At first, it makes me want to throw something at him. But the longer it is, the more confusing it gets. Because sometimes his gaze lingers for a second too long. Sometimes his voice drops when he says the word “better,” and it does something strange to the air around us.
Milana teases him mercilessly. “You’ve turned into Father,” she says, holding up a silk blouse. “Do you even consider her opinion?”
Artyom doesn’t blink. “I have to make her look convincing.”
I pull the curtain closed again and stare at the dress draped over the hook—dark, fitted, the kind that belongs to women who know exactly what they’re doing, not me. Still, I slip it on. The fabric clings in all the wrong ways at first, then in ways that make me pause. It’s beautiful. It’s too much. I don’t know which bothers me more.
I turn in the mirror, catching a glimpse of myself in the light. The woman staring back doesn’t look like a nurse from Brooklyn.She looks like she belongs somewhere expensive, somewhere dangerous.
It hits me then, how easily a dress can change everything. How easily he can.
My fingers hover over the zipper, then drop. I can’t decide whether I want to walk out there or tear it off. The fabric fits too well, like it knows things about me I’d rather not admit.
The curtain rustles.
“Kira?” His voice is low, calm, too close.
My heart jumps. “I’m fine,” I say quickly. “Just… figuring it out.”
There’s a pause long enough to make my skin prickle. Then the curtain slides open.
He steps in before I can stop him, and for a second the world tilts. The space is too small for both of us—his suit brushing against the fabric at my back, his scent hitting me like something physical. His eyes sweep over me once, deliberate, before they meet mine in the mirror.
I fold my arms across my chest, though it does nothing to hide how bare I feel. “You don’t knock, do you?”
“You were gone ten minutes,” he says, voice even. “Thought you passed out.”
“Hardly.” My tone comes out flatter than I mean.
He moves closer, close enough that when I breathe in, I catch the warmth of his skin under the clean bite of cologne. It makes my pulse stutter.
“I was deciding if I hate it,” I mutter.
“You shouldn’t.” His gaze drags slowly down my reflection, lingering where the dress hugs my hips. “It suits you.”
He reaches up, catching the loose tag near my shoulder, and straightens it. His knuckles brush the curve of my neck, careless maybe, but the touch burns. My breath snags. His hand doesn’t leave right away.
“You shouldn’t hide in things that make you smaller,” he says quietly, his voice right by my ear. “This—” his fingers trace the line of the strap just once, “—makes you look like you just remembered who you are.”
I can’t answer. I can barely think.
Then he steps back, gaze still on mine in the mirror, and the air rushes in again. “We’re done here,” he says softly. “Get this dress and let’s go.”
But after he’s gone, I’m still standing there, heart pounding, his scent all over the room and the ghost of his touch still warm on my skin.
I should hate all of this. The clothes, the makeup, the attention. I should hate the way he looks at me, calm and sure and completely in control. But somewhere under the irritation, something else hums. Something that feels dangerously close to wanting him to look longer.
When we’re finally done, I’m carrying three bags I didn’t pay for and wearing a coat that probably costs more than my used car did.
Milana grins as we walk toward the exit. “You clean up well.”
Calina nods in agreement. “You’ll pass.”
“Pass for what?” I ask.
She smiles. “For someone who could survive next to him.”
Artyom’s voice cuts in from behind us. “We’re leaving.”
