Strings and Schemes

Chapter 33

I ponder what Louis has said, I wonder if half of the battle isn't the diplomat piece but instead being a diplomat for a country I couldn't stand behind.

He leans in conspiratorially. "Listen, your parents don't do anything without a reason. If they're inviting Zayn, they're testing something. You need to decide how you're playing this."

I exhale, rolling my glass between my hands. "I'm playing it by simply existing as myself. They don't control me anymore, and I don't need to act a certain way to make them comfortable."

Louis gives me a slow, approving nod. "Okay, I can get behind that. But if things go to shit, I hope you know I'll be sitting at home with a bottle of tequila, waiting for you to call."

I laugh. "I would expect nothing less."

Zayn and I step into the styling suite, and I already know we're in for an experience. The racks of designer clothes stretch floor to ceiling, a tailored experience put together by one of Louis' contacts.

The stylist, a flamboyant Frenchman named Claude, takes one look at Zayn and nods approvingly. "Ah, finally, a man who can wear a suit without looking like a businessman on his third divorce."

Zayn chokes on his water.

Claude turns to me, appraising my frame like I'm a blank canvas. "And you, my dear, I already have the perfect vision."

I raise a brow. "Oh?"

He gestures toward the velvet dressing rooms. "Come, we shall transform you into a vision of power and elegance. Your parents will weep knowing they do not own you."

I smirk. "I like you already."

Zayn watches me with amusement as Claude drags me toward the fitting area.

"Don't let him bully you," I tease.

Zayn grins. "Oh, I intend to let him bully me entirely."

When I step out in the chosen dress—an effortlessly chic black gown, tailored perfectly to my frame—I see the exact moment Zayn stops breathing.

His eyes drag over me slowly, deliberately, like he's memorizing every inch of fabric against my skin.

Claude claps his hands together. "Magnifique."

I lift my chin slightly. "Well?"

Zayn finally exhales. "You're gonna kill me."

I smirk. "That's the goal."

Claude beams, turning to Zayn. "Your turn, lover boy."

Zayn sighs, muttering, "God help me," before disappearing behind the curtain.

Minutes later, he steps out in a sleek, jet-black suit, tailored within an inch of its life. He looks regal. Effortlessly powerful. Devastatingly attractive.

I swallow hard. "Oh."

Claude sighs dreamily. "C'est l'amour."

Zayn smirks. "You like it?"

I cross the room, fixing his collar, pretending my pulse isn't currently trying to betray me. "You clean up well."

He catches my wrist, holding my hand against his chest. His voice drops low enough for only me to hear. "And you—are a fucking vision."

I feel heat crawl up my neck.

Claude, completely unaware of the tension, claps his hands. "Perfect! You will walk into that dinner looking untouchable."