"I—yes. But he didn't need to—"
"Honey." Valentina sets down her case down and gives me a knowing look. "When a man sends aglam squad, you don't argue. You say thank you and let us make you look even more stunning."
A second woman appears with another case. “Hi there, Emma. I’m Sophia. Styling and accessories."
"This is too much," I protest weakly.
"This is a man who wants a woman to feel beautiful," Valentina corrects, already studying my face with professional intensity. "Now sit. We have ninety minutes."
Ninety minutes later, I barely recognize myself.
My chestnut brown hair's been styled in soft waves that fall past my shoulders. My makeup is flawless—smoky eyes that make my hazel irises pop, nude lips that somehow look both natural and glamorous.
And the dress.
The dress I bought last week in a moment of financial irresponsibility is a deep gorgeous sapphire silk thathugs every curve. It's got a high neckline and long sleeves, perfectly professional, but the back...
The back is completely open, dipping low enough to make a statement.
"You look like a goddess," Sophia declares, fastening a delicate gold necklace around my neck. "Mr. Mitchell is going to lose his mind."
"That's what I'm afraid of," I mutter.
My phone buzzes.
DONOVAN: Your car is downstairs. Take your time. I'll see you there.
My heart stutters. He's not coming with me?
ME: Why separate cars?
DONOVAN: Because if we get in the same car, I’ll be too busy sliding my hands up your thighs and reminding you how good you taste to care who’s watching. And unfortunately, for the first hour, I have tocare.
ME: Just the first hour?
DONOVAN: After that, all bets are off.
I'm smiling like an idiot when Valentina hands me a small clutch.
"Emergency kit," she explains. "Lipstick, powder, breath mints. Everything you need."
"Thank you. Both of you. This is... I don't even know what to say."
"Say you'll knock them dead," Sophia winks. "And that you'll tell Mr. Titan his instincts were right—you're absolutely breathtaking."
The car is a sleek black town car, and the driver—an older gentleman named Robert—opens the door with a smile.
"Ms. Sinclair. You look lovely."
"Thank you." I slide in, trying not to wrinkle the dress.
As we pull away from my apartment, my phone rings. FaceTime. Sasha and Riley.
"Show us the dress!" Riley demands before I can even say hello.
I angle the phone so they can see.
Both of them scream.
