Page 36 of Captured By Fate

“I’m not wearing that,” I snarl. “I’m not wearing anything that makes me look like a slut.”

It was painstaking to find something I would wear. After many adjustments and arguments, we settled on something that preserved my sense of self.

The sleeves of the fitted, black dress were cut just below the elbow, accenting my arms and allowing me to move without restriction. The collar sat high around my neck, but not enough to suffocate me. The skirt fell to mid-calf, flaring out with a slight bell shape for mobility.

A silver belt cinched my waist, emphasizing the curve of my hips. Black leather boots went up to my knees, and a matching leather glove adorned my left hand.

"You look... formidable," Jake, one of the stylists, said admiringly.

"As I should," I answer, glimpsing myself in the full-length mirror. The fitted dress clung to every curve, like a second skin. My reflection was a stark contrast to the gilded ornaments and pastel hues of the room. In my midnight dress, I looked like night descending on a fairytale kingdom.

Just as I finished appraising myself, there was a soft knock on the door. It was accompanied by a muffled voice from the other side of the room.

"Miss, it's time.”

Taking a final look at my reflection, I nod in acknowledgment and stride towards the door.

The stylist, Jake, opens it for me silently, his eyes wide with a strange mix of fear and admiration. I step out into the opulent corridor, once again marveling at the intricate designs etched into the golden walls.

The hallway is bathed in a soft, warm glow that emanates from the hanging crystal chandeliers, casting dancing shadows across the marble floor.

Ahead of me looms a grand staircase, its banisters encrusted with an array of precious gems that sparkle in the ambient light. Descending down the steps, I walk with confidence each step echoing against the rich mahogany wood beneath my boots.

As I near the bottom of the staircase, I hear the distant hum of engines and look up to see Jackson pulling up in his sleek vehicle through the massive glass window. The car is as ostentatious as everything else around here, gleaming under spotlights like an undulating beast of chrome and steel.

The vehicle comes to a halt and Jackson emerges from it with grace that not even his tailored suit can fully obstruct. His sharp eyes immediately lock onto mine, a knowing smirk gracing his lips as he takes in my appearance.

"Showtime," I murmur under my breath.

22

JACKSON

Kelley’s in danger. If Benny decides to go after her, I’m not sure I can stop him. That thought lingers in my head for far too long.

I've never been one to fret over others, always maintaining a safe distance from attachments that could cloud my judgment. But Kelley—she breaks through all that, her laughter, bright and unguarded, has chipped away at barriers I spent years fortifying.

The thought of Benny, with his cold eyes and calculated moves, going after Kelley sends a chill down my spine. He’s unpredictable and dangerous—a lethal combination if there ever was one.

Determined to protect her and to understand her deeper motivations, I decide to invite Kelley to dinner under the guise of a casual evening out. Perhaps in a neutral setting, away from the shadows that Benny casts, I can get her to reveal more about herself—what drives her, what she’s truly after.

Is it just the thrill of exposing the club, or is there something more personal at stake for her?

When I pull up, I get out of my car, spotting her walking down the stairs, the front door held open by a staff member.

Kelley looks fucking incredible in a sleek, black number. Her makeup is simple, elegant, and perfectly her. She’s not dressed to kill. She’s dressed…like Kelley.

My breath hitches in my chest. She looks stunning and I’ve never wanted her more. As she nears the bottom of the stairs, she eyes me suspiciously.

I can tell by the way Kelley narrows her eyes that she senses something off. Trust has never come easily to her, and tonight, beneath the soft glow of the hallway light, her instincts are clearly on high alert. She pauses momentarily, surveying me with an astuteness that makes me feel as though she’s peering straight through me.

We head out into the crisp evening air, and I guide her towards my still running car. The city is alive around us, oblivious to the storm brewing in the shadows. As I open the passenger door for her, her hand brushes against mine—brief but electric.

The drive to the restaurant is quiet, filled with a tense kind of silence. Every so often, Kelley turns to look out of the window, lost in thought or maybe formulating her next move. I keep my eyes on the road ahead, trying to gather my thoughts.

The restaurant is nestled in an older part of town, its façade modest but charming. The warm light spilling from its windows promises a sanctuary from our brewing storm. As we enter, we're greeted by the host who shows us to our table.

As we settle into our chairs, a waiter approaches with an air of discreet professionalism. He presents us with menus bound in soft leather and fills our glasses with chilled water, his movements smooth and practiced. I watch Kelley as she peruses the menu, her gaze lingering on the descriptions of dishes crafted from local produce and infused with exotic spices.

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