“He says he’ll have a dress sent here for tomorrow.”
“Of course he will. Because apparently reality TV has taught me nothing about the habits of criminal billionaires.” He grabs another handful of popcorn. “What’s the dress look like?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say.”
“Bet it’s expensive. Bet it’s a designer. Bet it’s something you’d never be able to afford on your own.”
I looked at him, and despite his teasing, I could see the concern in his eyes. The worry he’s trying to hide behind jokes and sarcasm.
“Marcus,” I say softly. “I’ll be okay.”
He sighed, setting the popcorn aside, and pulled me into a hug.
“You’d better be,” he murmured against my hair. “Because if he hurts you, I don’t care how connected he is. I’ll find a way to make him pay.”
I hugged him back, blinking back tears.
“Thanks, Marcus.”
“Always, babe. Always.”
My phone buzzed again, and I glance at it.
Lorenzo
I know you will look stunning in whichever dress you choose. See you tomorrow - L.
I smiled, my cheeks flushing.
Into the lion’s den, I think. But maybe that’s exactly where I’m supposed to be.
The wine is halfway gone when the doorbell rings.
Marcus and I exchanged a look—it’s after nine, and he isn’t expecting anyone. He’s in his ratty pajama pants, I’m drowning in his oversized hoodie, and neither of us looks remotely presentable.
“Did you order food?” I ask.
“No. Did you?”
I shake my head.
The bell rings again, more insistent this time.
Marcus groaned, hauling himself off the couch. “If this is a murderer, I’m going to be so annoyed. I’m not dressed for being murdered.”
He shuffled to the door, peering through the peephole. His body goes still, his eyebrow shooting up.
“Uh, Zara?” He turned to look at me, his expression a mix of amusement and disbelief. “There’s a very fancy man in a very fancy suit at my door holding very fancy bags.”
My heart stuttered.
“I’ll, uh—” I’m already standing, pulling the hoodie tighter around myself as Marcus swings the door open. And sure enough, a man in a crisp black suit stands there, holding three garment bags, each a deep, rich burgundy.
“Miss Cruz?” The man’s voice was smooth and professional.
“That’s me.”
He offered a polite nod, stepping inside when Marcus gestured him in. “Mr. Falcone sends his regards. These are for you.” He lays the garment bags carefully across the back of Marcus’s dining chairs, then produces a small velvet box from his inner pocket. “And this.”
