The door chime sings again, and before I can get another word out, a whirlwind of perfume, flashbulbs, and too-white teeth bursts through the entrance.
“Oh, myGod, Jasper!” A tall woman in a rhinestone baseball cap and oversized sunglasses floats in like she has rights over the oxygen. Her assistant trails behind, juggling garment bags and a tablet. “Tell me my dress is ready. TMZ said I’m walking the carpet at six and if I show up looking like asuburban divorcéeagain, my agent will spontaneously combust.”
Jasper doesn’t even look up. “Hello, Crystal.”
“It’sKrystahlnow.”
“Of course it is.” He still doesn’t look up; he’s watching me, arms crossed, one perfectly groomed brow raised.
The assistant pipes up nervously, “She has a fitting in fifteen, Mr. Jasper, and—”
“Reschedule it.” He waves a hand, eyes never leaving mine. “Tell her Mercury’s in retrograde and I refuse to be complicit in chaos.”
Krystahl blinks, offended. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me, darling.” Jasper finally turns toward her, tone dripping sugar and steel. “You’ll survive. I’m having a mental health moment with my best friend.”
“But—”
“Go hydrate. Maybe eat something green. We’ll circle back.”
The assistant opens his mouth, then closes it again when Jasper shoots him a glare so sharp it could slice couture. They retreat in a cloud of scandalized silence and expensive body spray.
The door closes behind them.
Jasper exhales through his nose. “Now,” he says quietly, stepping closer. “Start again. From the part where you accidentally joined the mafia, or whatever this is.”
I stare at him, half wanting to laugh, half wanting to cry.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
He drops into the seat beside me, silk shirt gleaming under the boutique lights, voice soft now.
“Mary, I design gowns for women who marry billionaires with pet tigers. Try me.”
Jasper doesn’t blink for a full five seconds after I finish. Five entire seconds of pure silence, during which I swear I can hear the boutique’s air-conditioning judging me.
Then— He blinks once. Slowly. Like his brain’s trying to reboot.
“Okay,” he says, in that deceptively calm tone that means the volcano’s about to erupt. “So. Let me recap.”
He counts on his fingers. “One—your creepy manager, Dave, is dead.Dead-dead,not liketook-a-sabbatical-to-find-himself-in-Balidead.”
He raises a second. “Two—the mystery man who was supposed to be my quiet, perfectly behaved subletter turned out to be,” he leans forward, voice dropping to a whisper, “a Russian mobster?”
“Kind of,” I admit.
He stares at me like he’s buffering. Then, very slowly, he stands. Hands on hips. Shoulders squared. Full runway stance.
“Oh my God,” he announces to the ceiling. “I rented my apartment to aBratva assassin.I am going to bekilled by the HOA.They’ll find me buried under the succulent wall.”
“Jasper—”
He starts pacing. “I could’ve been trafficked! My lemon-scented candles! My security deposit!”
“Jas!” I grab his wrist and tug him back down before he can spiral into orbit. “Sit.”
He collapses onto the velvet bench beside me, eyes huge. “And mostly—you. You getting dragged into thiscrazy-assmess while I was gone—what evenisthis, Mary? Are they holding you hostage now? Is this, like, a Stockholm thing? Blink twice if you’re in danger.”
