“You.”
“What is it?”
“A live grenade,” he deadpans.
“Ah,” I murmur. “Fashion and violence. You really know how to charm a girl.”
“You’ll need it later,” he says, ignoring my sarcasm. “Be ready by seven and practice gratitude.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Are we going to a funeral wake?”
“Not unless someone pisses me off between now and seven,” he replies dryly. “You and I are going out together. To Lincoln Center.”
My brows snap tight. “What for?”
“Mahler’s Fifth. The Philharmonic. A balcony box and a bottle of champagne.”
The words hang there a second longer than they should.
That symphony is chaos, grief, and devotion, all trapped in a slow, brutal climb. And hearing it come alive at Lincoln Center is on my list of life goals.
And Kingston is taking me there…
“Why?” I ask, full of suspicion.
His eyebrows drift higher. “Would you enjoy it?”
“I would, yes.”
His mouth curves into a cocky, knowing smile. “That’s why we’re going, wife. Date night.”
Then he turns on his heel and strolls away, leaving thedoor open and the suggestion of a date tangled with my confusion.
A thrill shoots through me and I tell myself it’s because of the music. That I haven’t heard a live performance in way too long. And that Mahler’s Fifth is one of the few pieces that manages to make sense of my chaos.
But deep down, under all of the rationalizing, I know what really has my pulse racing.
Him.
The espresso-sipping menace and emotional black hole who’s planned an evening for us. And not just any evening either. One that means something to me.
Kingston wants to take me to the symphony.
I unzip the garment bag, expecting something dramatic and gaudy like that hideous wedding dress his mother had commissioned for me. Ready to grunt at a red-carpet monstrosity meant to show me off as aluckytrophy wife, my breath stalls.
What greets me is understated elegance and one hundred percent my style. I’d almost think he visited my apartment and studied my life before him.
I know better than that, though. Kingston wouldn’t go to those lengths for a woman.
The gown is inky-black silk, as delicate as a shadow. It has a plunging back that sweeps so low it’s practically indecent. The neckline is high, the fabric sweeping. There are no swing tags or designer label which means it's one of a kind. Grossly expensive and… beautiful.
Somehow, he knew this would be the cut of dress I’d buy with O’Callaghan money, back in the days when I was too naïve to notice bloodstainson the paper bills.
I take my time to do my makeup and pin up my hair so the curve of my spine is on display, then slip into the gown, doing a slow three-sixty in front of the full-length mirrors.
By the time I leave the bedroom and walk into the main living area of the penthouse, I’ve constructed every wall I’ll need for the night.
Or so I think, until my eyes land on my husband.
