Abigail's training went on all afternoon, and by now, her cheeks were starting to hurt from trying to smile the right way. "Alright, let's try it again," Emily said, standing in front of her with her hands on her hips.
Abigail nodded and slowly pulled her lips into a soft smile.
Emily sighed. "Uhhh.... nope. That's way too warm and sweet. Miss Vanessa doesn't do warm. Her smile isn't sugary sweet. It's polite, confident, and just cold enough to remind people she's above them."
Abigail tilted her head slightly. "So, not friendly, not sweet. Just enough to scare people a little?"
Emily chuckled. "Exactly. Think of it like a mask dipped in honey. Imagine you're the queen of a kingdom, and everyone else? Just peasants hoping for crumbs."
Abigail tried again, lifting her chin and curling her lips, and trying to mold her expression into confidence. But her shoulders were too stiff, and her brows kept twitching in confusion.
Emily gave her a long look. "Mmm… getting there, but it still feels like you're bracing for a sneeze."
Abigail let out a breath. "How am I supposed to smile like someone I've never seen?"
"You don't have to see her," Emily said. "Just pretend you're glaring at someone while smiling. Like a cat who's annoyed but still wants a treat."
Abigail groaned. "Great. I'm supposed to be a royal queen and a grumpy cat at the same time."
"Exactly! You're a royal grumpy cat. Now try again."
Abigail frowned. "This is so exhausting."
Emily laughed. "It is. That's why her face barely moves. But trust me, once you nail the look, no one will dare doubt you."
Abigail sighed, then tried again.
"Better," Emily nodded. "We'll keep working on it. You'll get there. Soon enough, you'll be smiling just like Miss Venessa."
"I just hope I don't end up scaring everyone," she muttered under her breath, making Emily laugh.
The rest of the day passed by in a blur. When night fell, Ethan returned quietly to check on their progress. He stopped at the doorway and blinked in surprise. There, standing in the middle of the room, was Abigail—or rather, Vanessa.
Her long, dark hair had been curled and lightly dyed, now flowing down her shoulders in soft chestnut waves that matched Vanessa's. She wore a sleek beige blouse tucked neatly into a fitted pencil skirt that hugged her waist and hips perfectly.
Her face had a touch of makeup, just enough to highlight her soft features. She looked nothing like the blind girl from yesterday. "Almost done," Emily said, brushing the last curl near her cheek. "You look like a whole new woman."
Abigail nodded with a shy smile. "Thanks… though I'm starting to feel like a very well-decorated doll."
Emily laughed. "A very expensive doll, at that."
She sighed, shaking her head. "Now, for the self-torture device." She took the high heels that Emily gave her and put them on. As she stood, she almost wobbled, but Emily quickly held her. "Careful! Try to balance yourself."
Abigail sighed dramatically, following her instructions. "I swear, whoever invented heels hated women."
"Probably a bitter man with a broken heart," Emily said, holding her hand and making her walk.
"More like a sadist," Abigail muttered. "A creative one."
The two giggled as Emily continued to teach her how to walk in heels. Neither of them noticed Ethan standing by the door, watching them. His eyes remained fixed on Abigail. There was something different about her tonight. Not just the hair or makeup, but a spark, a quiet determination that she showed in the way she carried herself.
And maybe that was what made her so captivating. He almost couldn't take his eyes off of her.
She tried walking again, her movements awkward but sincere. Emily corrected her posture from time to time, guiding her gently. She followed every instruction without complaint, nodding and adjusting quickly.
He stared at her for a few more minutes and was about to turn and leave, when suddenly, her saw her ankle twisting. "Ahh!" she gasped, stumbling forward.
"Miss Abigail!" Emily cried, panicking, and rushed forward.
But someone else was much faster than her. Abigail closed her eyes, bracing herself for the pain, the impact of falling flat on the ground, but it never came. Instead, she felt a pair of strong arms catch her just in time.
She froze as her body collided with his.
Her hand landed flat against the hard wall of his chest, and the scent of his cologne, fresh and clean with a hint of cinnamon, hit her like a wave. Her breath caught instantly as she didn't need to ask who he was.
It was him.
Ethan Blackwell, the man whom she owed everything.
Her heart pounded loudly in her chest. This was her first time being in a man's arms. She couldn't see his face, but she felt everything—his heartbeat, his breath, the firm pressure of his arms, the warmth of his skin through his shirt.
Unlike Jaxon's touch, which only made her feel disgusted, his touch felt... safe and warm. Almost like her father's embrace, yet nothing like it at all. Her skin tingled wherever he touched her.
Ethan looked down at the girl in his arms and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe. She was soft—softer than he imagined. Her delicate body molded perfectly against him, and the curve of her waist had been carved just to fit beneath his palm. She was smaller than he had imagined, fragile in a way that made something dark and protective stir inside him.
And her waist...
God.
Why was it so soft?
An unfamiliar hunger slid into his veins, hot and persistent. His fingers twitched with the strangest desire to test just how delicate she really was. Would she gasp if he pressed his thumb there? Would she arch? Tremble? Maybe even whisper his name without meaning to?
He didn't know. But he wanted to.
His grip tightened a little, unintentionally, like his body had made the decision before his mind could catch up. His gaze dropped to her beautiful face. Her cheeks had turned red, her breathing uneven, and her hand curled in his shirt as though clinging to him was the most natural thing in the world.
"I—I-I'm sorry," she whispered, barely audible.
He blinked, snapping out of his daze. What the hell was he thinking? He cleared his throat, slowly loosening his hold, though part of him deeply resented it. He didn't know why.
"Careful, Abigail," he murmured near her ear, his breath warm against her skin, his voice low and husky. "If you fall into my arms like that again, I might…"
He paused, leaving that sentence unfinished. And just like that, he stepped back and turned, his voice returning to its usual coldness like the moment never happened. "Come downstairs for dinner."
With that, he was gone, but Abigail stood there, frozen. Her heart was pounding so loudly she feared it might burst. Her fingers tingled where they had clung to him.
"…he might…"
What did he mean? He might what?
What would he do?