Chapter 29

The dining room is bathed in soft morning light, the kind that makes everything feel warm and golden.

Dust motes float lazily in the air, catching the glow as if time itself has slowed down. I’m picking at a plate of fruit, my mind still on the sensual kiss Valentine and I shared the day before, when Achilles strolls in, looking far too energetic for this hour.

He’s wearing a fitted black shirt and jeans, his usual smirk plastered across his annoyingly perfect face.

There’s something about the way he moves, like he owns every room he walks into, and in some twisted way, he probably does.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says, sliding into the chair across from me. “Sleep well?”

I glare at him. “Define ‘well.’”

He chuckles, reaching for a croissant. He bites into it, moaning out softly in pleasure. "Mara bakes the best of these. You can't find them taste this good elsewhere. Not even in France."

"Oh? You would never say this to her face though."

"Of course not." He leans over the table to me. "It's bewitched, that's why her food always tastes good."

I can't help but smile.

Achilles is the kind of person who enjoys the theatrics of life, even the little things. So it's little wonder why it's always a party when he's around, even though it's barely seven in the morning.

“Anyway, we’re going out today.”

I raise a brow. “We?”

“Yes, we. You need clothes.”

I look down at my outfit—a simple sweater and jeans. Comfortable. Cozy. Functional. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

He gives me a once-over, his nose wrinkling like he’s just smelled something unpleasant. “You dress like a grandma.”

My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

He leans back in his chair, smirking. “If I’m going to follow you back to school, I can’t have you looking like you raided a thrift store from the ’90s.”

I cross my arms, scowling. “Wow. Thanks. You’re such a charmer.”

“I know,” he says, unbothered. “Now, finish your breakfast. We’ve got a busy day ahead.”

I thought he was joking when he said we had a busy day. I should have taken his words more seriously because it feels like we've stepped into a hurricane.

The first stop is Prada. The store is sleek and modern, with racks of clothes that look like they cost more than my entire wardrobe combined.

Achilles marches in like he owns the place, barely acknowledging the sales associate who rushes to greet him.

He's been here quite a million times, I can tell. He moves like he knows this place like the back of his hands.

He doesn’t hesitate, pulling dresses, blazers, and pants from the racks.

“Try this,” he says, tossing a leather jacket at me.

I catch it, holding it up. “This is… a lot.”

“It’s called fashion, darling. Look it up.”

I shoot him a look but head to the fitting room anyway. The jacket is heavier than I expected, but when I slip it on, it fits like a second skin.

I run my fingers over the buttery leather, admiring the way it hugs my figure.

I step out, expecting some kind of praise, but he barely spares me a glance before shaking his head. “Nope. Too boring. Next.”

“Too boring?” I repeat, incredulous. “This is literally the most expensive thing I’ve ever worn.”

“And yet, it’s still not enough. Next.”

We go through at least a dozen outfits, and with each rejection, my frustration grows.

Finally, he nods in approval at a tailored blazer and matching pants. “That one,” he says. “It says, ‘I’m powerful, but I also have taste.’”

I glance at the price tag and nearly choke. “Achilles, this is—”

“Already paid for,” he interrupts, handing the stack of clothes to the sales associate.

I narrow my eyes. “Wait, whose money is this?”

He looks at me like I’ve just asked the dumbest question in the world. “Valentine’s, duh. Who else?”

I blink. “And he’s okay with this?”

He smirks. “He didn’t say no.”

“That doesn’t mean yes!”

He shrugs. “Details, details, he'd never notice. Next store.”

Gucci is chaos.

The store is a riot of colors and patterns, a stark contrast to the muted elegance of Prada.

Achilles immediately heads for the shoes, grabbing a pair of red-soled stilettos that look like they belong on a supermodel.

“These,” he says, handing them to me. “Try them on.”

I stare at the heels, which are at least four inches tall. “I’m going to break my neck.”

“You’re a vampire. You’ll heal.”

“That’s not the point!”

He smirks. “Just try them on, North.”

I sigh but slip them on anyway. To my surprise, they fit perfectly, hugging my feet like they were made for me.

Achilles nods in approval.

“Good,” he says. “Now, let’s find you something that doesn’t scream ‘I’m trying too hard.’”

“You’re impossible,” I mutter, but there’s a small smile tugging at my lips.

I've never been on a shopping spree before. This...this feels like spoiling and damn...I love how being spoiled feels.

By the time we hit Valentino, Yves Saint Laurent, and Versace, I’ve lost count of how many outfits we’ve bought.

Achilles is relentless, pulling clothes off racks and shoving them into my arms without a second thought.

He’s a tornado of style, leaving a trail of designer bags in his wake.

“This one,” he says, holding up a sleek black dress.

I raise a brow. “For what? A funeral?”

He rolls his eyes. “For making an entrance. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”

I take the dress, shaking my head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re welcome.”

The final stop is Nike.

After hours of high fashion, the sportswear store feels almost refreshing. Achilles grabs a pair of sneakers and tosses them at me.

“For when you’re not busy being fabulous,” he says.

I catch them, laughing. “You’re really going all out, huh?”

He grins. “When I do something, I do it right.”

By the end of the day, I’m exhausted but exhilarated. The car is packed with bags, each one filled with clothes and body products more stylish than anything I’ve ever owned.

As we drive back to the manor, I let my mind wander, picturing myself walking into school wearing one of these outfits.

Dorothy and her minions will seethe.

They’ll have nothing on me.

I’ll look charming, powerful, and completely out of their league.

“What are you smiling about?” Achilles asks, glancing at me.

I shake my head, still grinning. “Nothing. Just… thanks. For today.”

He smirks. “Don’t mention it. Just promise me you’ll never wear that sweater again.”

I laugh, leaning back in my seat. “Deal.”