Confidence pov
I don't know why I agreed to follow him into this boutique.
Maybe because the sign outside looked harmless.
Maybe because I was desperate to look good tonight.
Or maybe because something in Charles's voice made it impossible to say no.
But the moment I stepped inside, I knew I had made a mistake.
The dresses didn't have normal prices.
They had nightmare prices.
The kind of numbers that made me dizzy.
The kind of numbers that multiplied themselves times my monthly salary and still had change floating in the air.
I touched one gold dress gently.
£4,500.
I instantly removed my hand like the dress was coated in acid.
Charles stood behind me, hands in his pockets, boredom written on his face like he was grocery shopping.
"Don't worry about the price," he said.
"I am worrying."
"Then stop."
"Stop?! Do you know how much that dress costs?!"
He shrugged. "Do you know how much my shoes cost?"
I didn't answer. I didn't want to know.
And then I saw it.
The red dress.
Soft fabric.
Elegant neckline.
A slit that whispered instead of shouted.
It looked like confidence… but the version of me I wished I was.
The price tag nearly knocked me unconscious.
I tried to walk away.
Charles stopped me with one sentence:
"Try it on."
I did.
And when I came out of the fitting room, the saleswoman gasped like she had seen a goddess.
Even I couldn't deny I looked… different.
Stronger.
Grown.
Like a woman someone could fall for.
Charles just nodded once. "Wrap it."
I panicked. "Wait—no—Charles, that dress is literally—"
"Confidence," he said quietly, "stop arguing."
The tone.
God, the tone.
I shut up.
I didn't know what to expect when he knocked on my door that evening.
But I didn't expect that look.
Charles froze when the door opened.
Actually froze.
Like his brain forgot what oxygen was.
His eyes ran over me—slow, stunned, like he didn't recognize me.
I suddenly felt shy. "Is it… too much?"
He didn't answer.
He just stared.
My face warmed. "Charles?"
Nothing.
For the first time since I met him, Charles Wilson—the arrogant billionaire who acted like the world bent at his feet—was speechless.
Speechless because of me.
He finally blinked, jaw tightening like he was trying to pull himself together. "You… look—"
But the sentence died again.
I almost smiled.
He cleared his throat sharply, dragging his gaze away from my legs. "Wait. I got something."
He reached into a small velvet box and brought out a necklace—delicate, silver, the kind of piece that whispered rather than screamed.
"Wear it," he said softly. "It matches your smile."
My heart stuttered.
He stepped behind me, brushing my curls aside. His fingers touched my skin—light, careful, almost hesitant.
Then he paused.
Froze.
I felt his breath catch.
The back of the dress dipped lower than I realized—soft, open, exposing the curve of my spine and the warmth of my skin.
His fingers had barely left my skin when everything inside me turned into electricity.
The necklace lay cold on my collarbone, but everywhere he touched felt warm.
Too warm.
I stepped away quickly, needing distance before I did something stupid.
"Thank you," I murmured, even though it nearly choked me.
"Good," he said tightly. "You're ready."
Something in his voice irritated me.
Something dismissive.
Something like he was checking me off a to-do list.
I turned sharply. "Ready? That's all you're going to say?"
He blinked like I had interrupted his thoughts. "What else do you want me to say?"
"I don't know," I snapped. "Maybe something normal. Like I look nice."
"You want compliments from me now?" His brow lifted.
"I didn't say that."
"You implied it."
My jaw clenched. "No, Charles. You stood there staring at me like you saw a ghost, then suddenly switched back to your Mr. Robot mode."
His eyes flashed. "I did NOT—"
"You did."
"I was just surprised."
"By what?"
"You clean up well."
I gasped. "EXCUSE ME?!"
He raised both hands slightly. "I didn't mean it like—"
"You make it sound like I normally look dirty!"
"I never said dirty—"
"You didn't have to!"
He exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair. "You're twisting my words."
"Oh, I'm sorry that your expensive vocabulary can't communicate properly."
His jaw flexed. "You're impossible."
"And you're rude!"
He took a slow, dangerous step toward me.
"You think I'm rude because I tell the truth," he said, his voice low, heated. "You want honesty? Fine. That dress—" his gaze dragged over me in a way that made my knees weak, "—is going to make every man at that party forget how to breathe."
My heart thudded painfully.
"So yes," he added, stepping closer, "you look… nice."
"Oh wow," I muttered, backing away, "try not to drown me in compliments."
He glared. "Why are you arguing with me about this?!"
"Because you're annoying!"
"So are you!"
We stood there, breathing hard, glaring at each other like two idiots fighting gravity.
The air between us burned.
He took one more step, and we were suddenly inches apart—his cologne in my lungs, his height swallowing the space, his gaze dangerous and unreadable.
"Listen to me," he said quietly, leaning down. "Tonight is important. For the deal. And for your little act about our relationship. So you're going to walk beside me, smile when needed, and try very hard not to trip in those heels."
"I'm not your puppet."
"I never said you were."
"You're treating me like one."
He stared at me for a long second, something flickering in his blue eyes—annoyance, frustration, heat.
Then he said, very softly, "If I were treating you like a puppet, Confidence… you'd know."
Oh.
Oh no.
Why did THAT sound sinful?
I scoffed to hide the way my entire body reacted. "Get over yourself."
He smirked. "I would if you'd stop staring at me."
"I am NOT—"
"Let's go before you start another fight."
I shoved past him first.
He followed.
But when his hand slid around the small of my back to guide me out the door, I felt it—
a spark that shot straight through me.
It wasn't romantic.
It wasn't sweet.
It was possessive.
And I hated that my body answered it.