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She looked faintly panicked. Understandably.

“Don’t worry,” I added quickly. “We’ll script it. Rehearse it if we have to. You’ll have answers ready, and if you blank, I’ll step in. You won’t be alone in this.”

She stared at me for a long moment, then exhaled. “Okay,” she said. “Okay. But I want the dress. An expensive one. If I have to meet a werewolf king, I’m doing it in style.”

I smiled. “Done.”

By the time we hit the highway, Maggie had her feet on the dash and her sunglasses perched low on her nose. The city skyline fell behind us—sharp glass towers giving way to the Bay’s shimmer and the low sprawl of suburbs beyond. In the distance, the red arches of the Golden Gate Bridge cut through the late-afternoon haze. Maggie wasn’t talking much, which I figured meant her brain was doing what it always seemed to do when she was stressed: looping through worst-case scenarios and inventing disasters that hadn’t happened yet.

I turned down the radio. “This isn’t a formal event. We’re just having drinks with Lucien. It’s casual. Ish.”

She scoffed. “It’s also at the alpha’s mansion. That doesn’t exactly scream low-pressure.”

“Still,” I shrugged. “No ballgowns. No tiaras. But class is expected.”

Maggie raised an eyebrow. “I have class for days.”

“I don’t disagree,” I said with a smirk. “But there’s a specific flavor of class shifters expect at these things. The kind that says: ‘Yes, I might be dating a man who can turn into a wolf, but I also own a steamer and make eye contact when I talk.’”

She laughed. “So basically, polished but intimidating. Got it.”

“Exactly. You’ll kill it.”

The mall parking lot was already packed with people who had nothing better to do on a Saturday. The whole place smelled faintly of garlic fries and ocean breeze, which was a weirdly perfect combo you only got near San Francisco’s coast. I parked and led her to the double doors of one of the higher-end department stores. Maggie hesitated when we stepped into the air-conditioned sprawl of luxury branding and glowing white tile.

“You seriously shop here?” she asked.

“I don’t shop here by choice… more like out of necessity for all the outlandish events Lucien throws,” I said. “There’s a difference.”

We headed straight for the women’s section. I didn’t even wait for direction. I scanned the racks, pulling items and holding them up to her like I was auditioning to be Maggie’s stylist. Or her unhinged, fashion-obsessed boyfriend. Possibly both.

Maggie crossed her arms. “You don’t even know what size I wear.”

“Six,” I said.

She blinked. “How the hell do you know that?”

“I helped you unpack, remember? I pay attention.”

She stared at me for a second too long, and I pretended not to notice how flustered she looked. I turned back to the racks, holding up a fitted midi skirt in a deep plum color that would make her eyes look criminal.

“I would never choose that,” she muttered.

“Which is why you have me,” I said, handing it to her. “Humor me.”

She rolled her eyes like she was doing me a great favor, but I caught the smile she tried to hide as she disappeared into the dressing room. When she stepped out a few minutes later, I actually oohed. Out loud. Couldn’t stop it.

She looked incredible. The skirt hugged her hips, and the blouse I’d grabbed—soft, elegant, open at the collar—made her look like she belonged on the cover of a magazine.

“Okay,” she said, hands on her hips, “you’re staring.”

“I’m appreciating,” I corrected, trying not to think about how she’d probably look good in a paper bag. “Huge difference.”

We narrowed it down to a couple of outfits, but that one was the clear winner. I paid, ignoring her mild protest, and carried the bag out like I’d just purchased the Holy Grail.

On the drive home, she was quieter again, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt.

“Lucien’s going to ask about your family,” I said. “Your career. What your aspirations are.”