“Anything. I swear—” Relief floods her face.
“You clean up after it. You feed it. You walk it. You manage whatever neurotic trauma responses it performs on my property.”
“Done.”
“If it barks during my study hours, it goes in the elevator.”
“Understood.”
“If it pees on anything I can’t replace with expedited delivery, it’s dead.”
“The couch or the dog?”
“Pick one.”
She nods, too quickly. “Yes. Totally. Thank you.”
I don’t respond.
Because I’m not finished.
Instead, I walk to the counter, open the drawer where I keep things that matter—spare keys, blackmail material, and the envelopes I only ever hand out when someone’s about to lose control of their life.
I hold out the envelope.
She takes it slowly.
“What’s this?”
“Cash. Instructions.”
Her brow furrows. “Instructions for what?”
She unfolds the contained list and starts reading aloud. “Silk blouse. Cocktail dress. One pair of heels. Neutral tones only. No hoodies. No sneakers unless I’m jogging or on fire.”
“Correct.”
She looks up. “Is this for the retreat?” she asks, voice already climbing an octave.
“Unless you plan to wear that hoodie in a room full of federal judges.”
Of course, she balks. She thinks this is about control, about me micromanaging her wardrobe for sport. It isn’t. It’s about liability. I can’t walk into Hale’s retreat with a woman who looks like she got lost on her way to a dorm pizza run. She’s already a complication. If she shows up underdressed, she becomes an indictment. On me.
She has no idea how high the stakes are. The partners won’t see her sarcasm or her brilliance. They’ll see fabric, fit, and whether she makes me look credible.
I don’t care if she hates me for it. She can hate me in silk.
“You’re serious.” She blinks.
“Fatally.”
“I didn’t agree to be styled.”
“You agreed to the IOU.”
She folds the list with a little too much aggression. “You should’ve let me bleed out in my apartment.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But then you’d still be desperate for help.”
