Drawing back the curtain, I see Dexter lounged on a sofa, knees arrogantly sprawled apart. His neck shifts as he swallows, and unbidden, excitement curls in me. This man is gorgeous.
“No. Not that one,” he states immediately.
“But it’s good, isn’t it? Demure.” I indicate the high neckline. I thought this would be what he’d like.
His eyebrows pinch together. “Mmm. Try something more revealing.”
The next dress is outrageous. Low cut and sparkling with diamantes. Dex drags his gaze down my body in a lingering way that leaves no room for ambiguity. I squirm.
“It’s sexy,” he says. “And you look beautiful, but it’s not the right one.”
We go through a dozen dresses, all equally gorgeous. Each dress I show to my fiancé he compliments me, says that I look lovely, but shakes his head.
Then there’s a dress that’s silky inside, and has just the right neckline. When I catch sight of the girl in the mirror in the changing room, she isn’t dull or boring… She’s… Beautiful.
Bouncing onto tiptoes, I know. This. This is a dress that feels worthy of a groom like the Streatham kingpin.
I almost run out to show Dex, sweeping back the curtain and rushing until he glances up from writing notes and I realise too late I was trying to be dignified.
“That’s the one,” he says instantly. He nods, not even looking at the dress, his gaze remaining on my face.
“You’ve seen it for all of a second,” I laugh, sheer surprise bubbling through me. I thought I’d have to persuade him. “Why this dress?”
Dex studies my face.
The energy between us rises and the closeness is so odd. I’ve had sex with this man, and spent whole days working with him. I slept with him inside me. We woke up together.
But it’s only now that I have the bone-deep sensation that he knows me, as he sees me in this perfect dress.
“Because of that smile,” he says in a low, hoarse voice that gives shivers down my spine to heat between my legs. “I know it’s the right dress for you because of your face when you came out wearing it.”
He likes it because it made me happy? Is that the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me?
The rest of the day is a blur. Once I’m back in my jeans shorts and top, the dress arranged to be altered and delivered, Dex takes my hand and guides me out of the door. I go with no fuss. I’m along for the ride in my own life for maybe the first time ever. I’m not arranging anything, or doing the work.
I kind of like it. My husband is in control.
The next stop is a jeweller, and Dex is intent on playing the attentive fiancé there, too. He slips a casual arm around my waist as we walk away from the car and into the shop, and my brain stutters at how protective and possessive it feels to have his enormous body beside mine, and his big hand warm on me.
Just like with the dresses, Dex watches over me as I try on different metals and designs, and we eventually settle on matching yellow-gold bands and a huge diamond engagement ring for me. My fake fiancé pockets the wedding bands, and takes my hand without fanfare, sliding the engagement ring on.
The band is heavy, and feels like a lock of ownership snapping shut. It’s an echo of when he penetrated me yesterday.
Back at the Streatham mansion, Dex takes me to his apartment, which is a buzz of activity. A hair stylist, the assistant from the bridal shop, a makeup artist, and a photographer all introduce themselves and I’m so swept up in wedding preparations that initially I don’t notice that my husband-to-be has disappeared.
And it’s only when I’m instructed to wait a moment when everything is ready that I realise something is wrong. Very wrong.
I push free and peek outside, and the problem is immediately obvious.
There’s an archway decorated with dusky pink roses, and Streatham Common stretching out beyond. An officiant waits patiently and seated on either side of an aisle are the Streatham employees I’ve worked with. Bulky enforcers, assistants like me, house staff, and dozens of contacts I’ve dealt with in the past six months. Our people, I realise. Or they will be mine too, once I’m the kingpin of Streatham’s wife.
But Mr Streathamisn’t there.
He’s jilting me.
The humiliation isn’t hot and sweet like being embarrassed yesterday was. No, this is a cold, creeping sensation. Every uncertainty rises and surrounds me like a swarm of insects I’ve been batting from my face for the last day.
Dex isn’t there.
