door.
Standing on the porch was a woman who looked like she had just stepped off a runway. She held a massive silver vanity case.
"Mrs. Wilkinson?" the woman beamed. "I'm Pierre."
Kiley's jaw dropped. Pierre. The Pierre. The makeup artist who did the mayor's wife and half the local celebrities. Her waiting list was six months long.
"I... I didn't hire you," Kiley stammered. "I can't afford you."
Pierre laughed, a tinkling sound. She breezed past Kiley into the living room. "Mr. Wilkinson already settled the bill. And the triple rush fee."
Kiley stood frozen in the doorway. Triple rush fee? Where did Carmine get that kind of money? Her stomach twisted. Was he putting this on credit cards? Was he taking out loans just to save face in front of her family?
"Come, come, sit," Pierre instructed, setting up her lights.
For the next hour, Kiley was poked, prodded, and painted. When Pierre finally spun the chair around to face the mirror, Kiley gasped.
The tired, broken girl was gone. Her skin glowed. Her eyes looked huge and bright. Her hair fell in perfect, glossy waves.
"And this," Pierre said, unzipping a garment bag hanging on the door. "From Mr. Wilkinson."
She pulled out a white dress. It was simple, elegant, with a neckline that dipped just enough. There were no tags, but the fabric felt like water against Kiley's fingertips. Silk. Heavy, expensive silk.
"He... he bought this?" Kiley asked, touching the hem.
"Put it on," Pierre winked.
Ten minutes later, Kiley was dressed. She felt like an imposter in her own body.
A low rumble vibrated through the floorboards. It grew louder, a deep, mechanical growl that seemed to shake the window panes.
Kiley walked to the window and pulled back the curtain.
Her eyes widened.
It wasn't just a car. It was a fleet.
Three black SUVs flanked a massive, gleaming Rolls Royce Phantom. The car was so polished it reflected the cloudy sky like a mirror.
People were coming out of their houses. Mr. Henderson from across the street was standing on his lawn in his bathrobe, mouth open.
Down on the sidewalk, Joyce and Tiffany were staring. Tiffany had her phone out, recording.
"If only Javon could rent something like that," Tiffany said loud enough for Kiley to hear through the glass.
The back door of the Rolls Royce opened.
Carmine stepped out.
He was wearing a charcoal suit that fit him like a second skin. He adjusted his cufflinks, looking completely unbothered by the staring neighbors. He looked up at Kiley's window.
Their eyes met. For a second, his mask slipped, and she saw raw heat in his gaze.
He walked toward the apartment building entrance.
Kiley grabbed her purse and ran to the door. She met him at the bottom of the stairs.
Carmine stopped. His eyes swept over her, from the curls in her hair to the tips of her shoes. He didn't smile, but his pupils dilated.
"Ready?" he asked.
Kiley gripped her clutch. "Carmine... the cars. This is... it's too much. How much did the rental cost? We can't be spending-"
"Borrowed," Carmine cut in smoothly. "A friend owes me a favor. Didn't cost a dime."
Kiley let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Borrowed. Okay. That made sense. He worked in finance or investments or something, right? People in that circle helped each other out to keep up appearances. It was all smoke and mirrors, but at least it wasn't high-interest debt.
"Okay," she breathed.
Carmine held out his arm. "Shall we?"
Kiley looped her arm through his. The fabric of his suit was soft. He felt solid.
They walked out the front door together.
The chatter on the sidewalk died instantly. Joyce's jaw was practically on the pavement. Tiffany lowered her phone.
Carmine didn't even look at them. He guided Kiley to the car, his hand protecting her head as she slid into the backseat.
The driver-a man with a neck as thick as a tree trunk-closed the door with a solid thump.
Through the tinted glass, Kiley saw Tiffany try to step forward, maybe to ask for a ride. The driver simply stepped in her path, arms crossed.
Kiley looked at Carmine. He was checking his watch.
"They look like they've seen a ghost," he muttered.
Kiley smoothed her dress. "No. They just realized they bet on the wrong horse."
