I gasp, my eyes trained on him as a terrible realization hits me. I’m not nearly as scared as I should be.
The man—half the size of Mikhail and polished in prudence—stands awkwardly. He swallows, his gaze averting to his colleagues, who look equally distressed.
“I… um…” the clerk says. “Of—of course. We’d be happy to?—”
“Attaboy.” Mikhail grabs my hand and, leaving the Amex card on the desk, he gently pulls me with him farther into the shop. His hands are warm and calloused against my soft skin, sending buzzing electricity through my body that makes my chest struggle with the next breath. Suddenly, I’m just as jittery as the others, but for an entirely different reason.
“C-Can I offer you coffee, water… tea or champagne?” Another person—a woman, this time—chimes in.
“Cecilia?” Mikhail looks at me.
“Oh. Nothing for me. We’ve already disturbed you too much?—”
“She’ll have one of each. And sparkling water for me,” Mikhail says. The woman nods dramatically, disappearing intoan adjacent room, and he turns to me. “Stop doing that. I don’t like it,” he says.
“Doing what?”
“Giving people around you so much fucking power. If you want something, ask for it. That’s how it works.”
“You just threatened to kill these people, and I’m supposed to ask for champagne on top of that?”
His gaze darkens, his index finger pushing up my chin as he drowns me in his malachite colored eyes. “Ask for anything, anytime. So long as you are my wife, the world better fucking bow at your feet and beg for your demands. Understood?”
Heat pushes up my neck, traitorous and undeniable.
I know what this is, and it has nothing to do with him caring about my wants—no one ever does. Once again, it’s about power. Possession. About showing the world who owns me to satisfy whatever sick need he harbors inside. Yet despite all of this, I still lean into the illusion. It’s better than being invisible for once.
“I asked you a question,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “Yes. Fine. I’ll ask for things.”
“Lovely.” He grins, letting go of my chin at last. My skin tingles in his wake.
Much to Mikhail’s delight, when the stylist comes back with our drinks, she starts asking me a bunch of questions about what I want. Sleeves or strapless? Deep V or a high neckline? Oscar de la Renta or Vera Wang?
At first, she has to pry the answers out of me like pulling teeth, earning me warning looks from Mikhail that make it easy to comply. Not because he scares me—at least, not at the moment—but because it’s nice having someone paying attention to how many times I put myself down. Back home, no one ever told me doing it wasn’t right.
Eventually, with every answer I offer, I begin to loosen up. Even Mikhail chimes in occasionally from where he went to sit down, sharing similar opinions to mine. It’s almost comical, in a way. He has managed to coordinate everyone on a whim and somehow we’ve all embraced the situation at hand.
“Alright, let’s zip this up…” the stylist bubbles next to me behind the curtain of my changing room. But if she says anything else after that, I’m not hearing it. All I can focus on is my reflection in the mirror, wearing the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen in my life.
The bodice is sleeveless, featuring an asymmetrical neckline that subtly accentuates the shape of my round breasts, drawing the eye up. Where it meets the skirt below, the designer added a draped overlay of satin that softens the transition without having it squeeze my waist. And beneath the satin… a beaded skirt adds just enough sophistication to not make the dress look too bland.
It’s perfect. It’s me. It’s everything Ms. Donatello’s dress choice was not.
My attention is brought back to the stylist as she opens the curtains and steps aside. I brush my hands down my thighs, analyzing every detail. Loving the way I suddenly feel happy when all I should feel is dread.
“Leave,” Mikhail says behind me, my eyes darting to his reflection in the mirror. Unlike earlier, he doesn’t scrunch his nose again. Instead, his face is slightly tense, jaw clenched as he looks me up and down.
“I think… I really like this one,” I murmur.
He steps closer, completely silent, the stylist now gone. The room is awfully empty, and I blame my uneven breathing pattern on this fact alone.
Slowly, he raises his hand to my collarbone, tracing it with just his fingertips. I shiver. Each stroke feels like a whisperagainst my skin. A sweet, aching fire that brings back memories of me and him. There, in that basement, when he pretended to want me, and I pretended he wasn’t on my mind constantly.
“You will wear your hair down,” he purrs, tucking a strand behind my ear. My pulse jumps, and I hate that he notices. “And a necklace at the base of your neck—pearls, or diamonds, or whatever gem you prefer.”
“I thought you said…” I swallow. “I shouldn’t listen to what other people tell me to do.”
