BLINDSIDED BY SEDUCTION

Chapter Eight: Gathering Storm

I did not open the e-mail.

Not that night. Nor the next morning. Not even after reconsidering the subject line—We have to discuss something.

Landon needed a lot of things. Closure. Forgiveness. Maybe a soul.

I did not intend to provide anything else.

I opened up a browser and typed in two words that I had forgotten: personal reinvention.

The salon smelled of citrus and hairspray. I sat beneath the harsh glow of vanity lights while a stranger studied my face like a canvas she’d been aching to paint.

"So," she said, taking her gloves off, "what are we going to do today?"

I looked at my reflection—flat, lifeless brown hair, cheeks still pale from the hospital, lips pressed into a firm, unsmiling line.

I pressed the glass gently. "We're deleting her."

She raised one impeccably arched eyebrow. "Erasing?"

"She is too soft. She forgives people who don't deserve forgiveness. She stays quiet when she should be speaking out."

The stylist smiled mischievously. "Oh, I see. We’re making a monster."

"No," I replied slowly, smiling. "We're making a woman to inspire fear."

She smiled wider. "Say no more."

Finally, when I'd finished, it was difficult to recognize the woman staring back at me from the mirror.

My mousy, dull locks now shone like a spotlight against the lightness of my skin, now a deep, rich espresso brown, chin-length and perfectly bobbed. My eyebrows were masterfully shaped into the form of a perfect arch, and my lips were painted a rich, luscious red, daring any to glance away.

I took a step closer to myself and whispered, "I hope you're watching, Landon."

My next stop was Wardrobe. I was interested neither in clothes nor garments but searched there for armor.

As I browsed the designer directories, I finally tracked her down—Lucia Reign. A former model, she now worked as a private stylist, orchestrating the changes for women looking to "make a statement."

Only months before, Landon had hired her services for my birthday gown, to wear to a small dinner party in New York. The night unfolded like a fantasy, filled with an undeniable enchantment. He really went all out with the gown, flying me to New York in his private aircraft and arranging for a private dinner just for me. Whatever happened after that was nothing short of spectacular.

I was so full of joy. I wiped away the tears of rage that seared my eyes, holding back the bile that surged up my throat. Never again, I swore.

I would never be used and lied to again. Luckily, I still had the private Amex card Landon had provided me with, so I had the liberty to buy anything I wanted.

I realized he will get the transaction notifications but it will finally work to his advantage. My hands shook as I texted her.

Elara Matthews. I need to become someone who surprises no one. Will you help me?

She replied within only fifteen minutes.

Meet me at 2 p.m. tomorrow. Do not wear anything you care about.

Lucia’s studio was minimalist—white walls, chrome racks, and mannequins dressed like magazine covers. The woman herself was tall, silver-haired, and wore sunglasses even indoors.

"You're late," she said, looking at her watch impatiently.

“I’m early,” I replied.

“I meant emotionally.”

She invited me to the velvet stool, encircling me like a hawk.

"Your face is striking. And your body type?" She snapped her fingers. "Elegant lean, with high-fashion bone structure. Don't have to be loud, you have to be intentional."

I stared at her fixedly. "You talk like a general of war."

"I get women into fights," Lucia asserted, posing in front of me with confidence. "And you, dear, seem to have something to prove."

"I'd like to disappear," I admitted. "But not without being noticed. I'd like to enter the room and have the one man responsible for doing me harm struggle to breathe under the press of his remorse."

Lucia nodded curtly in affirmation. "We will play with black."

By the weekend, my closet was looking like something out of one of the James Bond movies.

Silks, flawlessly fitted blazers, and slit dresses daring enough to attract attention but crafted to create a sense of elegance, not desperation. Lucia taught me how to stride like I owned the world—how to execute calculated turns and how to enter a room with intention.

"You don't rush," she said. "Women who rush look nervous. You don't look nervous at all."

She was right, I no longer did. Therefore, I started to practice speaking. Standing in front of the mirror, I enunciated every word carefully.

"Dante Pierce. Nice to meet you."

"I'm afraid I don't remember your son."

“Wine, please. Red.”

I practiced the skill of placing my hands lightly on top of my purse, cupped around a flute of champagne as I braced myself, all the while staring at another woman who radiated haughtiness.

I got into the character until acting no longer felt like acting.

On the fifth day, I emailed Lucia a picture of the invitation that I had finally succeeded in getting:

The Pierce Foundation for Charity's Annual Gala.

She answered without hesitation.

We now sharpen the blade's edge.

On the morning of the gala, I was in front of the mirror at the guest house, taking a last look at myself. The dress was a deep emerald color, backless, with a high neckline that highlighted my collarbones.

It hugged my waist and flowed like liquid when I walked. My heels were pointed and quiet underfoot. My makeup was subtle but deliberate—darkly lined eyes, nude lips, and chiseled cheeks.

I looked nothing remotely like Elara Matthews. That was exactly the point.