Once I’m alone again, I carry it to the bed and untie the ribbon with trembling fingers. Lifting the lid, I gasp softly.
Inside is a golden dress that looks like it was spun from champagne and candlelight. The fabric catches the glow of my bedside lamp, shimmering with the kind of elegance I’ve only ever seen on movie stars. It’s soft, luxurious, and cut in a waythat I know will hug every curve I’ve got. There’s a plunging neckline and delicate straps, the kind of design that says this wasn’t just picked for beauty.
It was picked for me.
A small envelope is tucked beside the dress. Inside is a note in Lorenzo’s bold handwriting:
For my Christmas angel.
Wear this and make it impossible for me to behave.
—L.
My pulse skips. This man. Even when he’s not here, he makes me feel seen. Wanted.
I trail my fingers over the fabric, then glance toward the clock. It’s almost time. And for once, I don’t feel like a guest in this house. I feel like something more.
I slip into the dress, and for a moment I just… stare.
It fits like it was sewn for me. The fabric glides over my skin, hugging the right places and skimming the rest like liquid gold. The neckline dips just enough to tease, and the way the skirt catches the light when I move—it’s like wearing a secret.
Lorenzoknewwhat this would do to me.
I sit at the vanity and start on my makeup, but I stop after a few strokes of highlighter and a soft sweep of gold on my eyelids. The dress is already doing all the talking. All I need is a little mascara and gloss to look like the kind of woman who wears this sort of thing with ease.
I’m not sure who she is yet but tonight, I want to be her.
I run a brush through my hair, leaving it down in soft waves. One final glance in the mirror and I inhale sharply. I don’t look like a prisoner. I don’t even look like a guest.
I look like I belong here.
I make my way downstairs as the grandfather clock chimes eight. The scent of roasted rosemary and butter drifts from the kitchen, warm and inviting.
But it’s nothing compared to the man waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs.
Lorenzo stands tall, dressed in all black. Black shirt, black slacks, sleeves rolled just enough to show the sharp line of his forearms. No tie, but somehow still elegant. Dangerous. His gaze lifts the moment he hears my heels tap against the marble and he stills.
“Cara,” he breathes, like the word has been stolen from him. “You look stunning.”
His voice wraps around me like silk and something deeper coils in my chest.
I reach for his offered arm, anchoring myself to him. “You’re looking pretty good yourself.”
He hums in approval, his eyes never leaving mine. “I should cancel dinner and keep you all to myself.”
“Tempting,” I murmur, letting my fingers tighten on his arm just enough to make a point, “but you did say this was tradition.”
His smirk curves slow and wicked. “One I suddenly regret starting.”
He guides me toward the candlelit dining room where Rosa’s done something magical. Everything is soft light and glittering gold, from the tableware to the way the wine sparkles in our glasses.
But the tension between us—that’s not soft. That’s sharp. Heavy. Every time our hands brush. Every time his gaze lingers a little too long. Every time I remember exactly how his voice sounded last night when he growled my name. This isn’t just dinner. This is the fuse being lit.
We make it halfway through the meal before Lorenzo stands.
“Get over here. Now.”
I do as he says, lifting my face to his and then his mouth crashes onto mine in a kiss that’s nothing short of ravenous. There’s nothing gentle about it. Nothing hesitant.
