Chapter 98: Chapter 98: The Dresser

SATURDAY MORNING began deceptively ordinary.

Mailah stirred awake to the sound of faint birdsong beyond the glass panes, her limbs wrapped loosely in the cool sheets of her impossibly large bed.

For a moment, she allowed herself the fragile illusion of normalcy—the sunlight streaking through sheer curtains, the faint hum of life somewhere in the manor, the warmth of knowing she wasn’t alone anymore.

Her heart betrayed her, beating with that traitorous flutter whenever she thought of him.

Grayson.

Sunlight spilled faintly across the edge of the curtains. She stretched, the sheets cool against her skin, and for a fleeting moment she wondered if Grayson might already be at breakfast.

He always kept to his own chambers—his presence in hers was never casual, never expected—and that boundary had become another unspoken rhythm of their strange cohabitation.

She showered, dressed, and made her way to the dining room, half-expecting to see him already seated, newspaper in hand, a mug of coffee within reach.

But his chair was empty.

Instead, Mrs. Baker looked up from where she was arranging fresh fruit, her smile kindly, a little conspiratorial.

“Good morning, Mrs. Ashford,” she said warmly. “Mr. Ashford had to leave early.”

“Leave?” Mailah’s chest sank, though she tried to keep her voice light. “Oh. Did he say when he’ll be back?”

Mrs. Baker nodded. “He asked me to tell you he’ll return later to pick you up. And—” her smile deepened “—he left something for you in his study.”

Pick me up? Mailah blinked, thrown. For what? And what on earth had he left?

Curiosity prickled beneath her skin, but she brushed it aside.

Breakfast first.

If she learned anything from living here, it was that Grayson’s world rarely unfolded on her schedule.

She lingered over her meal, nibbling at toast she didn’t taste, sipping coffee she didn’t need.

The silence without him was heavy, echoing.

She almost missed their strange, charged conversations, even the ones laced with tension that left her both fuming and breathless.

By the time she remembered Mrs. Baker’s words, it was after noon.

“Oh, damn,” she muttered, standing abruptly.

The manor swallowed her footsteps as she crossed into the west wing, where the library stretched like an ancient cathedral of books and secrets.

At the far corner, Grayson’s study waited.

She hesitated at the door.

He didn’t like people in here—except her. That thought alone was enough to make her pulse skip.

Mailah turned the handle.

The air inside smelled faintly of leather and cedar, underscored by a faint scent she was learning to associate with him.

The curtains had been drawn wide, sunlight falling across the expanse of his desk.

And on that desk—

A box.

Large, neatly wrapped in black paper, a note perched atop it.

Mailah’s breath caught.

She crossed the room slowly, as if the object itself might vanish if she moved too quickly. Her fingers trembled as she lifted the note.

The handwriting was precise, elegant, undeniably his.

I took the liberty to get this for you. I bought it when I saw it on a mannequin and immediately thought it fits the occasion. I hope you wear it tonight at the anniversary.

Mailah froze, the words echoing in her skull.

The anniversary? Tonight?

Her knees nearly gave out. She stared at the note again, as if her eyes had betrayed her, but the truth remained stark, unchanging.

He’d changed his mind.

She remembered his earlier words to Vivienne—how he’d sworn he would never set foot at the Ashford Anniversary again.

He’d said it like a verdict, cold and final, the sort of thing meant to settle a matter forever.

And yet here was a note. Here was a return to a place he had vowed to avoid. The thought hit her like a blow.

Shock coursed through her, chased by a cascade of feelings she couldn’t name—excitement, dread, disbelief, something dangerously close to giddiness.

Tonight.

They were going tonight.

Her hands hovered over the box, heart pounding so loudly she was sure even the walls could hear it.

Slowly, reverently, she lifted the lid.

The rustle of tissue paper filled the silence.

And then she saw it.

Her breath stuttered.

The dress.

It wasn’t merely beautiful—it was otherworldly, the kind of gown that belonged on queens or whispered legends.

Dark as midnight but threaded with subtle iridescence that shimmered like raven feathers, it caught the light in glimmers of violet and silver. The bodice was structured, fitted to flatter, softened by delicate embroidery that spiraled like vines across the fabric. The skirt flowed in waves, light enough to float, heavy enough to command presence.

She pressed a hand to her mouth, her throat thick.

Grayson had chosen this.

For her.

She could almost hear his voice in the memory—cool, measured, the same voice that had once refused to come.

The contrast made the gesture ache with meaning: a man who’d declared the anniversary off-limits now arranging the most extravagant invitation.

The sexual tension that always simmered between them seemed to rise now, as though his absence itself had carried heat and his return held promise.

Her skin tingled at the thought of him waiting for her reaction.

For a moment, Mailah stood frozen, speechless.

Then, slowly, a smile curved her lips—a smile she couldn’t stop even if she tried.

He wanted them there.

He wanted her by his side.

At the Ashford Anniversary—the battlefield he’d sworn never to enter again.

Her heart beat faster.

This night would change everything.

As she gazed at the dress shimmering in the afternoon light, Mailah couldn’t shake the feeling that she was standing at the edge of a precipice.

One wrong step and she might fall.

But oh, how tempting the fall seemed.

She didn’t waste another second.

Hands trembling with a delicious mix of nerves and impatience, Mailah tucked the box under her arm and hurried down the hall toward her room.

The house seemed to hold its breath with her as she went — the hush between the portraits, the faint tick of a distant clock, the soft padding of her slippers on the rug.

Every step echoed the same thought: Tonight.

She stopped short in the doorway.

Someone was standing in the threshold of her bedroom.

For a beat she thought the sight might be another trick of the light, another manifestation of her hope.

Then the woman shifted slightly, and the reality of her presence snapped into place.

Mailah’s immediate instinct was caution.

Her hand tightened on the box.

Who was this?

One of Grayson’s ex-wives come to confront her again for occupying their territory?

Another woman, another claim?

Her mind supplied images in rapid succession — whispered arguments, cold faces at side tables, polite smiles turned knives.

But the woman in the doorway looked ordinary in a way that made Mailah’s suspicion prick.

Not ordinary like a neighbor or a friend: ordinary in the sense of human.

No iridescent skin, no unnatural sheen to the eyes, no barely contained power humming at the edges.

She could have been anyone from the village.

She was dressed practically — a soft blouse, tailored trousers — and carried a canvas tote at her shoulder.

At her hip dangled a large metallic kit that clinked faintly as she shifted her weight. The kind of kit a professional would carry: brushes, compact cases, rows of small bottles and clipped instruments with an efficient, utilitarian gleam.

Mailah’s breath slowed.

Most of Grayson’s former wives had been human; she had no reliable rule for what that fact should mean.

This woman could be a confronting rival, or she could be a stylist who’d been summoned to make Mailah look every inch the assembly’s queen. Either possibility made Mailah’s stomach flip.

The woman raised a hand in a small, immediate gesture of apology. “Oh — I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” She had a voice that was steady and warm, the kind that put people on edge in the best possible way.

“Mrs. Baker told me you were up here and asked me to come straight to your room.”

Mailah didn’t move. Her eyes narrowed, trying to read everything at once: the cadence of the woman’s speech, the honest tilt of her smile, the absence of any aura that would warn of supernatural danger.

“I’m Etta,” the woman added, as if introducing herself would diffuse the silence. “Mr. Ashford asked me to help.” She nodded toward the box cradled in Mailah’s arms. “I’m a dresser and stylist of sorts. I know this is forward, but Mr. Ashford insisted I come right away.”

Mailah’s shoulders loosened a fraction, despite herself.

A dresser.

Practical. Mundane.

Please be mundane, she thought, feeling foolish for the private relief that warmed her.

“A dresser?” she echoed, trying not to let her voice betray how wired she felt. “You mean—clothes? Hair? Makeup?”

Etta smiled, the sort of uncomplicated, no-fuss smile that suggested competence rather than drama. “All of that. If Mr. Ashford took the trouble to purchase a gown and arrange for someone to prepare you, he wanted it done properly.”

That last sentence landed with its own little boom.

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