Two days.
I have to go with him. Can’t refuse. Can’t run.
He’s going to dress me. Present me. Show me off to his donors like I’m his. Like I chose this. Like this is what I want.
And everyone will believe it.
Because Dom said so. Because Marcus planned it. Because I signed an NDA five years ago that gave them both the power to destroy me if I don’t comply.
The trap is complete.
Perfectly executed.
Dom’s the devil and I already sold him my soul for a paralegal salary and the promise of a law career.
Thirteen
“It could be worse.”Alex tries as I gasp for breath when the seamstress accidentally stabs me with the needle.
That’s the fourth time that’s happened.
I do a quick intuition check—habit now. Feel for her energy. Her intention.
Not anger. Not malice directed at me specifically. Something else. Frustration? Sadness? The sharp little pains feel almost... deliberate. Like she’s trying to keep me alert. Keep me from floating away into dissociation while I stand here in a dress a serial killer picked for me.
Stay awake, the needle pricks say. Pay attention. Don’t check out.
Or.
She hates me.
Over a murderer.
Or maybe she’s trying to help in the only way she can.
We’re in the empty office across from Dom’s. The one that used to be Amber’s before Dom fired her for trying to frame him with a used condom. The desk is still here. The chairs. The filing cabinet. Just no Amber.
Just me, Alex, and a seamstress who keeps accidentally stabbing me while I stand in the most expensive dress I’ve ever worn.
The dress Marcus picked for me.
It’s beautiful. I hate that it’s beautiful. Iridescent teal that shifts to bronze in the light. Floor-length. Form-fitting. A high slit up the left thigh. Square neckline. Back keyhole with a button closure.
The fabric feels wrong against my skin. Not the texture—that’s perfect, expensive, silk blend that probably costs more per yard than I make in a day. But the intention woven into it. I can feel Marcus in every seam. His control in the fitted waist. His possession in the high slit. His claim in the neckline.
He chose this. Chose how he wants me to look. How he wants to present me. What he wants others to see when they look at his property.
I want to set it on fire.
“Sorry, sweetie.” The seamstress—Mariana, she introduced herself—adjusts a pin near my ribs. “Slippery fingers today.”
She doesn’t sound sorry. And when I glance down, she’s not meeting my eyes. Just focusing on her work with that professional efficiency that comes from doing this too many times.
Alex is perched on Amber’s old desk, swinging her legs. Her birthday cake from Sharon in her lap that she’s eating with a fork. Trying to look casual. Trying to pretend this is normal. That her best friend isn’t being fitted for a dress to attend a fundraiser with a serial killer.
We’ve been trying to talk in code the whole time. Can’t say anything direct. Not here. Not when Dom’s office is right across the hall. Not when walls have ears and NDAs have teeth.
“The fabric is interesting,” Alex says, studying the dress. Her fork swirling around the air. “Very... specific.”
