“For what charity?”
“Charities. Many. But the newest this year is the Chicagoland Children’s Art Initiative.”
I stop walking, taking in this new, surprising information. He pauses, too, and turns slightly toward me, giving me a minute to process it.
“It helps with funding for underprivileged schools. Art programs. Music. Sculpture. That sort of thing.”
“That’s surprisingly sweet.”
Roman glances away, as if trying to decide how to respond.
“Sasha’s a lucky boy, in many ways. He has private tutors for general education, all the art supplies a child could want, and a very capable nanny who can give him private instruction.”
It’s the nicest thing he’s said about me since the Kyle conversation. I smile on the inside but am careful not to interrupt him.
“But other children are not so lucky. The resources I can provide to Sasha have been instrumental in developing his talent. If I can help other children have access to those same sorts of resources…” He pauses, drifting off. Then he clears his throat. “It’s my way of giving back, as the cliché goes. And it’s what Sasha’s mother would have wanted.”
“That’s really beautiful, Roman.”
He begins walking again. “They’re the newest addition to the charities favored by Barinov Holdings. It will be a lovely night. And you need a dress.”
He stops outside a boutique. The name is etched in gold lettering on glass so pristine it comes off as more than a little intimidating. Inside Maison Elan, everything is pale stone and soft lighting, dresses displayed like holy objects. Every mannequin is tall, thin, and long-limbed.
My stomach knots for more than one reason. “I can’t afford anything in here.”
“You’re not paying,” he replies without missing a beat.
“Okay, that’s not the only problem, though.”
He turns to me and cocks his head to the side in mild confusion. “Then what is?”
“These dresses are not made for women like me.”
His eyes sharpen as he realizes what I’m saying. “Then theywillbe made for you.”
“Welcome!” The shop woman approaches us with a bright smile. “How can I help you today?”
“We need a gown for a gala,” Roman says, gesturing to me. “For my companion.”
Companion. That’s accurate, I suppose.
The woman looks me over, her smile faltering just a fraction. I know exactly what she’s thinking.
“I’m happy to help, of course. But,” she sweeps her hand toward the dresses on display, “as you can see, our sizes are somewhat limited.”
My shoulders tense.
“Explain,” Roman demands.
She hesitates before continuing. “Well, our designers tend to cut for a certain female profile. For your companion, I would recommend a plus-si?—”
“Your designers,” he says, cutting her off. “They work here in the store?”
“We collaborate with them. Local designers come to us when they want to sell their latest creations. And make no mistake, these are some of the finest designers in Chicago we’re talking about.”
I let my gaze drift over the gowns. They’re gorgeous, every one of them, down to the last, like something out of a dream. But none of them would fit me.
Roman steps closer to me, his hand settling at my lower back. His touch is warm and grounding, possessive in the way I secretly love.
