I bury it where it belongs. “I need you to come with me to a dinner tonight.”
She arches a brow. “Let me guess. You need arm candy with a brain.”
“Yes.” I don’t soften it. “Business. Crimson is courting a biotech firm. Hollister—the founder—is old-school. Family man. My advisors think a woman on my arm might smooth the edges.”
“Oh.” She meets my eyes in the mirror. Disappointment flashes—quick, contained. Still there.
“I need someone smart,” I say, stepping closer. “Someone who can speak their language.”
“You mean science.”
I nod. “I need them to believe we’re not here to gut them.”
Something sharpens in her expression. She turns to her closet without another word.
She pulls out an emerald silk dress—floor-length, deep v, with a dangerous slit—then disappears to change. When she returns, she looks like sin made deliberate.
As she fastens the final hook, I come behind her and tug a necklace box from my pocket. She watches in the mirror.
“Really committing to the illusion?” she asks.
“Perception is everything,” I grumble, unclasping the chain. I settle it around her neck. Diamonds. Heavy. Intentional.
She touches it once, smirks. “If I’m going to look like I belong to you, I might as well sparkle.”
I meet her eyes in the reflection. “Try not to burn the place down.”
She smiles. “No promises.”
By the time we step into the elevator, she’s composed. Ready. And I still don’t know if she’s going to sell the performance—or dismantle it out ofspite.
The restaurant is quiet wealth. Private room. Candlelight. The East River holding still beyond the glass. Hollister stands as we enter, his wife Evelyn rising with him—pearls, navy, and practiced grace.
“Mr. Redmont,” Hollister says, shaking my hand. “And this must be…?”
“Violet Cole,” she says smoothly. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
Evelyn’s smile is warm. “That dress is stunning.”
“Thank you.”
We sit. Wine is poured. The dance begins.
“So how did you two meet?” Evelyn asks after the appetizers.
Violet smiles. “At a party. I called him insufferable.”
Evelyn laughs. “And he kept calling?”
“Unfortunately,” Violet says, glancing at me sideways.
“I like a challenge,” I say.
Hollister leans forward. “And what do you do, Ms. Cole?”
“Biochemistry,” she answers easily. “I consult with labs on compound optimization and formulation.”
His interest sharpens. “Familiar territory. We’re running trials on genetic therapies for rare hereditary disorders.”
