Chapter 17: Shopping Spree
The morning light had burned off the last of the fog by the time Silas pulled the town car to the curb. Nine o'clock exactly. The drive from the penthouse had taken twenty minutes through streets that grew wider and cleaner the closer they got to the downtown core.
Mildred pressed her face to the window as they passed under the shadow of a glass tower. Then another. Then a third.
The mall rose from the pavement like a cathedral. Glass and steel and pale stone. Fountains flanked the entrance, their water catching the sun in arcs of white fire. A valet station stood to the left, manned by two young men in crisp uniforms.
Silas opened her door before she could reach for the handle.
"Thank you," she murmured.
Philip was already out on his side. He rounded the car, hands in his pockets, watching her take it in. His expression was unreadable. But there was something in the set of his shoulders. A satisfaction.
She stepped onto the pavement. Her heels clicked against stone that had been polished to a mirror shine. She looked up. The mall's facade stretched toward the sky, rows of windows reflecting clouds.
"I've never been in this kind of mall before," she said. Her voice came out smaller than she intended. "I only went to Walmart. Target. Ulta for shopping."
Philip smirked. It wasn't unkind.
"This mall is made for elites and millionaires." He started walking toward the entrance. She fell into step beside him. "But somehow, there are common people who still could afford to buy here."
She turned to him. "I think I don't fit here."
He ignored her doubts.
"Let's go." He reached for the brass door handle. "I'm willing to drain my bank account just to buy what you want."
Mildred's eyes furrowed. The words didn't compute. "Say it again—"
He pulled her hand and dragged her through the door. She almost stumbled upon the sudden pull, her shoulder jostling against his arm.
"Let's go. We'll start at women's clothing." He glanced down at her outfit. The same blouse she'd worn on Wednesday. The same slacks from Thursday. "I've been noticing you're almost wearing the same attire."
Inside, the mall opened into an atrium that stole her breath. A glass ceiling arched overhead, four stories up, flooding the space with natural light. Palm trees grew from planters set into the marble floor. A grand staircase curved toward the second level, its banister wrought iron and polished brass.
He looked like someone willing to treat a friend who couldn't afford to buy things. Not a boss. Not a lover. Just... someone.
They turned into the women's clothing boutique. The name above the door was French. Mildred didn't recognize it.
The interior was all soft lighting and pale wood. Racks of garments stretched in neat rows, arranged by color, by fabric, by some logic she couldn't decipher. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, smaller than the one at the estate but no less elegant.
Mildred moved through the racks like a woman in a museum. Her fingers brushed silk. Cashmere. Fabrics that cost more than her rent.
Then she saw it.
A cream dress. Hanging on a display at the end of the row. The fabric was structured, elegant. It fell below the knee in a clean A-line. Mother-of-pearl buttons ran from the neckline to the waist. Simple. Professional. The kind of dress that would make her look like she belonged in a boardroom.
She reached out. Touched the sleeve.
"I'll buy that one for you."
She turned. Philip stood just behind her. Close enough that she could smell his cologne. Something woody. Something expensive.
He grabbed the dress from the rack before she could speak. Held it up against her body. His eyes traveled from her shoulders to her waist to her hips.
Mildred opened her mouth. A protest formed on her tongue. Old habit.
"What did I just tell you at the penthouse?"
She closed her mouth. Swallowed. Responded like an obedient child reciting a lesson.
"No 'ifs' and no 'buts.' And you won't take 'no' as an answer."
"Glad you remember." He draped the dress over her arm. His fingers brushed her wrist. "I think it's just your size."
He stepped back. Scanned the boutique. His gaze landed on a saleswoman near the register. Black blazer. Silver hair pulled back tight. A name tag that read Marguerite.
He lifted his chin. A summons.
The woman looked up. Her expression shifted from professional neutrality to something like recognition. Then something like surprise.
She crossed the floor with quick steps. "Mr. Philip Dawson. Is that you?"
Philip inclined his head. "Marguerite. It's been a while."
"It has." Her eyes slid to Mildred. Curious. Appraising. "And is she your—"
"Secretary who was trapped on his sudden shopping spree." Mildred smiled. A thin, wry thing.
Philip laughed. A short sound. Genuine. It surprised her. She'd heard him laugh before. But rarely like that. Loose. Unforced.
He turned to Marguerite. "Can you help me choose some clothes for her? Something professional and formal." He paused. His gaze flicked to Mildred. Lingered. "And also help me choose some that shows her a bit of skin."
Mildred blinked. Her face went hot.
Philip gave her a warning blink. A subtle thing. A reminder. We had a deal.
Marguerite didn't miss it. A small smile played at the corner of her mouth. But she kept her voice professional. "Of course, Mr. Dawson. This way, Miss."
She led Mildred toward a different section of the boutique. Away from the formal business wear. Toward racks of blouses with lower necklines. Dresses with slit skirts. Fabrics that draped instead of structured.
Mildred walked just distances away from Philip. She could feel his gaze on her back. A physical weight. She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder.
"Your coloring would work well with jewel tones," Marguerite said. She pulled a deep emerald blouse from the rack. Held it up. "This would bring out your eyes."
"They're brown."
"Doesn't matter. Emerald flatters everyone with your undertones."
Mildred looked at the blouse. It was beautiful. Delicate silk. A V-neck that would show the hollow of her throat. She would never have picked it for herself.
"I—"
"Mr. Dawson's instructions were clear." Marguerite's voice was kind. Firm. "Let me do my job."
Behind her, Philip's phone rang.
She turned. He'd stopped near a rack of scarves. His gaze still on her. He lifted the phone to his ear.
"Hello, Rich?"
A pause. His jaw tightened. Then relaxed.
"No, I'll come back maybe before or after noon at the estate." Another pause. His eyes never left Mildred. She pretended not to notice. "I just have some matters to do that needs my attention."
Marguerite pulled another blouse from the rack. A cream silk with a scooped neck. Mildred watched Philip from the corner of her eye.
"No, it wasn't office." His voice was even. Controlled. "Talk to you later."
He pocketed the phone. Crossed the boutique toward her. He stopped at the edge of the rack, hands in his pockets.
"Find anything good?"
Marguerite held up the two blouses. A pair of tailored slacks in charcoal. A skirt with a slit that would reach mid-thigh.
Philip studied each piece. His expression gave nothing away.
"I'll also buy them."
Mildred's eyes gloomed. She stared at him. Another protest rising. A staring protest, silent but loud.
He just smiled. A smug, infuriating thing.
"Marguerite, we'll need shoes as well. And undergarments."
"Of course, Mr. Dawson."
Mildred wanted to sink through the marble floor. Instead, she straightened her spine. Let Marguerite lead her toward the fitting rooms.
An hour later, they left the boutique with four bags. Philip carried two. Mildred carried two. Her arms ached. Her feet were beginning to ache from the sheer square footage they'd covered.
He'd paid with a black credit card. She hadn't seen the total. She didn't want to.
They moved toward the beauty section. A glass-walled boutique with shelves of products that gleamed under soft lights. The air smelled of roses and bergamot and something clean.
While they strolled, Mildred asked him a question she'd been holding since the dress rack.
"Do you even wish to have a sister?"
Philip smiled. It reached his eyes this time. A warmth there she rarely saw.
"I do." He stopped near a display of skincare products. Picked up a bottle of cleanser. Turned it in his hands. "And I'd experienced them by having Aunt Claudine's daughters under our care while she's on a business trip."
He set the bottle down. Moved to another shelf.
"It was a challenge." He picked up a moisturizer. Read the label. Didn't seem to see it. "Three girls under ten. Richard nearly lost his mind. Jeremy taught them card tricks. Francis read them stories until they fell asleep."
"They sound lucky."
"They are." He glanced at her. Something flickered in his grey eyes. "They still write to us. Christmas cards. Wedding invitations."
He moved to the counter. A saleswoman approached. Blonde. Young. Another flash of recognition.
"Mr. Dawson. Welcome back."
"I need the basics." He gestured at Mildred. "Cleanser. Moisturizer. Body lotion. Whatever else she needs."
The saleswoman nodded. Professional. Efficient. She led Mildred to a chair near a mirror. Began pulling products from shelves.
Mildred sat. Watched the woman work. But her eyes kept drifting to Philip.
He stood a few feet away. Hands in his pockets. Watching her in the mirror.
Another saleswoman approached him. Older. Dark hair streaked with grey. She also recognized him. She spoke with him quietly. Gestured at Mildred. He nodded.
She walked over. Smiled at Mildred. "I'm Patricia. Mr. Dawson asked if I could assist you with makeup."
Mildred's throat tightened. "He did?"
"He did." Patricia began laying products on the counter. A foundation. A concealer. A lipstick in a shade of dusty rose. An eyeshadow palette in warm neutrals.
Mildred looked at Philip. He was still watching her. Still wearing that unreadable expression.
But something in his posture had changed. Something softer. Something almost... vulnerable.
Her eyes burned. She blinked. Looked down at the products Patricia had assembled.
This man. This cold, controlling man. This man who ruled his company with an iron fist and kept everyone at arm's length. He was buying her skincare. Makeup. A cream dress she'd never have picked for herself.
It felt unreal. Like watching someone else's life.
She looked up again. Met his eyes in the mirror.
He held her gaze. Didn't look away.
"Is this enough?" Patricia asked.
Mildred nodded. Not trusting her voice.
Philip stepped forward. Took the basket of products from the counter. "I'll take these."
He walked toward the register. His back to her. Straight and strong.
Mildred sat in the chair. Stared at her reflection. A woman she barely recognized. A woman wearing clothes that cost more than she made in a month. A woman whose lips were still slightly swollen from the night before.
Patricia touched her shoulder. "He doesn't do this for everyone."
"I know."
"Do you?"
Mildred looked up. Patricia's eyes were kind. Knowing.
"He's been coming here for years," Patricia said. "Birthday gifts for his grandfather. Christmas gifts for his brothers. He knows every salesperson by name. But I've never seen him bring anyone with him. Not once."
Mildred didn't know what to say.
"Whatever you are to him," Patricia continued, "you're not just an employee."
She finished with the makeup. Packed the products into a bag. Handed it to Mildred.
Philip was at the counter. Paying. He pocketed his card. Turned.
"Ready?"
Mildred stood. The bags rustled around her. "Yes."
He took the bag from her hand. Added it to the others he carried. Then he offered her his arm.
A gentleman's gesture. Old-fashioned. Unexpected.
She took it. Her hand curved around his forearm. The fabric of his jacket was soft. Warm.
They walked through the mall together. Past the fountains. Past the marble staircase. Past the palm trees that shouldn't have been able to grow indoors.
Silas was waiting at the curb. The car idling.
Philip helped her into the back seat. Closed the door. Walked around to his side.
The engine hummed. The city slid past the windows.
Mildred looked at the bags piled on the seat beside her. Then at Philip.
His profile was sharp against the window. Jaw set. Eyes forward.
"Thank you," she said.
He didn't turn. "You're welcome."
"Not just for the clothes."
Silence.
"Just... thank you."
He turned then. Looked at her.
"You're welcome, Mildred."
His hand found hers. Fingers laced.
=========================
The elevator deposited them on the third floor. A different wing of the mall. Quieter. The lighting softer here, warmer.
The shoe boutique sprawled before them. Glass shelves displayed stilettos like museum pieces. A chandelier of blown glass hung from the ceiling, its colors shifting from amber to rose to pale gold.
Philip stopped at the entrance. Turned to her.
"What's your shoe size?"
She blinked. The question caught her off guard. "I think I'm size seven."
He nodded once. "Got it."
He gestured toward a leather ottoman near the wall. "Sit down there."
Mildred crossed the carpet. Sat. The ottoman gave slightly under her weight. She watched Philip move through the store.
He didn't wander. His path was direct. He stopped at a shelf displaying black heels. Medium height. Classic. He picked up a pair, examined the sole, checked the size printed inside.
Then he walked back to her. And lowered himself to one knee.
Mildred's breath caught. "Mr. Dawson—"
"Hold still."
He lifted her foot. His fingers worked the strap of her sandal, unbuckling it with quick efficiency. The leather slid from her heel. He set the sandal aside.
Then he took the black heel. Checked the size again. Slid it onto her foot.
His palm cradled her heel. His thumb pressed the leather against her arch. Testing the fit. His head bent low, close enough that she could see the silver at his temples.
She looked down at him. This man who commanded boardrooms. Who made executives tremble. Kneeling before her in a shoe store.
"Hmm." He tilted his head. "Nice. Let's try some more."
He stood. Walked toward the back of the store. She heard him call out to a salesman. A moment later, a man emerged from behind a curtain.
He was tall. Slim. Dressed in a lavender button-down tucked into cream trousers. His hair was swept back, dark and glossy. A gold chain glinted at his throat.
"Mr. Dawson." His voice was warm. Musical. "It's been too long."
"Antoine." Philip shook his hand. "I need help finding shoes for her size."
Antoine's gaze slid to Mildred. His eyebrows lifted. Just slightly.
"Of course." He clasped his hands together. "What are we looking for? Casual? Professional? Something for a special occasion?"
Philip considered. "All of it. Flats. Heels. Stilettos. Anything that works."
Antoine beamed. "I have just the thing."
He disappeared into the back. Returned moments later with an armful of boxes. He arranged them on the floor before Mildred. A parade of leather and suede and satin.
Heels in nude. Heels in crimson. Flats in black patent. Flats in dove grey. A pair of strappy sandals in silver. A pair of stilettos in deep emerald.
"Let's start with these." Antoine knelt beside her. He picked up a flat in dove grey. Slipped it onto her left foot.
She looked down at the shoe. It was soft. Supple. It fit like it had been made for her.
Philip stood near the counter. Watching. His arms crossed over his chest. His expression unreadable.
Antoine worked through the boxes. Each pair, he fitted to her feet. Each pair, he asked her to stand. Walk. Tell him how they felt.
She did. Her voice was small at first. Then steadier. She began to have opinions. The nude heels pinched at the toe. The crimson stilettos were too tall. The suede flats were perfect.
Philip moved closer. He stood beside Antoine. Examined each pair himself.
When they finished, five boxes sat in a row. Philip took them to the register.
Mildred stood. "Five pairs?"
"Yes."
"That's too many."
He glanced at her. "Is it?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it. The lesson from the morning echoed in her head. No ifs. No buts.
She said nothing else.
Philip paid. Antoine wrapped the boxes in tissue and placed them in bags. He handed them to Mildred with a wink.
"Take care of him," he murmured. "He's one of the good ones."
Mildred's face heated. She took the bags without a word.
They left the boutique. Philip carried three boxes. She carried two. The bags knocked against her thighs as she walked.
"Maybe I should check the sum of the items you bought me today," she said.
Philip shook his head. "Never attempt that. Or I'll end up giving you a heart attack on the total price."
She laughed. The sound surprised her. Genuine. Unforced.
They walked toward the last section. The designer bags.
The display was a wall of color. Leather in every shade. Structured totes. Slouchy hobos. Clutches that glittered under the lights.
Philip slowed his pace. Studied the shelves.
"For how long have you been using your bag?"
The question wasn't mocking. His voice was curious. Gentle, even.
Mildred looked down at her bag. The same one she carried every day. Black. Faux leather. A strap that had begun to fray at the edge.
"I've been using that since college." She touched the worn handle. "Bought it on a bargain sale when I had enough money from my sideline jobs back then."
Philip nodded. He didn't look away from the shelves. "Then it's time for you to replace that. I'll buy you new ones."
He turned. Met her eyes.
"And I want you to use one of them tomorrow."
Mildred stared at him. "You're spoiling me much, sir."
He held her gaze. "Because you're tormenting yourself too much. Maybe it's time for you to be spoiled. And rewarded."
He turned back to the shelves. His eyes landed on a burgundy shoulder bag. Structured. Elegant. He lifted it from the display.
"This is for you."
He examined it. Checked the interior pockets. Nodded to himself. Then he picked up another bag. An amber orange sling. Compact. A purple clutch with a delicate gold chain. A shoulder bag in baby pink. Soft. Feminine.
He carried them all to the counter. Laid them out like an offering.
Mildred's eyes popped. She counted. Four bags. She knew this brand. Knew the prices. Her stomach dropped.
"That's a total of twenty—"
His hand covered her mouth.
"Don't mind about the money." His palm was warm against her lips. His eyes held hers. "I'm the one paying them. Right?"
She nodded. His hand fell away.
She couldn't help it. The guilt rose. Thick. Suffocating.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "No one's treated me this way before."
Philip tilted his head. Studied her.
"I get it." His voice was quiet. Measured. "You're not used to someone's kindness. You think most people might hate you. Mistreat you the way your family does."
She flinched. The words landed like a slap. But not from cruelty. From accuracy. He saw her. The real her.
He gathered the bags. Handed the pink one to her.
"Carry this one. Use it tomorrow."
She took it. Her fingers curled around the strap.
They left the mall. Silas loaded the purchases into the car. The trunk filled. The back seat filled. Mildred held the pink bag on her lap. Her reflection stared back from the window.
The restaurant sat atop a building fifty stories up. Floor-to-ceiling windows. White tablecloths. A single rose in a crystal vase on their table.
The host recognized Philip. Seated them at a corner table. Away from the other diners. A view of the entire city stretched behind him.
Mildred sat across from him. The paper bags were stacked on the empty chair beside her. A monument to excess.
She ordered the soup. Creamy chicken. He ordered the same.
The waiter brought warm bread. A dish of compound butter. Olive oil for dipping.
She tore a piece of bread. Dipped it. Bit into it. The crust crunched. The inside was soft. Warm.
"Sometime," Philip said, "you have to give time for yourself."
He lifted his spoon. Stirred the soup that had just arrived.
"Treat and reward yourself for a job well done. Even in small ways."
He watched her over the rim of his bowl.
"You don't have to torture or put yourself down because you're surviving. Make the most out of life because we'll never know."
Mildred nodded. She listened. Her spoon hovered over her own bowl.
He might be right.
She thought of her apartment. The same one she'd lived in for eight years. The way she ate standing over the sink to save time. The way she wore shoes until the soles wore through. The way she never bought anything that wasn't on sale.
She'd been surviving. Since she was sixteen.
The soup was warm. Rich. She tasted mushrooms. Fresh herbs. Things she rarely bought for herself.
The waiter cleared the bowls. Brought the main course. Lemon chicken over risotto. Roasted vegetables. A basket of garlic bread.
Philip waited until the plates were set. Then he spoke again.
"I might be wealthy. Influential. Powerful." He cut into his chicken. His voice was even. Measured. "But they all mean nothing to me if there's something missing."
A pause. He set down his knife.
"Apart from my deceased parents, of course."
Mildred didn't speak. She watched his face. The way the city lights softened his profile. The way his jaw clenched and relaxed.
"And that is someone to love. Someone to take care of. Someone to protect."
He picked up his fork again. Twirled it between his fingers.
"I've spent the last twenty years looking after my brothers. Becoming both brother and parent to them. But I see they're growing older. They might not need me anymore."
He ate. Chewed. Swallowed.
"Grandpa is consistently asking me to make my own family. Especially at my age." He paused. "I'm already thirty-seven. Supposed to be a father now."
Mildred set her own fork down. Her risotto was untouched.
"I'm not in a hurry," he said. "But I'm not getting younger. And I want to give Grandpa a mini-Dawson before he passes. He's eighty-three."
The words hung between them. Heavy. Honest.
"You'd make a good father."
The words left her mouth before she could stop them. She didn't want to stop them.
Philip looked up. His grey eyes searched hers.
"You think so?"
"I know so."
He didn't respond. But something shifted in his expression. A wall, maybe. Coming down.
They ate in silence. Comfortable. Shared.
When the plates were cleared, Philip paid. Silas called. The car waited.
The drive back was quiet. The city streamed past the windows. The bags shifted in the back seat. Mildred watched the sunset paint the sky. Orange. Pink. Peach. The colors of the bags she now owned.
Silas pulled into her building. Philip walked her up. The elevator hummed. The doors opened on her floor.
He carried her bags to her door. Set them inside. Turned to leave.
She stood in the doorway. Looked up at him.
"Thank you for spoiling me today."
He paused. His back to her.
Then he turned. His hand reached out. His thumb brushed her cheek. A whisper of a touch.
"Wear one of the clothes we bought earlier tomorrow. I want to see the shoulder bag as well. And wear makeup. Using the cosmetics we bought."
"Copy, Mr. Dawson." She swallowed. "Good night."
He leaned in.
His lips pressed against her cheek. Warm. Soft. Lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
Then he pulled back.
His eyes met hers.
He didn't smile. Didn't speak.
He turned and walked toward the elevator. His footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Mildred stood in the doorway. Her hand rose. Pressed against the spot where his mouth had been.
Her skin burned.
She closed the door.
Leaned against it.
Her heart raced.
She blushed.
The pink bag sat on her kitchen counter. Witness to what had just happened.