Chapter 5: The Woman in Red
742 Words
At 6:45 p.m., I was waiting in the lobby. I had kept my promise. He wouldn't recognize me.
The bland, grey-suited Blair Davis had been erased. In her place stood a woman Sterling Prescott had never met. My hair was free from its severe ponytail, falling in dark waves over my shoulders. My makeup was a declaration: a smoky eye that sharpened my gaze and a s***h of deep crimson lipstick that defined my mouth.
The dress was the true weapon.
A simple, silk slip dress in a shade of red so vibrant it seemed to bleed into the monochrome marble. It skimmed my body, elegant and utterly unapologetic. It was the unicorn mug, weaponized into armor.
The elevator doors slid open. He strode out, phone to his ear, brow furrowed. "…and make sure Frankfurt understands that any deviation from Q4 projections will have consequences—"
He stopped. Mid-sentence. Mid-stride.
His gaze collided with mine. For the second time, Sterling Prescott looked utterly stunned. His jaw went slack. The phone in his hand fell silent. His eyes swept over me—from my hair, down the long line of the red dress, to my heels, and back to my face. It was an inventory that was anything but professional. The mask of the untouchable CEO slipped, and for a breathtaking moment, I saw the man.
A slow smile spread across my lips, confident and slightly mocking. This was Blair Davenport's smile.
"Good evening, Mr. Prescott," I said, my voice in its natural, lower register. "I hope I look like I belong."
He swallowed, a flicker of something hot and unfamiliar in his glacial eyes. The mask snapped back into place, but the c***k had been visible. "The color is… conspicuous, Miss Davis," he managed, his voice strained.
"I thought we could use a little," I replied sweetly.
He didn't answer, simply gesturing towards the glass doors. As he held the door of the black town car open, his fingers brushed my arm. An unexpected jolt of heat shot through us both, sharp and undeniable.
The silence in the town car was a physical presence, the black leather interior a silent tomb. Every inch of air between my bare arm and his suit sleeve felt charged. The jolt from his touch lingered on my skin, a traitorous warmth that had no place in my plans. That was the most irritating part.
"Aureole," he finally bit out, his voice tight. He stared straight ahead, a king forced to consort with a jester. I decided to enjoy the role.
"So," I began, my voice light, "what's it like? Being you?"
He turned his head slowly, his blue eyes narrowed. "What kind of question is that?"
"A good one," I countered. "You wake up and make a billion dollars before breakfast. Does it ever get boring? The absolute power?"
The muscle in his temple jumped. "Power is not a toy, Miss Davis. It is a responsibility. One, I doubt you could comprehend."
"Oh, I don't know," I mused, tapping a red-nailed finger against my chin. "I have a pretty good grasp on power. For instance, right now, I have the power to make this car ride incredibly awkward." I gave him a dazzling, meaningless smile. "Or, I could tell you that your tie is slightly crooked."
His hand flew to his tie. It was perfect. A low, frustrated sound rumbled in his chest. "You find this amusing," he said. It was a statement, not a question.
"Immensely," I confirmed. "You're a man who controls everything. And you can't control me. That must be… frustrating."
He turned away, looking out the window, but I’d seen it: a flash of fury, mingled with a spark of fascination. The way a biologist might be fascinated by a virus that defies all known treatments.
The car pulled up to Aureole. The doorman rushed to open his door, but Sterling paused. He turned to me, his gaze intense, serious.
"Let's get one thing clear," he said, his voice a low, dangerous command. "Tonight, you are not Blair Davis, my quirky assistant. You are not a 'gut feeling' with a unicorn mug. You are a guest at my table. You will act the part. Do you understand?"
He was trying to re-establish the rules.
I met his gaze, my smile losing its sweetness, becoming something sharper, more real. "Don't worry, Mr. Prescott," I purred. "Tonight, I'm not your assistant at all."
- Writer
