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“Here’s the thing, Vivienne,” he continues, his hand on his hip. “David will not take no for an answer. Trust me.”
This poor man, he’s so whipped by David, it’s almost sad. But I think he might also enjoy it. I need to get a better read on him.
He goes over to where he placed the boxes and starts unwrapping them.
“Please, just take a look at what I got you. Maybe this will change your mind,” he pleads.
“I doubt it,” I say, moving closer to him and the bribes.
I can’t help but feel a little giddy at the idea that David wants to take me to the gala, even getting me a dress and Louboutin’s for the occasion. Every teenage dream of mine is coming true right before my eyes.
The mere thought of him standing before me, inches away from my touch, in a tuxedo—a fucking tuxedo—has me dripping wet and screaming, “Yes, yes, yes!”
But I contain my excitement for two reasons. One, Charles shall never see me act like a little girl who once dreamt of David and fairytales. He’ll run straight to his boss and tell him everything, and I’m sure I’ll be out on my ass quicker than I can say “Louboutin.”
Second, because, again, falling for this shit will ruin me.
My whole career will blow up in my face, and there’ll be nothing to save me from that demise. How can you come back from fucking up a King’s reputation? Or in this case, not fixing it at all?
Oh. My. God.
Charles pulls out a long, red strapless satin gown.
I’m in awe; it’s breathtaking. But I only drink it in with my eyes. I’m too afraid to touch it, because, who knows, I might fall under its spell.
“I’m impressed, Charles. You picked this out yourself?” I ask.
“I had some guidance. But, yeah, mostly me. It’s Alexander McQueen, and it has off-the-shoulder sleeves and a cleverly hidden slit in the front. For modesty purposes.”
He shows me this extra flare like he’s a designer on “Project Runway.” “But the best part of the outfit are the shoes.” He hands me the dress to hold. I keep it at arms-length, treating it like it’s a bomb seconds away from destroying me.
“These sparkly numbers…” He pulls the Louboutin’s out of the box, and they shimmer delicately in the soft hue from my overhead light.
I discard the dress on the desk and reach for the shoes, completely mesmerized by their beauty.
“Oh, my God. They’re beautiful.”
“And they’ll perfectly compliment David’s attire tonight.”
And, like that, the magician snapped his fingers and broke the spell. This can’t happen. I almost gave in.
“Nope. I can’t accept these.”
I push the shoes back into Charles’ arms, discarding them like trash. It hurts me to treat such beautiful shoes like that, but I can’t let myself be enamored by their charms.
“You’ve got be kidding me!” he whines.
“You shouldn’t have wasted your time getting me these—these clothes. And the fact that David would just assume I would give into his demands because he threw some sparkly shit at me is frankly fucking offensive.”
Of course, there’s no way in hell I’d tell him the truth.
“You’re really saying no to Alexander MacQueen, Christian Louboutin, and King David Lockridge?”
It sounds crazy, right? Saying no to these three amazing men is like denying yourself. I don’t even fucking know because I doubt anyone has ever done it—it’s voluntary torture!
I walked to the other side of my desk, needing distance from Charles, and lean on the granite desktop.
“Yep. I’m saying no.” Shit, that hurts.
