Page 69 of Sex, Lust & Lingerie

EPILOGUE

Gloria

Three months later

The nightmare of being chased by Boris Borofsky is over. I have a new dream. It’s always in fifty shades of gray. And it stars Jaime Zander.

“Action! Shoot!”

He carries me down a long winding staircase, shrouded in a cloud of fog. I lie limp, weightless in his bare strong arms, fallen apart from what has been and what will be; the heat of his flesh sears mine. Silk binds my eyes, my hands, and my feet. My breasts, shrouded in cups of leather and lace, quiver with each step he takes. My head is flung back, my platinum hair, loose and long, brushes against his taut torso; my arms dangle. The image of his beautiful face burns through the blindfold and flickers in my mind. His hooded eyes are lusting for me, his mouth hungering for every part of me. My core trembles at the thought of what this man can do to me.

Music plays in the background. A song: “Angel” sung by Leona Lewis. The words pipe through my ears. Yes, this was meant to be. He is made for me. I am his angel; he is my god. I long for him to devour me with his manliness and make me fall apart until I can scream his name no more.

A seductive, virile voice rises above the music. “Gloria’s Secret. Let yourself be carried away.”

The dream becomes reality.

“Cut! That’s a wrap.”

Six Months Later

“Your dress eez magnifique!” squeels Sandrine, my maid of honor, as she adjusts the long train. It’s a body-hugging column of ivory silk and lace, the first in the new line of Gloria’s Secret bridal wear we’re launching. Beneath it, I have on matching ivory lace lingerie and something borrowed—Sandrine’s powder blue garter that she wore at her own fabulous wedding three months ago. And of course, Madame Paulette’s lucky silk stocking.

“Gloria, go look at yourself in zee mirror,” urges my chic French friend with a big smile, looking magnificent herself in an ocean blue satin gown.

I pad over to the floor-length gold-leaf mirror and gaze at myself. My breath hitches. With my waist-length platinum hair flowing over my shoulders, the way my future husband adores it, and my dramatic makeup, I almost don’t recognize myself. The brilliant red lipstick on my lips reminds me of who I am. The sexy, powerful CEO of Gloria’s Secret, and the future wife of Mr. Jaime Zander.

The dress is strapless. I wear my pearl-white scar on my chest like jewelry. I no longer have to hide it. Scars come with secrets and mine has been bared. It reminds me that I have survived. That I have healed. I have left my past behind.

While I stare at my reflection, Sandrine carefully places the final piece of my ensemble over my head—Madame Paulette’s delicate Chantilly lace veil that she wore when she married her beloved Henri. Along with many other things I’ll always cherish, she left it to me in her will. I adjust it so it obscures my face.

“Ah, ma chérie, you look superbe!” That deep raspy voice. It’s Madame Paulette! I can hear her. She’s here!

“Merci, Madame,” I say silently. I smile at my reflection, and it smiles back at me.

“Holy fuck! Glorious, you look beyond fabulous!”

I pivot on my red-soled ivory satin Louboutins. Yes, a touch of red from head to toe.

It’s Kevin. My best friend and our best man. He’s gone English morning suit the whole way—well, except for the red Keds. That’s what makes my beloved Kevin who he is.

Jogging up to me, he gives me a great big hug.

“I just had to take a peek,” he gushes. “Gotta go and check on Ray.” He rolls his eyes. “That boy is so high maintenance and takes forever to get ready.”

I stifle a laugh. Jaime’s assistant, Ray, followed him to LA and, after breaking up with his New York boyfriend, hooked up again with Kevin. They’re living together in Kevin’s condo one floor below mine. Happiness soars in my heart knowing how happy and in love my Kev is. An over-the-top Christmas wedding is in the works, and to my sheer delight, Kevin is marrying into a wonderful family that embraces his homosexuality. I give him a peck on the cheek before he scurries out of my bedroom.

Tyrone is waiting for me downstairs. Jaime and I are exchanging our vows on the beach below the cliff where we plan to build our dream house. Everyone from his company and mine has been invited, no gifts permitted except donations to Girls Like Us, my charitable mentoring program. I hope all the underprivileged girls I support will find as much meaning and joy as I have in my life.

Only two prominent Gloria’s Secret associates—or should I say former associates—won’t be there. Victor Holden and his daughter Vivien. Victor is no longer affiliated with Gloria’s Secret. In fact, he’s no longer affiliated with any of his companies. Soon after his arrest, he was indicted by a grand jury and later found guilty on three counts of securities fraud. Further investigation into his dealings revealed that he’d also funded Boris Borofsky’s sex slave trade. He was charged a hefty fine and sentenced to twelve years in a white-collar penitentiary without parole. After her father was sentenced, Vivien fled the country. Sandrine thinks she saw her in Greece while on her honeymoon; that’s one place Jaime and I won’t be visiting soon.

Jaime’s ad campaign in which we starred was a mega success and has even been nominated for several awards. Sales have soared. The subsequent sex toy launch was also phenomenal. Just as Jaime had proven in his little one-on-one research session, women—and couples—love the provocative products. They’ve sold like hotcakes, and Gloria’s Secret stock has gone through the roof. It’s at an all-time high.

We’re still looking for a new Chairman of the Board. One of the Board members suggested Jaime, but he declined, stating it was a conflict of interest. Besides, he’s too busy running his own company ZAP! whose headquarters he moved to California. It made sense. He has a lot of clients in Los Angeles and Silicon Valley as well as in Japan, China, and other Asian countries. And he has all of me. His new office, overlooking the ocean in Venice, is a fifteen-minute drive from mine. Needless to say, we do lunch. Or we’ll squeeze in a quick work out together. My inner thighs have never been in better shape.

The SoCal late summer day cannot be more perfect. It’s the kind of weather that makes people flock to LA and never want to leave—a cloudless blue sky, a perfect mild temperature, and just a little ocean breeze. Going on six in the evening, the fiery sun is beginning its descent into the Pacific. The sound of the ocean with its crashing waves mixes with squawking gulls. That is the only music Jaime and I wanted when we exchanged our vows.

My heart is pounding with anticipation as I walk down the cliffside steps, that Jaime had built just in time for our wedding, on the arms of two other men dear to my heart—my drivers, Tyrone and Nigel. The latter flew in from New York to be here for me. The memory of Jaime chasing after his Town Car after I fled from him pops into my head. I hold back a bittersweet tear. I’m so lucky he never stopped chasing me. In my right hand, I hold two fragrant long stemmed roses—one white for Madame Paulette, the other red for Jaime. The two people who have made me blossom as a woman.

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