"And all done!" Marigold announces.

Everyone who has been touching Emilia – too many have been tonight, if she's honest – takes a step back, hands lifted like a Formula 1 pit crew. Quinn kicks his chair and rolls aside with a theatrical rattle.

Emilia's mind is still in Julian and Sophie's bedroom – and then she blinks, and the salon returns to focus.

"How do I look?" she asks Daniel.

After all, that's the opinion that matters.

"Lovely," Blair says.

"Gorge!" Quinn hollers.

"It's... right," Daniel answers, gaze steady on hers.

"Right," Emilia echoes, unsure how to take it.

Kate would know exactly how – but perhaps it's time to loosen her grip on the wheel.

"You look—" He stops, picking his words carefully. "Sharp. And beautiful."

Quinn is packing his tiny bottles and files. He throws Emilia a look in the mirror and mouths, Oh my God. Emilia snorts and returns her attention to the leading man in her real-life story.

"Thank you," she says to Daniel.

He nods.

"Are you content with that little?" Marigold tuts, pinching Emilia's left sleeve into perfection. "Utterly inadequate, my dragon. Given, the sentiment isn't bad, of course."

"She's a writer," Daniel deadpans. "She can say it better anyway."

Blair and Quinn giggle and exchange glances. While they gather their things, the second stylist returns with Emilia's old clothes, folded and packed in one of those large paper shopping bags that one can see posh people haughtily carry on Bond Street.

Blair hands her another, smaller bag.

"I've packed some products for you," they say, a shy smile on their lips. "For the hair."

Quinn pops up and thrusts a tiny vial into Emilia's hand. "Cuticle oil. Take care of those hands! To type out all those delicious scenes of yours." 

Marigold fusses with the hem one last time, then grasps Emilia's upper arms – tightly, almost unpleasantly so – and leans in, pinning Emilia with an intense stare.

"Be seen," she orders. "And breathe."

"Thank you," Emilia squeaks back.

It feels like she should be saying something else, something profound and a bit theatrical. But suddenly, a calm 'Cody's here,' Daniel opens the door for her; the bell gives a soft jangle – and they are on the pavement.

The street glows faintly from a recent drizzle, headlights streaking yellow and crisp white along the wet tarmac. Somewhere nearby, a bus exhales at a stop. The nippy, clammy air hits Emilia's lungs. A funny thought comes: if it were a story, she should be sobering up and getting back to reality; but then she looks down and sees the puffy black skirt, and the pearly toe of her new shoe; and next to her, a gorgeous man in an elegant three-piece suit – and the Cinderella feeling lingers.

A dark saloon waits at the kerb, hazard lights ticking. Daniel once again opens the door; Emilia gathers the dress and slides in. The seat is cool against her calves.

The car starts moving, and Emilia releases an exhale. It's not over, of course; if anything, it's just the beginning; but she should definitely follow Marigold's command and attempt to breathe.

Oates studies her for a moment in the suddenly obvious hush of the inside insulated by the overpriced leather and pristine surfaces.

"The dress, the hair. It suits you," he says suddenly. "Like you've always looked like this, and the rest was... noise."

Oh.

But hasn't he just found better words than she could've ever come up with in one of her books?!

Her chest does a foolish little flutter; and the need rises, as she puts it in her book. She shifts closer and picks up the lapels of his jacket. His gaze drops to her mouth.

"Marigold said mind the lipstick," he says slowly.

Damn her lipstick.

"But she's not my domme," he points out, his left eyebrow jumping up a tad – and Emilia gives out a small laugh.

"No, but she's right."

While she's pondering what she could offer him instead of the endangered rouge – he picks up her hand and places a small kiss on the pad of her index finger; and then of the middle one; and the ring one.

Just like in the Top.

Just like he's been instructed.

Oh bugger.

Emilia presses her shoulder into him and whines, "It's so hard. I have to watch the powder too, so I can't even—" She makes another frustrated noise. "I reckon, I'll just have to bottle it up until later, yeah?"

She feels the tips of his fingers dance on the shorter hair, on her nape.

"That's not helping, Daniel."

His movement stops, but the contact is still there. A little naughty shiver trickles down her back. She can feel his warmth beside her – the silent confidence, the way his knee brushes hers when the driver brakes.

Before she does something daft – and she's that close to messing up all the effort that Marigold's team put into her! – the car slides to a stop before a white-fronted townhouse. The windows are spilling amber light onto the pavement.

Oh dear. She's not ready.

Daniel steps out first – his massive, stark silhouette is immediately inspiring a slew of paragraphs for her next book. He circles the car to open Emilia's door. The nasty drizzle landing on her face, her nape, and her exposed shoulders properly isn't helping her jitters.

In front of them, a pair of double doors stand open, emanating music – a slow, seductive bass and sultry winds – and the scent of polished wood and perfume; the discreet, expensive room scent Emilia's been inhaling all afternoon, and had hoped to miss.

Daniel offers his arm. "Ready?"

She studies the black-and-white portraits in heavy frames, inside; and the guests floating around. The overall 'coming to a ball in a pumpkin carriage' sensation is intensifying. Maybe Cody shouldn't be allowed near whatever those cheese-like cubes are that sit on the trays the catering staff are carrying around.

"Define ready," Emilia mutters.

He makes a hardly audible noise; and she'd like to think that she knows his noises by now. He's worried about her, just like he was in the cab; but Emilia has come too far by now. And maybe, the romcom makeover is working.

She tugs at his arm, stepping towards the doors.

***

A waiter in a white jacket emerges, and Daniel takes two flutes without breaking stride and hands her one. That's her fourth one tonight, and she hasn't eaten since breakfast. Caution advised.

They move together, his dark, his arm is a hackneyed anchor in the mingling and chattering sea. And then she notices that people look.

Some look more than once. Some smile. Some linger.

"Why is everyone staring at me?" she whispers.

"The way you look? Of course they are."

Blimey... Should he be writing her next novel?!

Emilia's working on recovering some semblance of composure, while they take a slow turn of the room. Every so often, someone greets Daniel by name; he returns it with his usual calm economy. When curiosity circles back to Emilia, he lets the attention rest on her, not on him. Emilia tries to smile, nods, and supplies empty lines, forgetting every name she's given, all these faces a blur.

They pass from one print to another. The walls are a riot of black‑and‑white – bodies everywhere, mostly unclothed, yet somehow tasteful: all sensual glow and knife‑edge shadow; bold enough to make one blush; kind enough not to judge or criticise either the model, or the audience.

Emilia pauses before a striking print: a bare‑shouldered woman, face half in shadow; when they hear a loud cheery "Daniel!"

A man unpeels himself from a cluster of guests. He's tall enough to make doorframes nervous; and he'd stand out even if he weren't that outrageously tall. By the entrance, Emilia picked up the programme for the evening; and judging by the photo on the front page, that – is Max Ravenscroft. He looks like he's been sketched by a fashion illustrator who ran out of patience for ordinary proportions: too tall, too thin. Mesmerising.

It's amazing how many colourful men Emilia encounters these days. To think of it, just a few weeks ago, her life contained three female relatives, her friend Elena, the latter's husband, and Emilia's imaginary dukes and marquesses. And look at Emilia now!

Ravenscroft approaches with a smile that's equal parts charm and calculation, his dark beard trimmed to geometric precision, eyes glinting like polished onyx under the gallery lights.

Ooph, that was a horrendous comparison! Emilia's editors would have her guts for garters for that!

Still, those eyes are most unusual! Magnetic. Unnerving. Like you want to hide from them, but you can't.

"I see you've found my favourite piece," Max says lightly, nodding toward the photograph Emilia had been studying. "That laughter? Completely genuine. Not staged. I only wish all my subjects were so honest."

His gaze flicks to Emilia, then to Daniel; quick, assessing, and quite obviously amused. Oates doesn't move, not really, just shifts his weight subtly forward. Emilia isn't sure what it is about; but the gesture has an odd vibe. Protectiveness? Almost possessiveness? Surely not! Ravenscroft definitely notices, though. It's in his job description, after all. His smirk is exactly the kind Harlequinists would call 'lopsided' and 'wry.'

"Emilia, this is Max," Oates introduces.

"Emilia," Ravenscroft repeats.

And now she knows what her 'colleagues' mean when they say that a person is as if tasting the word.

He stretches his hand to Emilia. It's shockingly large, with prominent knuckles and joints; long, clever fingers; the span of a pianist and the grip of a workman. It might be the champagne - or this whole mad evening - talking; but even this very first contact feels charged.

Emilia tells herself that she's being utterly ridiculous, lets go of Ravenscroft's hand - and stretches hers towards Oates. She might be bending the social norms here a tad, but she needs it.

Warm. Familiar. Steady pressure, just the way she fancies it.

Holding.

By her side. On her side.

Yeah, that was definitely too much bubbly.