Chapter 20

**A L E X**

The Grace Millers I know never had an eye for high fashion or fashion at all for that matter. The Grace Millers I would follow around the campus of her college and then Oxford, only had a few hoodies, a few plaid shirts, oversized tees and baggy jeans in her wardrobe. A dress? She’s only ever worn something close to it for her prom nights and homecoming parties. Even that she designed herself. I watched her spend nights with a rented sewing machine as she put it together. The Grace Millers Sophie asked me to protect all those years ago wouldn’t walk out of the dressing room wearing a red dress with a deep cut that runs down her collarbone to the very base of her chest, making it impossible to look away.

But again, that wasn’t the real Grace Millers at all.

She walks out, one small step towards me and stops, her eyes locked with mine, and suddenly I don’t feel bad about imagining anything at all. Because the reality puts anything I could imagine to shame.
All of a sudden, I’m hit with the reality of how cunningly smart she is. How sharp and sly a mind is hidden behind that mask of innocence and purity. She pretend to be humble but has walked out of the room wearing the most expensive piece possible. She pretends to be demure but is wearing a dress that would make any man feral and weak in his knees till he’s got his hands on her.

Grace Millers knows exactly what she’s doing. The strategic choice of the dress, the way it accentuates her curves, the confidence in her eyes—it’s all calculated. She’s clever, diplomatic, and she knows how to draw attention.

Our eyes meet when my gaze travels back up to her face, and for a moment, we just stare at each other. The tension between us is electric, competitive, almost ready to catch fire. I don’t want to be looking at her, not when I know that is what she wants, but being the first to look away also feels like a defeat, like giving in, and I can’t admit defeat, not to her. I can’t give in to Grace Millers. But do I want her to give in?
Before I can decide, Grace Millers walks past me, robbing me of the view, and suddenly I know the answer.

Fuck. I’ve been celibate too long.

She beelines past me, having no clue of the rage that I suppress when she moves. She was perfect right there, beautiful, desirable, and almost static, as if she weren’t a real person. Almost helped me forget I am supposed to be plotting to send her away and far from my sister and hence me.

She stands on my right, facing the full body mirror leaning on the wall. I turn involuntarily and end up standing right behind her. A little too close, yet I don’t feel the need to move. She is looking at herself, her eyes following the lines of her body and the lines of the dress as they come together. From her shoulders to her breasts, to her hips and then down to her bare legs and her feet that are starting to look too lonely without the heels she’s been eyeing since earlier. My gaze follows hers as if we’re using the same set of eyes. She drags one of her feet backwards on the carpet as if she feels naked, wanting to hide. When I look back up at her face in the mirror, she is already looking at me.

Does she expect me to speak? Tell her she is beautiful? Does she want that?

The thought warms up my chest, but even more so does the thought of having the possibility to deny her what she wants. So I just watch her, it is not a bad way to pass the time. When I stare at her long enough I begin to forget who she is and that helps. That almost feels delightful.

I take a step closer to her, the only last step that was between us, and the proximity intensifies the charged atmosphere. I can feel the fabric of my blazer graze the fabric of her dress on the back. I look down, and I’m relieved to find the fabric covering all of her back, connecting at the buttons that lines her entire spine down to the back of her waist.

My eyes follow the line of closely sewed line of buttons that look round and soft, like they are made of fabric. I want to feel and confirm it, but I know better than that. My eyes follow the line of the buttons as they fall down to her hips and– Oh. I notice she’s missed a button towards the end, the few after that are misaligned.

Without thinking, I...