Chapter Forty-Seven: D-Day
977 Words
Anna's POV
Courtney’s hands are steady in a way mine aren’t.
“Hold still,” she murmurs, leaning in close as she blends the last sweep of color along my cheekbone. “If you flinch, I’m blaming nerves and charging you extra.”
I huff out a laugh that sounds thinner than I want it to. “You’re already charging me emotional damages.”
She grins at me in the mirror. “Worth it.”
My bedroom is a soft chaos of dresses, shoes, discarded hairpins, and the faint scent of perfume hanging in the air. The lamp on my dresser casts a warm glow that makes everything feel slightly unreal, like I’m standing inside a painting instead of my childhood room. I barely recognize the girl staring back at me.
Not because she looks different—though she does—but because she looks… certain.
Courtney steps back, appraising her work with a critical tilt of her head. “Okay,” she says finally. “That’s it. No more.”
I blink at my reflection. My makeup is elegant, restrained—wine-toned lips, soft gold on my lids, my eyes brighter than I expected. It doesn’t feel like a mask. It feels like an extension of me.
“I don’t look like I’m trying too hard, do I?” I ask quietly.
Courtney turns serious instantly. “Anna. You look like someone who knows exactly who she is.”
My throat tightens.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
She reaches for the garment bag draped carefully over the back of my chair and unzips it with a little flourish. The wine red gown spills out like a secret—deep, rich, dramatic without being loud. The fabric catches the light, almost glowing.
I run my fingers over it, reverent. “I still can’t believe Marcus picked this dress.”
“He didn’t pick the dress,” Courtney says. “You did. That’s why it’s perfect.”
I slip it on carefully, Courtney zipping me in and smoothing the fabric over my hips. It fits like it was waiting for me—structured but fluid, confident without suffocating. When I step back in front of the mirror, my breath catches.
“Oh,” Courtney breathes. “Yeah. He’s done for.”
I laugh, nerves fluttering low in my stomach. “I’m nervous.”
“I know,” she says gently. “But listen to me.”
I meet her gaze in the mirror.
“You’re not walking into that gala to prove anything,” Courtney continues. “You’re walking in because you were invited. By someone who chose you.”
My chest warms. “When did you get so wise?”
“Trauma,” she deadpans. “Now put on your earrings.”
I do, hands shaking just a little, and take one last look at myself. This isn’t armor. It’s acknowledgment. A voice floats up from downstairs.
“Girls!” my mom calls. “They’re here!”
My heart stumbles. Courtney squeals softly and grabs my hands. “Showtime.”
We descend the stairs together, my heels clicking against the wood, each step feeling heavier and lighter all at once. The front door is open, cool night air brushing against my skin. And then I see him.
Marcus stands just inside the doorway, dark suit tailored perfectly, hair styled with careless precision. He’s laughing at something Peter says—until his eyes lift and find me.
Everything else disappears. The laughter dies on his lips. His posture stills. For one suspended, breathtaking moment, he just stares.
Like he can’t quite believe I’m real. The look on his face—pure, unguarded admiration—hits me harder than any compliment ever could. My nerves dissolve instantly, replaced by warmth that spreads through my chest and down to my fingertips.
“Wow,” Marcus says quietly.
Courtney nudges me forward. “I’ll give you two a minute.”
I step closer, my pulse loud in my ears. Marcus’s gaze traces me slowly, respectfully, like he’s memorizing every detail.
“You look…” He shakes his head, a soft laugh escaping him. “You look incredible.”
“Hi to you too,” I say, smiling.
He reaches for my hand, thumb brushing over my knuckles. “I mean it. I don’t think I’m going to survive the night.”
“Good,” I tease gently. “I’d hate for it to be boring.”
Behind him, Damian lets out an appreciative whistle. “Okay, Anna. I see you.”
Courtney steps into his space, smirking. “Flattery accepted. Now say it properly.”
“You look stunning,” Damian says, eyes warm. “Both of you.”
Courtney beams.
Peter straightens his jacket dramatically. “All right,” he announces. “Ground rules.”
We all turn to him.
“If anyone so much as looks at Anna or Courtney the wrong way tonight,” he continues solemnly, “I will personally step in as your knight in shining armor.”
Marcus snorts. “You’re not wearing armor.”
“Metaphorical armor,” Peter says. “Very intimidating.”
I laugh, tension bleeding out of me completely. “I appreciate the offer.”
“Seriously,” Peter adds, softer now. “You’re safe with us.”
The words mean more than he probably realizes.
Marcus squeezes my hand. “Ready?”
I take a breath, then nod. “Yeah. I am.”
We step out into the night together, the car waiting at the curb. As Marcus opens the door for me, I catch my reflection in the window—steady, glowing, unafraid.
The gala looms ahead, full of eyes and expectations and consequences.
But as Marcus’s hand finds mine again, I know one thing with absolute certainty:
Whatever happens next—
I’m not walking into it alone.
- Writer
