Page 156 of Merciless Daddy

“You look as though you’re doing a little better,” he said.

“I have been making political statements through pastry. It’s very empowering.”

“I can see that.” His mouth shifted. “Go change, little one.”

I blinked. “Why?”

“I’m taking you out.”

“Out where?”

“On a date. Ever heard of them?” His eyes warmed. “Apparently people do those before declaring eternal devotion.”

Heat climbed up my throat.

“A date?” I asked, quietly.

Angela gave me a look over the top of her coloring book.

“Go,” she said. “Wear something you chose.”

I stood too fast, suddenly nervous in a way no strategy meeting had ever made me.

“I’ll come find you,” Sal said. “Get ready.”

Sal knocked on my door like he did not own half the rooms in the house.

I had changed three times.

The first dress had looked too much like a Sokolov daughter. The second had looked too much like I was trying to seduce him before we reached the car. The third was dark green, long-sleeved, fitted at the waist, with a skirt that moved around my knees when I walked.

I had chosen it because I liked it. Not because of my father, not because the strict codes of an occasion required it.

For me.

That still felt radical.

When I opened the door, Sal stood there with a single flower in his hand.

Not roses. Not diamonds. Not some expensive thing meant to tell me what I owed him.

One white ranunculus.

“For you,” he said.

I took it carefully. I looked at the flower.

“It’s very pretty.”

“I thought so.”

I put it to my nose. It smelled clean and faintly green.

Then I realized Sal was looking at me.

“That dress is fantastic.”

The heat in my face was ridiculous. I had worn couture worth more than small apartments in rooms full of men who wanted something from my father.