Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions novel Chapter 69

Chapter 69

The spa day did its job.

Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I silently stare at my reflection in the cracked edge of the full–length mirror in my room. The kind of silence that hums, instead of echoes, surrounds me. Like the air itself is waiting to see what I’ll do next.

My hair falls in soft waves and tumbles over one shoulder–nothing! like my usual chaos. My skin glows like I’ve never spent a single day stress- eating cereal straight from the box. My makeup walks that delicious line between bold and overdone. I look like someone else. Like someone who belongs at galas. I’m not just ready–I’m daring the night to come at me.

And the dress… God, the dress.

It fits like it was made for me. Because, I suspect, it probably was. Griffin didn’t say it, but the cut is too exact and the color too specific to be a coincidence–deep purple that miraculously brings out every shade in my eyes and my hair. The velvet catches the low bedroom light and holds it like a secret. Off–the–shoulder sleeves hug my arms, the bodice pulling me in like a whispered secret, and the slit up the leg shows just enough to make me feel like I have power I didn’t ask for. Or maybe I always had it and just forgot about it somewhere along the way.

It’s the kind of dress that demands to be noticed–it’s sin incarnate.

My reflection feels like someone else–a version of me who hasn’t cried into a pillow this week or yelled at her toaster for being smug. A woman who, maybe, just maybe, can walk into a room and not feel like a fracture line.

1 grab the small black clutch off my dresser and stuff it with the bare essentials lipstick, ID, phone, and courage. The invitation sits folded in the clutch’s pocket, like it will give this night some kind of structure.

Then I pace. Because pacing is better than overthinking, and I’m already doing both. And my nerves are hanging on by a single, fashionable

thread.

What if he’s not even there? What if he is? What if I go and I’m nothing but another passing detail in his glittering, high–powered world? A stray smudge on his otherwise curated life?

But what if I don’t go–and miss the one chance to show him I’m not someone who fades when things get hard?

I shake my head and add a final spritz of perfume–something soft and smoky that clings to my skin like armor–before heading downstairs.

Halfway to the front door, I remember the ridiculous wax Griffin insisted on adding to the spa package, when my bare legs glide against each other as if they’re dipped in baby oil. A memory flashes through my mind’s eye–me mid–yelp, him laughing in the background, handing me chocolate like it was a hostage negotiation. I muttered something about bodily betrayal and threatened to haunt him if I died of embarrassment. He, in true Griffin style, didn’t flinch

“You’ll thank me when you’re a glowing, hairless goddess,” he had said.

I did not thank him. But I did laugh, and it stuck with me longer than it should have..

I reach the front door, my heels tapping a slow rhythm on the hardwood floor. I pause with my hand on the doorknob, exhaling. The Uber app already open on my phone, and my thumb hovers over the button to confirm the ride.

But before I can tap it, a knock echoes from the other side of the door that makes me jump.

Almost nobody knocks anymore. Not unless they want to sell me religion or check the gas meter.

I glance through the peephole. And what I see is i

not a stranger.

It’s a car–sleek and expensive. The kind of vehicle that smells like new leather and high expectations. Parked right at the curb, black as spilled ink, its engine idling like a satisfied purc

And standing casually next to the open back door? Mike.

I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath all day. And my heart does this stupid little leap because he’s familiar and safe–the fatherly driver who somehow feels like a buffer between me and everything spinning too fast.

I blink at him, then at the car, a smile tipping the corners of my mouth as I ask, “Griffin?”

smile widens before he replies, “He thought you might appreciate a more…comfortable arrival”

Translation: No Ubers for the woman wearing velvet that costs more than my rent.

Mike opens the car door even further for me and waits patiently as 1 gather my composure and step outside. The air is crisp and laced with that pre evening chill that promises stars and regrets. I pull the coat I grabbed at the last minute tighter around me, but when I glance at Mike again,– something about his steady presence anchors me.

“Thanks,” I murmur as I near where he waits for me, and it comes out softer than I intend

He nods once, then says, “You look lovely, Miss”

Rolling my eyes, I say, “Don’t lie. I almost got my eye poked out with eyeliner by the stylist.”

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