Chapter 5 - The Velvet Trap
The contract was signed over a plate of hot cardamom-orange brioche.
Adrian sat on a simple wooden stool at my small corner table, eating pastry with the focused appreciation of a man who understood labor. He didn't pick at it or make performative comments about calories. He ate with relish, his broad fingers dusting sugar from his lips before he picked up the Montblanc pen and signed his name to the catering agreement.
“The Mercer family won't take this quietly,” I warned him, wiping down the table with a clean cloth. “Sloane’s father has judges in his pocket. Everyone knows Mercer Holdings controls half the port development funds in Jersey.”
“Arthur Mercer controls nothing that I do not allow him to control,” Adrian said, leaning back against the brick wall. His eyes followed the movement of my hips as I moved around the small space. “And after tomorrow night, he won't even control his own board of directors.”
“Tomorrow night?” I paused, the rag in my hand. “The foundation gala is in two weeks.”
“The gala is,” Adrian agreed. “Tomorrow night is the Founders’ Tasting Dinner at the Mercer Plaza Hotel. Arthur Mercer is hosting it. Sloane is the chair. Evan was supposed to be the master of ceremonies.”
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out an embossed, cream-colored invitation. He slid it across the wooden table toward me.
“Evan’s invitation has been rescinded,” Adrian said. “Yours has not.”
“Adrian, I’m a baker. I don't belong at a Mercer dinner.”
“You belong wherever I take you,” he said. The shift in his tone was immediate—low, possessive, leaving no room for argument. “The culinary world is a small circle, Maddie. Mercer is trying to float a rumor that your shop uses substandard ingredients, that Evan broke up with you because you were emotionally unstable and siphoned money from his accounts.”
A cold prickle of fury shot down my spine. “He’s lying.”
“Of course he’s lying. But in Manhattan, a lie repeated three times over vintage champagne becomes accepted fact. Tomorrow night, the committee selects the culinary partners for the city’s spring charity season. If Sloane Mercer blackballs you, your catering business dies before it starts.”
“So what do you suggest?”
Adrian stood up. He walked toward me, closing the distance between us until I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. He lifted his hand, his knuckle lightly brushing along the curve of my jaw, stopping just shy of the fading bruise.
“I suggest we show them what they threw away,” he murmured. “I have already contacted Madame Laurent at the atelier on Madison. You have an appointment at three o’clock this afternoon.”
“I don't need a designer dress, Adrian. I have dresses.”
“You have dresses that hide you,” he countered softly, his fingers trailing down the side of my neck, sending an electric shiver through my collarbones. “I saw what you wore to Aurelia. It was beautiful, but you wore it like armor. You pulled at the hem. You rounded your shoulders because you were taught that a woman with curves should apologize for the space she occupies.”
His eyes darkened, hot and predatory.
“You will not apologize in my presence, Maddie. Not for your body. Not for your appetite. And certainly not for your brilliance.”
He leaned in, his lips hovering an inch from my ear. “Three o'clock. Be ready. Or I will come back here and carry you into the car myself.”
***
When I arrived at Madame Laurent’s private showroom, two assistants whisked me into a private dressing suite that smelled of white lilies and silk.
There were no racks of sample sizes. No pitying looks.
A single garment hung from a satin hanger beneath the recessed spotlights.
It was an emerald-green silk velvet gown.
The neckline plunged into a graceful, structured sweetheart cut that supported and celebrated a full bust without vulgarity. The waist was nipped with intricate, hidden boning that flowed seamlessly over the heavy flare of my hips, cascading into a sweeping, liquid pool of fabric with a daring slit running up the left thigh.
When I stepped into it and Madame Laurent zipped the back, I turned to the three-way mirror and forgot how to breathe.
I didn't look thin.
I looked magnificent.
The emerald velvet caught the light with every breath, framing my curves like a renaissance painting. My skin, usually pale from long nights beside the ovens, looked like warm cream against the deep green silk. The high slit revealed the shapely curve of my calf and thigh, balance restored, dignity reclaimed.
“Monsieur Bellandi chose the fabric himself,” Madame Laurent whispered from behind me, adjusting the shoulder drape with expert fingers. “He said, ‘Do not tame her shape. Frame it.’”
Tears prickled behind my eyelids, but I forced them back.
May you like
Evan had spent four years making me feel like an overgrown weed that needed constant pruning. Adrian Bellandi had looked at me once and treated me like an ancient, sacred forest.
***
