“No, no. It’s fine,” I wave her off.
“Where are you going?” Dom asks as I stand.
“Bathroom.”
He gives me a small nod and rises with me to help with my chair. “Don’t take long,” he murmurs in my ear, sending goosebumps along my side.
“Don’t miss me too much,” I pat his hard chest and head for the hall.
The hallway is blissfully quieter than the main room—softer lighting, muffled music, a small break. I push open the bathroom door and slip inside.
I pee quickly, fix my dress, and step out of the stall. At the sink, I turn on the water and wash my hands, then look up at myself in the mirror. My lipstick is holding, my hair survived, and my dress looks incredible. I lean closer, dabbing at a corner of my mouth, when the door slides open.
Valencia walks in. Her heels echo sharply against the marble, each step a little announcement.
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, and she smiles. Not the smile she gave Dom.
My pulse kicks, but I keep my face neutral. I reach for a paper towel and pat my hands dry.
“Jessica,” she says, “I was hoping to catch you.”
My stomach tightens, but I lift my chin, force a polite smile, and turn to her. “I can’t possibly imagine what for.”
“To complement you on the dress,” she says warmly. “You look lovely tonight.”
“Thank you,” I say cautiously.
“I mean it.” She steps to the sink beside me. “The dress is stunning. Very… personal. Did you make it?”
“Yes,” I say, looking down at myself with pride.
“How sweet.” Her tone is honeyed. “Very… resourceful.”
Resourceful. Like I’m a hardworking farm girl sewing scraps by candlelight. She tucks a blonde curl behind her shoulder, watching me in the mirror.
“You must understand,” she says lightly, “Dominic and I go way back.”
She’s not informing me. She’s branding it into my skull.
“That’s nice,” I shrug, feigning indifference.
She turns fully toward me, leaning against the marble counter. “You seem sweet,” she says. “A little overwhelmed, maybe. These events can be intimidating, especially if you’re not used to them.”
Meaning: you don’t belong here.
“I’m fine,” I say, smiling though it’s starting to feel like a facial cramp.
“Of course,” Valencia murmurs. “There’s an art to standing beside a man like Dominic. He has a very particular lifestyle. A particular temperament.”
She’s circling, sniffing for weakness.
“Thank you for your concern.”
“Not concern, darling. Advice. I know Dominic very well.” Her eyes narrow.
“I appreciate the advice, then,” I say, clipped. “If you’ll excuse me—”
“Oh, you definitely need the advice.” Her tone stops melike a hand.
