Sterling’s Fortune

Chapter 6

The morning after the kiss, Elodie woke up with a headache and a heart that felt like it had been run over by a steamroller.

She hadn't heard from Alistair all day. No coffee orders. No demands for efficiency. Just a text from Arthur, the driver, at 4:00 PM: Pick up at 6:00. Be ready.

Elodie stood in the center of her tiny living room. Hanging on the back of her door was The Dress. It had been delivered an hour ago in a box that looked like it cost more than her rent.

It wasn't ice blue this time. It was red. A deep, blood-red velvet that looked like liquid fire. It was strapless, with a slit that went dangerously high up the thigh.

"It’s a costume," she whispered to the empty room. "Just a costume for the play."

She touched her lips. They still tingled. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Alistair’s face, the raw hunger in his eyes before he had thrown her out.

Knock, knock.

Elodie jumped. "Arthur? I'm not ready yet!"

She opened the door. It wasn't Arthur.

Standing in her hallway, holding a long, rectangular box wrapped in gold paper, was the old man. Mr. Kringle. He was wearing a delivery uniform that was a shade of blue that matched his eyes, and a name tag that read 'Nick'.

"Special delivery," he said, beaming.

"You!" Elodie grabbed his arm and yanked him inside, checking the hallway to make sure her nosy neighbor wasn't watching. "Who are you? The FBI? A wizard?"

"I'm just a facilitator, Elodie," he said, placing the box on her wobbly table. "I facilitate balance."

"Balance?" Elodie held up her wrist. The rose gold bracelet was dull metal today. "You gave me a magic bracelet that turns my boss into... into a s*x god who wins the lottery every time he touches me. That’s not balance. That’s insanity."

"It’s potential," Mr. Kringle corrected. He took off his cap and dusted snow from it. "The luck is merely a manifestation of connection. You two have a rare compatibility. The bracelet just... amplifies the signal."

"It nearly blew out the windows last night," Elodie argued. "And then he kicked me out."

Mr. Kringle’s face softened. He looked suddenly ancient and sad. "Fear is a powerful dampener, my dear. Alistair has lived in the cold for a very long time. Sudden heat... it scares him."

He tapped the gold box.

"Tonight is the solstice. The barrier between what is real and what is desired is thin. Be careful, Elodie. There are others who want his attention. If his focus wavers, if his heart closes off... the bad luck will find a crack to get back in."

"Wait," Elodie said as he turned to the door. "What happens if we don't fall in love by Valentine's? You said the debt comes due."

Mr. Kringle paused, his hand on the doorknob. The playful twinkle in his eye vanished, replaced by a steely seriousness.

"If the bond is not sealed by true love, the magic inverts. The luck you have borrowed will be taken back. His empire will crumble. And you... you will be the cause of his destruction. You will be the unluckiest woman in the world, forever."

He opened the door.

"Wear the necklace," he added, pointing to the box. "You’ll need the armor."

And then he was gone.

The Charity Ball was held at the Plaza. It was a riot of crystal chandeliers, spruce boughs, and people who looked like they had been genetically engineered to wear tuxedos.

Elodie sat in the back of the Bentley, her heart thumping against her ribs. She was wearing the red velvet dress. Around her neck was the gift from the gold box: a simple, diamond solitaire pendant on a rose gold chain. It sat in the hollow of her throat like a burning star.

Alistair sat next to her. He hadn't spoken a word since he picked her up.

He looked devastating. He was wearing a black tuxedo, tailored to within an inch of its life, with a black bow tie. His hair was perfectly slicked back. He looked like a prince from a dark fairytale.

"You look..." He cleared his throat, staring straight ahead. "Adequate."

"You look terrified," Elodie shot back. She was done being intimidated. If she was going to burn, she was going to take him with her.

Alistair turned to her. His jaw was tight. "I am not terrified. I am focused. Bianca St. James is here tonight."

"Who is Bianca St. James?"

"My ex-fiancée."

Elodie felt like she had been punched in the stomach. "Oh. You were engaged?"

"Briefly. Three years ago. It was a merger of families, mostly. It ended... poorly." Alistair adjusted his cuffs. "She is ruthless. She knows me better than anyone. If she suspects this relationship is fake, she will tear us apart in front of Vance and the press just for the sport of it."

The car stopped. The door opened. Flashbulbs exploded like lightning.

"Showtime, Miss Rose," Alistair muttered.

He reached out and took her hand.

Zap.

The connection was immediate. The bracelet flared. Elodie felt a rush of warmth flood her cold limbs. Alistair’s spine straightened, his eyes sharpening. The "Luck" was back.

He pulled her out of the car.

"Smile," he whispered against her ear, his arm snaking around her waist to pull her flush against his side. "Look at me like I'm the only man in the world."

Elodie looked up at him. It wasn't hard to pretend. He was beautiful, and the way he was holding her—tight, protective—made her knees weak.

They walked the red carpet. Reporters shouted their names.

"Mr. Sterling! Is it true?" "Who is the mystery woman?"

Alistair ignored them all. He marched them up the stairs and into the ballroom.

The heat inside was stifling. The smell of expensive perfume and pine was overwhelming. Commissioner Vance spotted them immediately and waved them over.

"Alistair!" Vance boomed, looking delighted. "And the lovely Elodie. My God, look at that dress. You look like a Christmas ornament, my dear. A very expensive one."

"Thank you, Commissioner," Elodie smiled, leaning into Alistair.

"We were just talking about the waterfront project," Vance said. "I'm ready to sign off on the final variances on Monday. Assuming, of course, that Sterling here doesn't get distracted."

"I am never distracted," Alistair said smoothly.

"Oh, I don't know about that."

The voice came from behind them. It was cool, smooth, and sharp as a scalpel.

Alistair stiffened. His hand on Elodie’s waist tightened to the point of pain.

Elodie turned.

Standing there was a woman who could only be Bianca St. James. She was tall, blonde, and impeccably icy. She was wearing a silver gown that looked like it was made of liquid mercury. She was stunning. She looked like a queen staring down a peasant.

"Hello, Alistair," Bianca said, her eyes glittering. "It’s been a while."

"Bianca," Alistair nodded, his voice devoid of warmth.

Bianca turned her gaze to Elodie. She looked her up and down, lingering on the red velvet dress, then the necklace, then the hand clutching Alistair’s arm.

"And who is this?" Bianca asked, a small, cruel smile playing on her lips. "The new assistant? I heard you were burning through them quickly these days."

"This is Elodie," Alistair said, his voice dropping. "My girlfriend."

Bianca laughed. It was a light, tinkling sound that made Elodie’s skin crawl.

"Girlfriend? Oh, Alistair. Please. You don't have girlfriends. You have assets." She stepped closer, invading Elodie’s personal space. "You must be very special, Elodie. Or very naive. Which is it?"

Elodie felt small. She felt cheap. She looked at Alistair, waiting for him to defend her, but he was frozen, his face a mask of stone. The "bad luck" feeling started to creep up Elodie’s spine. A waiter walking by with a tray of champagne stumbled slightly.

No, Elodie thought. Not tonight.

She remembered the old man’s words. Magic requires friction. Heat.

She took a deep breath. She released Alistair’s arm and stepped forward, meeting Bianca’s gaze.

"I'm neither," Elodie said, her voice surprisingly steady. "I'm the woman who taught him that assets can't keep you warm at night."

Bianca blinked. Alistair inhaled sharply.

Elodie didn't stop. She turned to Alistair, reached up, and placed her hand on his cheek. The contact was bold, intimate.

"Darling," she said, loud enough for Vance and Bianca to hear. "They're playing our song."

The orchestra was playing a waltz. It definitely wasn't "their song." They didn't have a song.

Alistair stared at her. For a second, she thought he would push her away.

Then, the corner of his mouth ticked up. The grey ice in his eyes melted, replaced by a darker, hungrier heat.

"You're right," he murmured. He caught her hand and kissed her palm, his eyes never leaving hers. "We should dance."

He swept her onto the dance floor, leaving a stunned Bianca and a beaming Vance behind.

As he pulled her into the waltz frame, his hand firm on her back, he whispered, "That was dangerous, Miss Rose."

"That was necessary," Elodie whispered back, trembling.

"You have a sharp tongue," Alistair said. He pulled her closer, so their bodies were pressed together from chest to knee. "I like it."

The music swelled. They spun.

"Everyone is watching," Elodie breathed.

"Let them watch," Alistair growled.

And then, disaster struck.

Or rather, luck struck too hard.

As they spun near the massive Christmas tree in the center of the room, Elodie’s heel caught on the hem of her gown. She pitched forward.

She should have fallen. She should have face-planted in front of New York’s elite.

But Alistair caught her. He didn't just catch her; he dipped her. It looked like a choreographed move, dramatic and romantic.

His arm locked around her waist. Her head fell back.

Directly above them, caught in the vibration of the music and the sudden movement, a heavy ornament, a glass sphere the size of a melon, detached from the tree.

It fell.

It should have hit Alistair on the head. It should have knocked him unconscious.

But at the last second, Alistair shifted, pulling Elodie up and spinning her away. The ornament crashed to the floor exactly where they had been standing a millisecond before.

CRASH.

Glass shattered everywhere. The music stopped. Screams erupted.

Elodie stood in the circle of broken glass, clutching Alistair’s lapels. He was breathing hard, staring at the spot where the glass had fallen.

If he hadn't moved her...

"Are you hurt?" he demanded, his hands checking her arms, her face. "Elodie?"

"I'm fine," she gasped. "You saved me."

"No," Alistair whispered, looking at the chandelier above them, which was swinging ominously. "That wasn't reflex. That was impossible."

He looked at her. The fear was back in his eyes. Not fear of the accident, but fear of her. Of the power she held.

"We need to leave," he said abruptly. "Now."

"But Vance..."

"Forget Vance!" Alistair snapped. He grabbed her hand and dragged her through the stunned crowd toward the exit. "This isn't safe. You aren't safe."

"Alistair, stop!" Elodie tried to pull back as they burst out into the cold night air. "What is wrong with you?"

He spun around on the sidewalk, the snow swirling around them.

"What is wrong with me?" he laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. "I am losing control, Elodie! I manipulate markets. I control outcomes. I do not rely on... on magic to keep from being crushed by falling glass!"

"It saved us!"

"It almost killed us!" he roared. "Don't you see? The luck is escalating. The bad luck creates the danger, and the good luck solves it. We are trapped in a loop of chaos because of this... this fake relationship!"

"It doesn't feel fake to me!" Elodie yelled back, tears stinging her eyes.

Silence.

The snow fell between them.

Alistair stared at her. His chest was heaving.

"It doesn't feel fake to you?" he repeated softly.

Elodie realized what she had said. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering in the red dress.

"No," she whispered. "It doesn't."

Alistair closed his eyes. He looked like a man at war with himself.

"Get in the car," he said finally, his voice dead.

"Alistair..."

"Get in the car, Elodie. I'm taking you home. And then... I think we need to terminate this agreement."