“I want you to come as my guest.” That smile again—weaponized, and he knew it. “Think of it as an experiential thank you. Much more meaningful than words.”
“I already thanked you with words.”
“And I appreciated them. But imagine how much more you could express through the medium of formal attire and awkward small talk with hedge fund managers.”
I felt my mouth curve into a smile I tried to figh. “That sounds terrible.”
“It will be terrible. That’s why I need moral support.” He tilted his head, studying me. “Unless you’re afraid of a little champagne and philanthropy.”
“I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Prove it.”
We stood there, locked in some kind of standoff, and I could feel my resolve weakening. This was a bad idea. Going anywhere with Jack Specter was a bad idea.
“I don’t have anything to wear,” I said. “And before you offer, I’m not letting you buy me a dress.”
“What if I loan you one? Technically that’s different from buying.”
“That’s not different at all.”
“It’s completely different. You’d be borrowing. Like a library book. A very expensive, designer library book.”
“You’re impossible.”
His smile widened. “Saturday. I’ll send details. And something to wear that you can return immediately afterward, thereby maintaining your moral high ground.”
Every sensible part of me was screaming to say no.
“One evening,” I said instead. “That’s it. And then we’re even.”
“Completely even. Debt fully discharged. I’ll have my lawyers draw up the paperwork.”
“You’re not funny.” I said but I was almost chuckling.
He was. That was the problem. He was funny and he’d saved my life and I was standing in his office trying not to notice the way the evening light caught his jaw or the warmth in his eyes when he looked at me.
I was in so much trouble.
“Saturday,” I said. “Don’t make me regret this.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
I turned and walked out before I could say anything else stupid.
A charity gala. With Jack. In a dress he was lending me, at an event full of people I had nothing in common with, spending an entire evening pretending I wasn’t terrified of how much I was starting to feel.
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
Saturday. 7pm. Car will pick you up at 6:30. Try not to overthink it.
I stared at the screen. Typed back:
How did you get this number?
I own your company. I have access to HR files.
That’s an abuse of power.
