Page 65 of Sugar

Already left holding the bag—literally—I returned to the elevator. Once inside, I took a sip of coffee and nearly swooned. It was a billion times better than the already delicious one I always got, mostly because it tasted like there were actual toasted marshmallows inside. I lifted the cup in search of a logo or marking to inform me where it was from so I could purchase a lifetime supply.

This is incredible.

Despite my attempt to savor it, the cup was nearly empty by the time I reached my apartment. I grudgingly set it down to unpack the rest of the stuff.

Starting with the glossy paper bag from a store I didn’t recognize, I pulled out a pair of strappy gold heels. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know how Easton had gotten my exact size correct. I unwrapped the bundle of delicate tissue paper to find a coordinating gold clutch. Setting that aside, I ignored a small velvet box—clearly jewelry—to grab the last thing.

A small envelope.

Opening it, there was a notecard and a black card. Not like a black notecard. But a fancy credit card. I returned that to the bag before reading the note.

Your payment. Try to hand it back, and neither of us will be happy.

-Tyrant

PS You better be wearing the necklace tonight.

I would be scared that he already knew me so well if it weren’t for the arousal pooling between my thighs at the reminder that I was owed a payment. His note also issued a challenge that I was looking forward to accepting.

I set it down and unzipped the garment bag before letting out a happy squeal.

The silky burgundy dress belonged on a red carpet, not in a college housing apartment. Though the back of the skirt likely reached my ankle, the front wrapped in a way that would expose one of my legs. Like, alotof it. The bodice had boning structure leading up to the swoopy drape of fabric at my breast—both of which would accentuate my curves. When I lifted it off my little table, I turned it to see the back was more strap than fabric, the delicate pieces weaving down to tie above my ass.

If this is the dress code, then it’s a good thing I didn’t try to wear something from my closet. Even the one I pilfered from Greer was woefully inadequate.

Carefully setting it on top of the bag, I picked up my phone and started typing.

Then stopped.

Then deleted what I had and started again.

Then stopped.

I wanted to tell him it was unnecessary. That I could’ve gone shopping for myself—with a little direction on what to buy. That the cost of anything he sent needed to come out of the money he didn’t even really owe me.

That I didn’t even need said money in the first place, and that wasn’t what any of this was about.

The choice was made for me.

Easton: Say thank you, Madeline.

Me: Thank you.

Easton: You’re welcome. I’m going to be a half hour late.

Me: Thank God.

Easton: Again with the flattery.

Me: No, that’s not what I meant. I’m also running a little behind.

When no more messages came, I tossed my phone down, drank the rest of my coffee, and then hurried into the shower.

“Shit. Shit. Damn. Hell.”

Panting through my frustrated curses, I twisted and turned as I tried to secure my dress into place.

It was not a one-person job.

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