The Stranger I Married-Chapter 48: Ready to fall

Ella stood in front of the full-length mirror in the private suite, the emerald gown hugging her figure like it was made for her. The fabric shimmered in the soft lighting, catching the deep green of her eyes. She smoothed her hands over the bodice, feeling out of place and overdressed, wondering how a girl like her ended up in a fairytale like this.

Before she could say anything, she heard it—a long, appreciative whistle.

She turned—and there he was.

Nicholas sat back lazily on the plush velvet couch, arms stretched along the top, one ankle crossed over the other, looking like he owned the world. His eyes, those impossible stormy gray ones that always made her breath stutter, were locked on her like she was the only thing in it.

"Do you have to look at me like that?" she asked, trying and failing to sound stern as warmth bloomed on her cheeks.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stood, moving toward her with that slow, confident grace that always made her heart skip. Each step of his felt deliberate, like he was closing the space between them with more than just distance—like he was peeling away the walls she kept around herself.

When he reached her, he gently turned her back to face the mirror.

"I’m looking at you like that," he said softly, his voice a low hum in her ear, "because you look like trouble—and I like trouble."

Ella rolled her eyes, but her lips betrayed her with a smile.

Nicholas smirked, clearly pleased with himself. He turned to the counter nearby and picked up something wrapped in soft black velvet. With a small flourish, he unwrapped it, revealing the emerald necklace Clara Richards had thrown a fit over just moments before.

"I knew this would be perfect on you," he said, stepping behind her. "Do you trust me?"

"I—what?" she stammered.

But he didn’t wait.

With tender care, he swept her hair aside, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck, and fastened the necklace in place. Her breath hitched. Goosebumps chased his touch as he let his hands settle lightly on her shoulders. Their eyes met in the mirror.

"Now," he murmured, his voice rich with something deeper than just admiration, "you don’t just look like a goddess. You are one."

Ella stared at her reflection. The necklace glittered like it belonged there, nestled just above the neckline of the gown. But it wasn’t the stones or the dress or the setting that made her glow.

It was him.

The way he looked at her—as though she was someone precious. Wanted. Seen.

"I can’t wear this," she whispered, her fingers drifting to the cool stones at her throat.

Nicholas leaned in, his lips brushing just behind her ear. "You will wear it. To the gala. On my arm. Where every man in the room will look at you and realize they never had a chance."

Ella turned to face him. "And if I don’t want to go?"

He looked dramatically pained. "Then I’ll be forced to pout."

"You’ll pout?"

"I’m quite good at it," he said solemnly. "Very convincing. Think tragic stares, melancholy sighs, dramatic walks by the window while whispering your name into the night."

She laughed. "You’re ridiculous."

"And yet," he said, tapping her nose playfully, "you’re still standing here. Smiling. Blushing. Falling for me a little more with every second."

"I am not blushing."

"You’re practically glowing, sweetheart."

She swatted his chest, but he caught her hand and kissed it, warm and sincere.

"I like seeing you like this," he said, his tone softening. "Lit up. Like the weight of the world isn’t crushing you for once."

Her smile faltered. Just a touch.

And Nicholas, being Nicholas, noticed.

He tugged her gently forward, until her forehead rested against his chest. She let herself stay there, surrounded by the scent of him—clean, warm, something faintly spicy. The steady rhythm of his heart was grounding.

"I know I’m not what you planned for," he said, his voice low and steady. "And I know things are messy. But for what it’s worth... I’m glad I get to be here. With you."

Ella closed her eyes. For a moment, she let herself believe in this fantasy. In him.

"You make it hard to keep my guard up," she said, almost to herself.

Nicholas chuckled. "Then don’t. Let it down. I promise I’ll be the one catching you."

She looked up at him, amused. "You practice these lines in the mirror?"

"Every morning," he said seriously. "With toothpaste foam and bedhead. Want to hear the one about the moonlight in your eyes?"

"Not even remotely."

"Liar."

She burst out laughing, full and bright and unrestrained. The kind of laugh that made her stomach ache and her heart feel a little too big for her chest.

Nicholas twirled her, spinning her gently so the dress flared out, catching the light like liquid emerald. When she stopped, slightly dizzy and flushed, he looked at her like she was art.

"Perfect," he said, voice reverent.

Ella’s eyes drifted to her worn-out clothes in the corner. Her jeans, sneakers, and tired flannel shirt felt like a memory from a different life.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Nicholas quirked a brow. "For what? Lavishing you in luxury? Reminding you how breathtaking you are? Or letting you fall in love with me a little more every second?"

"You’re unbelievable."

"Yet undeniably adorable," he added, pulling her into a loose hug.

"You’re lucky you’re cute."

"I live on luck and charm," he said, kissing her temple. "And you."

Her breath caught.

The words lingered—soft, unspoken possibilities between them.

They stood like that for a while, wrapped in each other and the warmth between them. Outside the suite, the world spun in its usual chaos. Clara Richards was no doubt seething, insulted by the fact that some unknown woman had taken her necklace, her attention, her moment.

But in here, none of that mattered.

In this room full of silk and sparkle and soft music, Nicholas Carter held Ella like she was something fragile and fierce all at once.

And for the first time in a long time, she felt like she wasn’t pretending.

She wasn’t hiding behind duty or guilt or fear.

She was just... Ella.

And maybe—just maybe—she was finally ready to fall.