Dancing with Time

The Proposal

"When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible." ― When Harry Met Sally.

Trapped in her room, Juliet resembled a hibernating bear. The clock mocked her with its relentless ticking, each second echoing the dread building in her gut for the impending date with Keith Carlton. Exhausted by the emotional turmoil, she dragged herself to the living room, her messy brunette hair mirroring the disarray. Dark circles hung beneath her eyes, a testament to sleepless nights.

A package on the coffee table snagged her attention. Confusion battled with a flicker of apprehension. Picking it up, she discovered a note attached. The cloying script read:

Juliet, sweetheart,

This little number caught my eye, and I couldn't resist. Imagine how stunning you'd look in it. See you at eight.

Love,

Keith Carlton

The note crumpled in her fist, a silent scream against her forced confinement. Tossing it in the bin, she wrestled with the urge to hurl the box after it. But manners, ingrained by her mother, held her back. Disdain for the unwanted gift warred with a begrudging respect for social etiquette.

The steam from the shower couldn't entirely wash away the cynical knot in her stomach. Emerging, Juliet surveyed the offending garment with a critical eye. The ankle-length dress, a sentimental blend of white and pink lace, clung to her waist before cascading down in a flurry of silky fabric. Mercifully, it concealed most of her skin – a welcome shield after the last disastrous attempt at playing the damsel in distress. Nestled within the box were a pair of silver stilettos and a matching clutch, completing the ensemble Keith so meticulously curated.

Juliet rolled her eyes, a silent rebellion against his suffocating control. Yet, she couldn't deny the man possessed a particular flair for fashion. Her reflection in the mirror held a stranger – long brunette waves cascading down her shoulders, a touch of makeup adorning her face, and a defiant pink stain on her lips. It was an image she wouldn't have minded... if it weren't a carefully constructed facade for a man she barely knew, a man she was contractually obligated to marry in four agonizing days.

Fury bubbled beneath the surface as she considered the discarded jeans and casual top languishing on her chair. Keith's orchestration of their evening felt like a sickening power play. Yet, amidst the churning emotions, a sliver of resolve solidified. Tonight, she wouldn't be a pawn in his game. She'd be methodical tonight, a chess master plotting her escape from this gilded cage.

The insistent doorbell shattered the tense silence. Genevive had left for an evening out, and her father remained at the office, oblivious to the storm brewing within his daughter. A pang of guilt stabbed at her – she didn't want him to worry. But right now, all she craved was his comforting presence, starkly contrasting the turmoil brewing within her.

Taking a fortifying breath, Juliet squared her shoulders and approached the door. The scent of his cologne, a heady mix of musk and spice, hit her when she opened it. Keith stood there, a picture of polished perfection. A crisp white shirt strained against his broad chest, the pink tie a deliberate echo of her dress. His six-foot frame towered over her five-four stature, even with the added height of the borrowed stilettos.

Tousled black hair, artfully styled to appear effortless, framed his face. Steel-grey eyes, usually guarded, held a spark of amusement that battled with a calculating glint. A clean-shaven jaw led down to a pair of infuriatingly kissable lips, currently curved into a smirk that sent shivers down her spine.