Of course it’s white. Soft. Sweet. Harmless. The kind of dress that belongs at a country club brunch with old money and polished smiles, not on a woman walking into a room that could become a kill box if the wrong man breathes in the wrong direction. It looks too innocent for the storm I’m walking into, but that’s exactly why it works. Mikhail expects symbolism. He expects theatre. He expects family events to soften people.
He expects wrong.
I pull the dress over my head, smooth it down my hips, and stare at myself in the mirror. For one strange second, I almost look like someone who exists outside of violence. A girl whose father is proud of her for all the right reasons. A woman going to a birthday celebration instead of a possible ambush. The illusion is good enough to hurt.
Almost.
Then the knock comes. Hard. Urgent. No hesitation.
I barely have time to reach for the door before it swings open. Jon steps inside like he owns the space—which, for once, he almost does—and before I can blink he’s got my bags in his hands. He smells like clean cotton, coffee, and whatever sharp, outdoor scent always clings to him like the base itself branded him years ago and never let go. His jaw is set, hair still slightly damp from a shower, sleeves rolled already like he’s been up for hours. Of course he has.
His eyes flick over me once. Quick. Controlled. Not lingering. Somehow that’s worse. Somehow that one carefully restrained glance says more than if he’d stared.
“I’ll meet you in the car,” he says, voice clipped, eyes sharp but scanning. No smile, no pause. Command first. Always.
I blink at him. “Good morning to you too.”
His mouth twitches, almost a smile, but it doesn’t quite land. “Morning.”
“That sounded painful.”
“It is,” he says, hefting the bags. “I haven’t had enough caffeine to survive you yet.”
That gets the smallest laugh out of me, quick and unwilling. He catches it, and something in his face eases for half a second before the mask drops back into place.
I nod, still tugging at my dress, trying not to think about the memory of last night pressing at my temples. I follow him, careful to keep a step behind, watching how he moves, reading his shoulders, the tilt of his head, the way his jaw tightens when he’s thinking faster than he lets on. Every detail of him draws my attention, but I force it down, forcing myself back to the mission at hand. Back to Mikhail. Back to my father. Back to the fact that this day could go wrong in a hundred ways before lunch.
Quietly, almost without meaning to, I murmur to myself, the words lost in the space between us, too soft to be anything but confession. “It should never have happened.”
Jon laughs. Just a short, sharp sound, but it carries all the weight it should. Not amused. Not cruel. More like he knows exactly what I mean and hates how true it is. He keeps walking, but I see his shoulders shift.
“You planning on making that a formal statement?” he asks dryly.
I stare at the back of his head. “Were you supposed to hear that?”
“No.”
“Then pretend you didn’t.”
“Can’t,” he says. “Selective hearing isn’t one of my skills.”
I clamp my mouth shut, forcing the line of thought away. There’s no room for it. Not now. Not when the night could become a distraction that costs more than I’m willing to risk.
Jon doesn’t feed into it after that. He just carries the bags, sliding open the door to the car and holding it for me. His grin is small, controlled, almost teasing—but I see it. Beneath the surface, hesitation. Not regret exactly, but the kind of calculation that comes from knowing the consequences of every choice and making it anyway.
I step into the car, adjusting my dress, smoothing my hair, forcing myself to exhale. The world is waiting, and for now, so is Jon—but the storm is close, and we both know it.
I slide into the passenger seat, the leather still cool against my bare arms. The sun hasn’t fully climbed, and the world outside the windshield is quiet, almost lazy, like it has no idea what kind of day it’s about to become. The club is a drive away. The party is a trap wrapped in ribbons. My father is expecting his daughter. Mikhail may be expecting blood.
My hands go instinctively for my phone—I’ve got a playlist ready, something to fill the silence on the ride and keep my nerves from twisting into knots—but Jon’s hand shoots out before I can swipe.
“Not today,” he says, voice low but sharp. His fingers flick mine, and I jerk back, startled.
“What—?”
He doesn’t even look guilty. “Trust me.”
“That phrase has been doing a lot of heavy lifting lately,” I mutter.
