"Girlfriend." His smile turns genuine. "She tells me when my shirts are objectively bad. When my ideas are stupid. When I'm being an idiot. It's... nice."
"Nice."
"When your whole life has been fake smiles and faker promises, honesty feels like oxygen." He pauses. "I know what you're thinking."
Really?
"You see us fighting, you think at least one party isn't giving the right amount of shits." He glances at his girlfriend again. "I have a theory, though. That's her way of showing love. All that brutal honesty. I just know it."
That's not what I was thinking.
"Plus, even if I'm wrong," he continues, "I'm too stupid in love to do anything about it anyway." He shrugs. "You're old money. Must have had your share of fake smiles. Unless you're the waiting-for-betrothal type."
The assumption almost makes me laugh. "No. I don't waste time on people who don't matter."
"Took me thirty years to learn that one." He glances at his girlfriend again. She's examining fabric as if it personally offended her. "Worth it though."
I watch her critique something. Watch him watch her with that expression—half exasperated, half worshipping.
Someone who isn't afraid to call you out on your bullshit.Who doesn't perform. Who's so fucking real it's almost uncomfortable.
I can relate.
His girlfriend emerges from a dressing room and looks at him. "We're leaving. This place is overpriced, even by your ridiculous standards."
He doesn't argue, just grins. "Sure."
She starts walking.
He follows, but right before they hit the door, he stops and looks back. "Name's Marco, by the way." That gambler's smile again. "And I gotta tell you, so far, Chicago’s making a pretty good first impression."
Marco. The name sits wrong. Familiar, but I can't place it. Not from here—he said that much. But from where?
He catches up with his girlfriend. I watch as he leans close and says something low. The line from earlier probably.
Her eyes widen, then her hand flies up, slapping his arm. Hard.
He keeps grinning.
She says something sharp. I can't hear the exact words, but her expression is pure deadpan fury.
Still, she kisses him.
He grins wider. Like he won both bets at once.
The boutique door closes behind them.
Then I get an idea.
I follow Lila into the dressing room.
She's adjusting a dress. Cream colored. Simple. Looks comfortable and elegant at once.
"I'm not interested in more clothing," she says without turning. "Everything you pick is too tight?—"
I close the curtain behind me and hook it.
She spins. "Ivan?—"
