The boutique is empty. Not closed. Empty. Cleared out for us.
Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across racks of silk and satin, and a woman in impeccable black approaches with a smile that’s equal parts warmth and calculation.
“Don Santoro. Mrs.Santoro.” She inclines her head. “We’re honored. Everything is prepared as you requested.”
As he requested. He arranged this. For me.
“Cassia.” His palm finds my back again, steering me forward. “Pick whatever you want.”
I turn to look at him. Search his face for some explanation. He gives me nothing but that steady, unreadable focus.
“This is too much.”
“It’s not enough.” His voice drops, meant for me alone. “You’ve been wearing the same three dresses since you arrived. My wife deserves better.”
My wife.
A knot loosens behind my sternum.
Marguerite herself appears at my elbow. “Shall we start with evening wear, Mrs.Santoro? I’ve pulled some pieces I think will suit your coloring.”
I let myself be led toward the fitting rooms.
Dante settles into a velvet chair near the mirrors, legs spread, arms resting on the sides. A king on his throne, waiting to pass judgment.
The first dress is emerald silk. Cut low in the front, lower in the back.
Marguerite zips me in with practiced efficiency, and I turn to face the mirror.
The woman looking back is a stranger. Curves I’ve spent years hiding now on display. Olive skin glowing against the deep green. For a moment, I don’t recognize myself.
“Show him,” Marguerite murmurs. “That’s what he’s here for.”
I step out of the fitting room.
Dante goes still.
His focus travels from my face to my chest to my hips to the hem brushing my thighs. Every inch of that attention lands on me like a physical touch.
“Turn around.”
I do. The silk whispers against my skin as I move.
When I face him again, his expression has changed. Darker. Hungrier.
“That one stays.” His voice is rough. “Show me another.”
The second dress is black. Bodycon. It clings to every curve I have and a few I didn’t know existed.
This time when I step out, one of the guards glances up from his post by the door. Just a flicker. Just a second.
One second too long.
Dante’s head turns. Not fast. Not slow. The deliberate pivot of a man who never needs to rush because everyone in the room already knows they’re his.
He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t need to.
“Eyes off my wife.” Barely above a whisper. Said with the calm of a man deciding whether to end something.
