"Pyotr mentioned it. Said women's clothes were gathering dust in storage."
She laughs. "You're taking me shopping in a stranger's dress?"
"Unless you want to go naked." I let my eyes travel down her body.
"You're ridiculous."
"I prefer the word ‘enticing.’" I step toward the door, letting my gaze linger. "Five minutes. Don’t make me come back and dress you myself."
She tightens the towel around herself.
"I highly suggest you use them wisely," I add, voice low, letting the warning—and the tease—settle in before I disappear.
The dress is red.
Not simply red, butstatementred. The kind of red that doesn’t ask for attention; it demands it. It’s sleek, cut within an inch of decency, and expensive enough to make an accountant cry.
Lila eyes it like it’s radioactive.
"I can’t wear this."
"You can," I tell her. "You just haven’t yet."
She hesitates, fingers brushing the fabric as if it might burn her. "Everyone will stare."
"That’s the point."
Her eyes flick up to meet mine. "You actuallywantpeople staring at me?"
"I want them to understand who they’re looking at."
She mutters something under her breath but steps into the dress. The zipper sticks halfway up, so I move behind her. My fingers trail her spine as I tug it closed. She exhales sharply.
The mirror does the rest. The girl who used to pour coffee in diner uniforms is gone; in her place stands someone who could command the room with a glance.
"I look ridiculous," she whispers.
"You look like you belong in the room," I correct.
She studies herself in the mirror, tugging at the hem. "No… I look fake. Like the plastic women you said you didn’t want."
I step closer, my hand brushing lightly along her hip, grounding her. "Hey." My voice is soft, patient, but steady. "Look at me."
She lifts her eyes, uncertain, and I catch the flash of doubt. "Out there? Sure. Fancy dresses, flawless hair, smiles on cue—people believe what they see. That’s their game." I let my thumbtrace a light line along her side. "But in here?" I pause, letting it sink in, making sure she hears every syllable. "None of that matters. I don’t care about perfect."
Her shoulders relax slightly.
"I care aboutyou—the Lila who spills coffee on Bratva bosses and laughs when she’s caught off guard. That’s the Lila I want. That’s the one I’ve always wanted."
She studies herself, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Really?"
I brush a strand of hair behind her ear. "Really. Out there, play the part if you must. In here… be yourself. That’s all I need."
She exhales, tension softening. "Even if I look ridiculous?"
"Especially then," I murmur. "Because you’re mine. All of it. Not the world’s idea of perfect. Just you."
Oak Street. Old money shopping. A place where they don't put price tags on anything because if you have to ask, you can't afford it.
