She almost chokes on her laugh. “What?”
“You heard me—unless you’ve gone deaf.” I scrutinise her outfit, then reach into my jacket and pull out my wallet. I hold out a platinum card.
She blinks at it. “What’s this?”
“Get yourself an outfit. And shoes. Something smart. Professional. Maybe get your hair done and some makeup wouldn’t go amiss.”
Her eyes narrow. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“For once in your life, just do as you’re told,” I say, already losing patience. “You’ve got an hour. Don’t make me regret this.”
Chapter Four
LEONI
I drift through the racks of the usual high-street stores, running my fingers over crisp shirts and pencil skirts that all screamboring. Warren’s words still echo in my head—get your hair done, wear something smart, be presentable.
Who the hell does he think he is? Mr “I don’t like anyone” Baxter, handing out fashion advice like he’s on the cover of GQ. And who the fuck is Ms Winters anyway?
I sigh heavily, glancing down at the platinum card in my hand. The thing gleams in the light—hiscard. How trusting of him to hand it over without a second thought.
My lips twitch into a smile.
Across the street, a sports shop catches my eye.
Perfect.
A few minutes later, I’m in the women’s section, thumbing through racks of soft fabrics and bold logos. I find a pair of grey joggers and a matching cropped top that’ll show just enough of my stomach—and my belly button piercing—to make Warren choke on his disapproval.
Next, I grab a black, fluffy winter jacket, warm and oversized, and a sleek pair of high-end trainers. The kind you wear when you havezerointention of being businesslike.
It’s casual. Comfortable. Completely wrong for a lunch meeting.
Exactly what I’m going for.
When I get back to the office, a single note sits on my desk in Warren’s sharp handwriting:
Meet me downstairs in the car at eleven forty-five.
I smile to myself.Perfect.
By the time I step outside, his car is already waiting at the curb, gleaming black against the grey pavement. Anthony stands by the door, as composed as ever.
“Afternoon,” he says, smirking as he opens it for me.
I flash him a grin and slide inside.
Warren looks up from his phone, and the moment his eyes land on my outfit, his expression stills. I hand him his platinum card.
“Don’t worry,” I say sweetly. “I didn’t spend a penny of yours.”
He glances at the card, then at me. “Maybe you should have.”
I widen my eyes in mock innocence. “You don’t like my outfit?”
For a heartbeat, something flickers across his face—something that looks suspiciously like appreciation. Then he shrugs, “It’s fine.”
The car pulls into traffic. I study him, thrown by his calm. No biting remark, no lecture about professionalism. Nothing.
