Gemma Nero, no, Gemma Marini, might be the best investment I've ever made.
CHAPTER 8
Gemma
The dress arrives at three in the afternoon.
Lyla brings it to the bedroom, hanging it carefully on the closet door. It's in a garment bag from some designer boutique I don't recognize.
"From Mr. Marini," she says with a small smile. "For tonight."
I snort. Of course, Saint not only demands a date from me, but also demands I wear something he picked out.
I roll my eyes at the sight of the dress. Saint came back last night, fucked me, and then left. Now, he wants to go out, and he's sending dresses.
It's confusing as fuck, especially when I look at the dress.
It's a deep navy blue, floor-length, with a high neck and long sleeves. Beautiful, certainly. Appropriate for a Marini wife attending some formal function, but it's completely wrong for a night out on the town.
I zip the bag back up and go to my own closet. In the back, buried under the conservative day dresses and appropriate evening wear, I find what I'm looking for.
A dress I bought in college. Back when I had friends and freedom and a life that was mine.
Black. Mini. With strategic cutouts that show skin in all the wrong, or right, places. The neckline plunges down to the sternum, and the back is almost entirely open. It's the kind of dress that gets you noticed.
The kind of dress that says I'm not your good little wife.
It's perfect.
I shower, do my makeup darker than usual. Smoky eyes. Red lips. I slick my long hair back into a low ponytail.
When I slide into the dress, I barely recognize myself in the mirror.
I look dangerous.
Sexual.
Alive.
Exactly how I want to feel.
At seven, I'm putting the finishing touches on my outfit, a pair of outrageously high heels, when Saint knocks on the door.
"Come in."
He does, dressed in all black—jeans, shirt, leather jacket. He looks good. Unfairly good. Dangerous and beautiful like a blade, and I feel the uncomfortable heat of desire unfurl low in my stomach.
His eyes find me, and he stops dead.
"What the fuck are you wearing?"
I turn slowly, letting him see all of it. "A dress."
"I sent you a dress." His words are clipped. His eyes are hot as they take me in, but they are also pissed. I defied him. He doesn't like it.
Too fucking bad.
He better get used to it.
