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I won’t.
14
WREN
I haven’t been this excited for a day of work in my entire life.
I’m up at the crack of dawn in anticipation of getting into the office. Pulling on a robe, I practically skip into the kitchen for some tea. I pop an Earl Grey tea bag into boiling water and walk it back to my room.
But I stop short when I see a black box perched at the foot of my door with a Prada stamp on the lid.
“What on earth…?” I whisper, looking around. I don’t see or hear anyone, but there’s only one suspect on my list.
Bumping my hip into the door to open it, I slip inside and set the tea down on the bedside table. Then I lift the lid off the box with trembling fingers and…
“Oh, wow.”
The gorgeous black skirt-suit feels like butter under my touch. Nestled beneath it in layers of velvety tissue paper is a crisp white blouse with a chic, subtle ruffle down the sleeves.
It feels beyond superficial to freak out over a designer suit—but sometimes, freaking out is just what’s on the menu. When Rose and I were kids, Mom used to make most of our clothes for us by hand. Even when we got older, we shopped in thrift stores, at yard sales, not at Prada. For the longest time, I honestly thought it rhymed with “ta-da,” like a magician revealing his big trick.
The price tag for this whole ensemble must be astronomical. It makes me nauseous to even contemplate. But as I slide the coat onto my shoulders, I find myself beginning to understand the appeal.
The fit is flawless, tailor-made for my body. I feel strong in it. I feel powerful. I feel like an honest-to-goodness businesswoman in my own right. This suit was made for someone with a P.A. Not someone who is a P.A.
Since I don’t have the right shoes, I slip on my thrifted Birkenstocks and step out into the corridor. It’s still early, but I figure I’ll wait for Dmitri by the door. We haven’t discussed it or anything, but I’m assuming that carpooling makes economical sense, even leaving aside the fact that he probably intends to keep me within arm’s reach for the entire day.
The plan is to stand in the foyer and wait for him, but I hear movement in the kitchen, so I follow it there.
He’s sitting at the counter, scrolling through his phone and sipping on a mug of coffee.
“Good morning,” I say timidly, lingering on the threshold.
He doesn’t lift his head but he does raise his eyes for a moment. “Morning.” Then he goes back to his phone.
“Um… thanks for the suit. It’s beautiful.”
“It fits?”
“Like a dream.”
He sets his phone down and scans me. “And so it does.” But when his gaze settles on my feet, a frown curdles. “Those shoes are a nightmare, though.”
“I know they don’t match, but I don’t have?—”
“Wait here.”
He disappears and, a minute later, he reappears with a pair of gleaming black pumps with a modest heel. When he sets them down in front of me, I spy the Jimmy Choo logo on the insole.
“Are these your, er… fiancée’s?” When he nods, I bite nervously at my nails. “You sure she won’t mind me borrowing them?”
“Stop asking questions and try them on.”
It feels strange to slip my feet into another woman’s shoes. It makes me feel like I’m stealing. Cheating, even. “May I ask, uh… where is she?” I ask tentatively. “I haven’t seen her since the first night you brought me here.”
“She’s on a work trip in Paris at the moment. She’ll be back in a few days. Here—” He slides a plate of fruit towards me. “You need to eat before we leave.” He pushes another plate towards me. This one is filled with my vitamins.
I frown. “I’m not a child, Dmitri. I can take my vitamins without having to be spoon fed.”
