Chapter 26 I should cancel
JASMINE
I sigh—for what feels like the hundredth time—staring at my reflection like it personally betrayed me.
Attempting to do my own makeup was officially the worst decision I had made all day. Possibly all week.
I lean closer to the mirror, squinting as if that might magically fix the disaster staring back at me. My eyeliner is uneven. One side looks bold, the other looks like it gave up halfway through life. My foundation—foundation, that’s what they call that damn stuff—refuses to blend no matter how much I rub at it. It just sits there, mocking me.
Heavy.
Wrong.
Like it doesn’t belong on my face at all.
I groan and drop back into my vanity chair, the soft cushion doing nothing to soothe my spiraling nerves.
I should have just stuck to my signature natural look.
Eyeliner. Mascara. Lip gloss. Maybe a little toner if I was feeling adventurous.
But no.
This wasn’t just any event.
This was a party filled with the highest dignitaries in the city—politicians, moguls, socialites, people whose names carried weight and whose stares could dissect you in seconds. And I would be standing beside the richest of the rich and the most powerful—
—and annoyingly sexy—
—I mean, successful—
Damien Black.
I rub my face with both hands and let out a muffled scream.
I look like a mut that wandered into the wrong world. Like I somehow tripped, fell, and landed in a room full of people who would eat me alive without even noticing.
I glance back at my reflection and wince.
“I’m such a mess,” I mutter under my breath.
My phone lights up on the vanity, and without thinking, I grab it. My fingers hover over Damien’s contact.
I could cancel.
I should cancel.
There is no way I would survive that party without embarrassing myself beyond repair. I’d trip. Spill something. Say the wrong thing. Wear the wrong thing. Exist wrong.
I start dialing.
Then—
Ding dong.
The sharp sound of my doorbell slices through my thoughts, making me jump so hard I almost drop my phone.
I freeze.
Slowly, I lift my gaze to the top of my screen.
7:45 p.m.
My heart skips.
Who the hell could be here at this time?
I set my phone down and stand, my movements cautious. My apartment suddenly feels too quiet. Too still.
I pad toward the stairs, my steps soft, my ears straining for any sound. Halfway down, my paranoia kicks in full force.
What if it’s a kidnapper?
My stomach twists.
I glance toward the kitchen, then quietly detour, grabbing the nearest thing within reach—a metal spoon from the counter. It’s ridiculous, I know, but adrenaline doesn’t care about logic.
I grip it tightly, knuckles whitening.
If anyone tries anything, I swear I’ll swing.
I inch toward the door, my heartbeat pounding so loudly I’m convinced whoever is outside can hear it. A thought slams into my mind so hard it nearly knocks the air out of me.
Could it be… him?
No.
No, no, no.
There’s no way he found me.
Uncle Tom promised. He promised he’d find him first. Promised I was safe.
I swallow hard, my hand trembling as it settles on the door handle. It rattles slightly from how badly
I’m shaking.
I take one last breath.
Then yank the door open.
I barely have time to raise the spoon before an ear-splitting scream fills the air.
I flinch, my eyes snapping open—
—and there she is.
Richelle.
Curled on the floor, hands raised defensively, eyes wide with terror.
“It’s me! It’s me!” she shrieks.
“Oh my gosh—Richelle!” I gasp, my entire body sagging with relief as I lower the spoon. My heart is still racing, but at least now it’s not threatening to explode. “I—I thought you were a kidnapper.”
She blinks, then lets out a shaky laugh. “Wow. Remind me never to sneak up on you.”
“I’m so sorry,” I stutter, nerves making my words trip over themselves. “I really thought—”
“It’s okay,” she says quickly, pushing herself up. “Honestly, good instincts.”
I help her to her feet, and that’s when I notice the bags.
So many bags.
Designer bags.
Shopping bags.
Five in each hand.
I stare.
“What… is all this?” I ask slowly.
Richelle grins and brushes past me into my apartment. “Come and find out. And don’t just stand there with the door open—this time an actual kidnapper might walk in.”
I shut the door and follow her upstairs, my confusion growing with every step.
She dumps the bags onto my bed and immediately starts pulling out dresses. One after the other. Silk. Lace. Satin. Colors I’ve never dared to wear.
My mouth falls open.
She holds a white lace evening gown against my body, tilting her head, then yanks it away before I can even process it and replaces it with another.
“Richelle,” I protest, raising a hand. “What is going on? Why are you here?”
She stops and sighs dramatically before turning to me. “Damien sent me.”
I blink.
“What?”
“He called in a last-minute favor,” she continues, gesturing to the explosion of designer fabric on my bed. “All of this is for you.”
My brain short-circuits.
“There is absolutely no way I’m wearing any of these,” I say firmly.
She grabs my shoulders gently but decisively. “Jasmine. Think of it this way. You’re representing Black Empire. Do you really want to show up looking underdressed because you were scared?”
That hits harder than I expect.
I deflate.
“…Okay,” I sigh. “Fine.”
She squeals, clapping her hands. “Great! Now sit.”
Before I can protest, I’m back in the vanity chair, eyes closed, surrendering completely as Richelle works. Brushes sweep over my skin. Fingers tug gently at my lashes. Warm air from a blow dryer dances across my neck.
Time blurs.
Then—
“Tadaa!”
I open my eyes.
And forget how to breathe.
The woman staring back at me looks… unreal.
Soft but striking. Elegant. Confident.
Me—but elevated.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
Richelle beams.
Then she hands me a black ankle-length dress.
“This,” she says simply.
I swallow. Richelle blows me a kiss and leaves, saying Damien would be here any minute.
The doorbell rings.
My heart stutters.
He’s here.
I change quickly, slipping into the dress, sliding on my heels, my hands shaking.
I take a deep breath and head downstairs.
The doorbell rings again.
I open the door.
Damien Black stands there.
And for a moment, the world stops.
Burgundy suit. White shirt undone just enough to reveal tan skin. His hair is perfectly messy. His scent hits me instantly—warm, intoxicating.
Our eyes meet.
Green.
Sharp.
Intense.
My heart slams against my ribs.
What the fuck?