He’s back on the bench, the phone in his hand, one leg crossed. He isn’t reading. He’s watching. His stillness is deliberate, his focus unbroken. It makes my stomach tighten.
“Well?” I ask, spinning once. “Do I look like someone who belongs at a high-end law retreat or someone pretending to be the assistant who got upgraded?”
His gaze moves over me slowly, tracing every line of the dress. “You look expensive.”
I lift a brow. “Is that a compliment?”
“It’s a strategy.”
I stare at him, my arms folding without thought.
He sets the phone down again. “Tessa, you’re not there to blend in. You’re there to stand out. That’s what they expect.”
I swallow. “And you?” The question escapes before I can stop it. “What do you expect?”
His jaw tightens, the first crack in the restraint he’s held since walking in. “I expect you to hold your ground.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. It isn’t the answer I wanted, but it’s the one I needed. “Okay,” I whisper. “Then help me pick.”
He nods once, a small motion that shifts everything.
I start again, pulling dresses one after the other. Silk, linen, structured pieces that make my shoulders square. Long skirts that limit my steps. Something blush that leaves me feeling exposed in a way I don’t want to be. I step out each time, adjusting a strap or smoothing a seam, and he sits there, silent, watching.
He crosses his legs. Clasps his hands. Taps his thumb against his knee. But I notice the way his throat works when I turn, theway he doesn’t blink when I catch his eye in the mirror and hold it just long enough to see if he’ll look away first. He doesn’t.
By the end, my breathing is uneven, too, not from the dresses but from the weight of being under his eyes, from the heat of being seen and wanted again, even though he refuses to say it.
I pull my leggings and hoodie back on, the only thing that feels safe. The dresses are already bagged and paid for before I can reach for my wallet.
When I turn, he’s at the door, holding it open. We step outside together, and the air hits my face. It feels sharp and too bright.
He slides his sunglasses on and looks at me. “Wear the navy for dinner,” he says. “The champagne for the cocktail hour. I’ll take care of the jewelry.”
I nod because I can’t trust myself to speak, because if I do, I’ll say something I shouldn’t. Like how he still looks at me as if I’m his. Or worse, how I’m not sure I ever stopped being his.
Chapter Thirteen
Tessa
The text came at 11:47 last night:
Pack your shit. Flight’s at noon. I’m picking you up at nine.
No greeting. No context. Just Rowan King at his most charming.
Now it’s 8:58 a.m., and I’m crouched on my apartment floor, shoving random clothes into a duffel bag that’s seen better days. My hands are shaking from caffeine—or panic, it’s hard to say—and I can’t remember if I packed underwear.
If I screw this up and embarrass Rowan in front of partners who could blacklist him from every major firm on the East Coast, he won’t just call in my other IOUs. He’ll make sure I never practice law anywhere. Period.
The ethics violation that got me suspended? It’s sealed, but seals can be broken. Records can be leaked. One strategically placed phone call from Rowan King, and every Bar committee in the country will know exactly why Tessa Whitmore shouldn’t be allowed within fifty feet of a legal brief.
I need this to work. I need him to get what he wants so I can disappear back into my mediocre life and pretend none of this happened.
“The black dress or the jumpsuit?” I hold both up to Tiffany, who’s applying mascara with the steadiest hand I’ve ever seen.
“You think I care what you wear to your boyfriend’s work thing?”
“He’s not?—”
