“Good?” I huff a laugh. “I was aiming for unnoticed.”
“He’s already pissed, already wants you dead,” Vlad replies calmly. “Walking in separately won’t change that. Walking in together tells him something useful—what he reaches for, I close my hand around.”
“That’s not exactly soothing.”
“It’s honest.” He searches my eyes. “You’re worried he’ll make a scene. He won’t. He needs the room to believe he’s still in control. He’ll posture. I’ll smile. And if he oversteps, he’ll beforced to remember every camera in the room belongs to people who owe me favors.”
I exhale sharply. “So the plan is optics.”
“The plan is you at my side, in my sight. I’m not hiding you.” His grip tightens, brief and certain. “We set the terms,kotenok. Not him.”
I nod, letting his certainty anchor me. “Okay. Then let’s set them.”
The car glides to a curb outside a ritzy boutique. No sign, just two frosted initials above the door. A woman in black silk appears instantly, clipboard in hand.
“Mr. Angeloff, of course. Right this way.” A bottle of champagne sprouts out of thin air, classical music playing from hidden speakers. Vlad’s reputation has arrived ahead of us, apparently.
Inside, the boutique glitters—rows of gowns suspended like blown-glass ornaments, lights dimmed to a jeweler’s glow. I’m suddenly hyper-aware of how I’m dressed.
The sales associate—also in black silk and impossibly beautiful—gives Vlad a megawatt smile, then flicks her eyes over me. My outfit earns a less enthusiastic greeting.
“We’ll find something tasteful. Something that’ll work for your particular body type,” she says, tone dipped in honey and arsenic.We’ll hide the flaws as best we can, is my take from it.
I blush. Vlad’s jaw tightens. The associate adds a brittle laugh and gestures toward the fitting lounge. I follow her, chest tight with the old sting of fashion-world judgment, remembering every sideways glance at Maxim’s charity galas. Only this time Vlad is behind me—silent, dangerous, and clearly not amused.Whatever happens in that fitting room, I doubt “tasteful” will survive his definition of perfection.
The fitting lounge is a pale-pink womb of mirrors and chandeliers, cushy enough to make you forget the price tags. The associate—Sylvie, according to her enamel nameplate—glides back in with an armful of gowns the color of wedding cakes: blush, champagne, eggshell. All of them tiny.
“I’ve pulled our most delicate samples.” She drapes a size-two sheath over a mannequin, finger tapping the invisible waist. “This has gentle ruching—wonderful for smoothing little problem areas.” Her smile flicks to my hips.
“Lovely,” I say, my voice flat. “Do you have anything in a sixteen?”
Sylvie’s head tilts. “Couture’s scale is… precise. But we can add clever panels, perhaps Spanx for the foundation garments?” I feel Vlad stiffen beside me. Sylvie continues, oblivious. “Another option is a structured corset. Nips inches right off, though it limits dinner.”
“I like dinner,” I mutter.
Vlad steps forward, cold authority radiating. “Enough.” Only one word, but the temperature drops a full degree. “Get your house designer on the phone. Now.”
Sylvie blinks. “Sir, our designer is in Paris.”
“Wake him. And clear that rack.” He nods at the sample gowns. “We’ll start fresh.”
She hovers, lips parting in protest, then notices the black card he’s produced. “Of course, Mr. Angeloff.” She disappears faster than a stagehand yanking scenery.
Vlad turns to me, expression softer. “Emerald silk,” he says, more to himself than to me. “Floor length, bias cut. Low back, straps twisted at the shoulder.”
My stomach flips. “Bias cut is unforgiving.”
He answers by listing my measurements—every inch, memorized. The precision steals my breath; he’s noticed everything, even the half inch I round down on my driver’s license.
“It will celebrate every curve,” he finishes, as if the matter is settled.
Fifteen minutes later, a seamstress in a slate apron hustles in with yards of deep-green charmeuse. Sylvie trails behind, forced into silence, holding pins like surrendered weapons. The seamstress drapes the fabric over my shoulders and smooths it along my waist, marking quick chalk lines.
Under the workroom lights, the satin glows against my skin, richer than anything I’ve ever worn. Mirrors surround us, and surprisingly, I don’t flinch when I look into them.
Sylvie’s smirk fades to a neutral mask. Good.
The seamstress pins the mock-up and steps back. The reflection shows an hourglass I usually disguise under blazers. Vlad studies it.
