“He’s insane,” I tell the quiet room. “I’m supposed to wear this withmyfigure?” Sequins wink at me as if to say,Yes, sweetheart, and we’re going to make a scene.
The red pulls the warmth out of my skin while the green makes my dark hair appear auburn. The problem is the fit was clearly made for a tiny figure that survives on air and compliments.
I am not a tiny figure. I am hips and thighs with a bust that likes to be seen and a backside that refuses to apologize. If he wants the room to stop breathing when I walk in, we can do that, but we’ll do it on my terms and with seams that don’t try to kill me.
I ring for Mrs. Koval. She appears after a few moments, posture perfect, eyes taking everything in.
“May I have a sewing kit?” I ask, holding the dress up. “I promise not to butcher anything priceless.”
Her gaze flicks from the dress to me and back, calculating, then she nods once. “Of course.”
She vanishes, then returns with a lacquered box that opens to reveal neat rows of thread, needles, scissors sharp enough to cut glass, and pins corralled like soldiers. She also sets down a tailor’s measuring tape and a small stack of muslin.
“For modesty panels,” she says, as if she can read my mind.
“You’re a saint,” I tell her, and I mean it.
When she leaves, I spread the dress on the bed and start with the tape. Numbers don’t lie. Bust, waist, hip, the distance from shoulder to the place where the plunge becomes dangerous. I mark the illusion mesh with chalk where a whisper of reinforcement will turn indecent into sexy on purpose.
The waist needs a breath—just a quarter inch—so I open the side seam and set my pins like little guardrails.
The slit needs to be dramatic, so I plan a modesty inset of matching lace that will still flash skin but stop at “tasteful scandal.”
I thread the needle and knot it with fingers that remember altered school dance dresses and senior-year projects.
My hands settle into the rhythm I live for, the one I’ve trained for—stitch, breathe, pin, check, consider, restitch. I hum under my breath unintentionally.
I look down at the dress, newly obedient under my needles, and feel a little rush of victory.
If I’m going to wear this, if I’m going to walk into his Christmas party looking like a dream, I’m going to do it in a dress that worships my body instead of insulting it. I anchor the final pin on the new modesty panel and lift the needle again, ready to make this scandal fit me perfectly.
CHAPTER 13
DAMIEN
Night settles heavy on the cardiac floor at Mount Sinai. Fluorescents hum. Machines tick. Bleach and lemon mingle in the air. I stand shadowed behind a vending machine, watching Clara Hewitt.
I pulled Cassandra’s file. Hudson University. Foster care. A sister who took custody at eighteen. She’d already told me everything. But she hadn’t told me about Clara’s condition.
The elevator opens. Alex walks down the hall with his usual cop swagger. We slip into a small, private family room. I lock the door.
He hands me a manila envelope. “Got it,” he says.
Inside are copies of Clara’s chart, pre-op notes, insurance denials, and an estimate in bold lettering: PAYMENT DUE BEFORE PROCEDURE. Alex sets his own notes on the table.
“I asked the doc in hypotheticals,” he explains with a wink. “Valve issues. She got moved up because of a cancellation. Surgery is scheduled a few days before Christmas. Sounds like she’s high risk.”
I tap the page. “Payment due ten days after I hired Cassandra.”
He nods. “Meaning your ten-day payment would get into her bank account just in time.”
I don’t respond. I don’t have to. It’s obvious why she took the job. She lied to get in the room, just like she said. Though she kept her real reasons hidden.
“Does she know you know?” Alex asks.
“No.”
We talk numbers: surgery, anesthesia, ICU rates. The total is obscene. I watch his eyes drift to the window, to Clara’s room, then back again.
