Page 77 of Cruel Lies

"Ms. Meadows?" he asks.

"That's me."

"Delivery. No signature required." He hands both to me and turns and walks back down the steps before I can say anything else.

I bring them inside and set them on the table. The box is heavy and wide, tied with a ribbon. The envelope is the same cream stock as the note I found taped to my wall. I get a jittery feeling like I just chugged a quad shot of espresso and swallowed a bunch of butterflies as a chaser.

I open the envelope first. Inside is a card. Thick paper. Gold lettering across the top.

The Akov Foundation Annual Benefit.

I read the rest. It's a charity gala. Saturday night, at some ballroom in Midtown. Black tie. There's a smaller card tucked behind it, in Ronan's handwriting.

Saturday. 7 P.M. I'll send a car. Wear what's in the box. All of it.

I set the card down and look at the box. Then I untie the ribbon and lift the lid.

Inside is a gown.

It's dark green, almost the color of pine trees. The fabric is heavy and smooth and it slides through my fingers deliciously when I lift it out. There's no tag, no price, and no label I recognize. Just the dress. It's the most expensive thing I've ever held, and I don't even need to check to know that.

I hold it up against myself and look down at where it falls.

I so badly want to see how it looks.

… Which, thanks to Ronan, is a problem.

I turn on instinct toward the hallway where the mirror used to be, and of course there's nothing there. Just a bare wall and a rectangle two shades darker than the rest.

"Right," I say to the empty house. "That."

I set the gown down on the table and look back at the box. There's more under where the dress was. I fold back a layer of tissue paper and my face goes hot.

Because what I find is lingerie. A matching set, dark green like the gown, though nobody's going to see it under the dress. The fabric is thin and expensive. There's lace, but not the cheap scratchy kind. This is soft. Delicate. Beautiful.

Dangerous.

I pick up the top piece and hold it up. It's beautiful. It's also very muchnotthe kind of thing I own. My drawer upstairs is full of sensible cotton and a couple of "nice" pairs I bought years ago that have gone gray in the wash. Plus the black lace I wore on the day my life imploded.

I hurriedly stuff it back in the box like it might bite me.

It's stunning—there's no doubt about that. I'm just not sure I'm the kind of woman who wears something like this.

That's the old habit talking. I know it is. All the old anxieties are still there. Maybe quieter than they used to be, but they haven't quite been extinguished yet.

And then I think about Ronan. His face in the blue light.You are the most beautiful thing I have ever been in a room with.Themirrors gone from my walls. A text every single morning before ten.

He makes me feel like maybe Iamthat kind of woman. Like the version of me that can wear this and not flinch isn't some other person. She's just me, if I let her be.

I pick the top piece back up.

"Okay," I say to myself. "Why not?"

Saturday comes faster than I want it to.

My mom once again takes the kids for the night. She gives me a look when she picks them up, the radar going off, but she doesn't push. She just says, "You look nice, sweetheart," which she cannot actually assess because I haven't done anything yet, so I know she's fishing.

"Thanks, Mom."