The Present
I stared at the mirror, clutching two different dresses in my hands — a silky red one and a sleek black number. My heart was racing, palms sweaty, and I felt like an idiot. Get it together, Brittany, I scolded myself silently. I was twenty-three, not thirteen, but here I was, pacing my bedroom like a love-struck schoolgirl on her very first date. Which, in all honesty, it sort of was.
Yes, I’d had flings before — a handful of messy, meaningless encounters that I tried to file under “experience” but that left me emptier every time. But this? Tonight was different. This was a real date with an actual gentleman.
Elliot. The charming Englishman with the crooked smile and the kind eyes I’d met at the bookstore last week. He had asked me out for dinner in that soft, lilting accent, and I had said yes before I even realized my mouth was moving.
I slipped into the black dress — the red one felt too desperate — and brushed a hand through my hair, leaving it in soft, loose waves. A touch of mascara, some gloss, and a dab of perfume behind my ears. As I grabbed my purse, my fingers trembled.
You can do this, I told myself in the mirror. You deserve this.
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The restaurant was tucked away on a quiet street in London — all exposed brick, candlelit tables, and soft jazz humming through the speakers. Elliot stood when I arrived, pulling out my chair like something out of a romance movie.
“Brittany,” he said with a smile, his blue eyes lighting up. “You look… stunning.”
My cheeks flushed. “Thank you.”
Dinner was… easy. Easier than I’d expected. We laughed, we shared stories, we poked fun at each other’s accents. Elliot told me about his family in Oxford, his work as a travel writer, the places he’d been. And I, surprisingly, let myself open up a little — about Luxe Beauty, about juggling work and the kids, about the chaos of my life.
“Honestly,” Elliot said, reaching for his wine glass, “I can’t remember the last time I laughed this much at dinner.”
I was about to reply when I felt it. A shift in the air. A prickle on the back of my neck.
My laughter faltered.
I turned slightly — and there he was.
Ace.
Leaning casually against the archway, arms folded, an infuriating smirk tugging at his mouth. His dark eyes locked on me, and the moment stretched out like something sharp and cutting.
No. Not tonight. Please, not tonight.
“Who’s that?” Elliot asked, glancing behind me.
Before I could answer, Ace pushed away from the wall and strode toward our table like he owned the place. His perfectly tailored coat swung behind him, his dark hair mussed just enough to look effortless.
“Brittany.” His voice was low, velvet-edged, and unmistakably possessive. “Funny seeing you here.”
I stiffened. “Ace.”
He didn’t spare Elliot so much as a glance. His eyes were all on me, heated and unwavering.
“Enjoying yourself?” Ace asked smoothly, his lips quirking.
Elliot cleared his throat politely. “Can we help you, mate?”
For a second, Ace just looked at him — and then he gave a cool, dismissive smile. “No. You can run along now.”
“Ace,” I hissed under my breath, my nails digging into my palm. “Go. Away.”
But Ace only leaned down, his mouth inches from my ear. “We need to talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I said tightly.
His smile turned sharp. “That’s cute.”
