I head for the bathroom, step onto cold tile, and give myself a quick rinse. Just enough to scrub off the worst of the day: dirt, sweat, whatever’s left of my pride. There’s no time for a full meltdown, so I towel off fast and pad back into the bedroom, still dripping at the edges.
I peel off the jacket, then the blood-stained shirt—now stiff and clinging in all the wrong places—and toss them aside like they’re cursed. I dig into the Nordstrom bags, praying for a miracle.
The lingerie is… aggressive.
Way too lacy.
Way too black. The kind of bra that belongs to someone with confidence and a getaway car.
I put it on anyway, adjusting the straps until the girls look like they’ve got ambition. Then the panties—high-cut, soft, and blessedly non-vengeful.
Then come the jeans. High-waisted. Curve-hugging. Soft enough to make me suspicious. Like they were pre-washed in angel tears and retail guilt.
Top options: A crisp silk blouse. A slinky tank. And—
Oh.
Ohhell no.
A cropped, ribbed sweater in soft green. Tiny cap sleeves. Snug waist. The kind of top that makes your waist look like it owes rent and your tits look like they just bought the building.
I stare at it.
It stares back.
“I am not that bitch,” I whisper.
But apparently… I am. Because five seconds later, I’m pulling it on.
And—Dear God.
I look… good.
The jeans hug my curves without being tight. The sweater is borderline criminal in what it does to my figure. Even disheveled and mildly traumatized, I look like I belong in this world of high thread counts and low morals.
That should terrify me.
Instead, it makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
I pause. Stare. Who is this woman in the mirror?
Still me. But… not.
Like if I opened my mouth, something smarter might come out. Something braver.
I don’t know why that thought makes my throat tighten.
By the time I leave the room, I’m bracing myself. I’ve done nothing wrong, but I still feel like I’m about to walk into Judgment Day.
I step out.
Conversation stops.
Anton’s eyes find me first. Then travel. Slow, measured, like he’s not just looking butmarking. His expression doesn’t change. But something flickers behind the green. A twitch of the jaw. A tightening of his grip on the armrest.
Lev whistles low. “Yob tvoyu mat.”
Boris grins, all smug satisfaction, like he just wonProject Runway: Mafia Edition.
