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ChapterFourteen
Emelia
I’m chatting with Sonya on Saturday evening while I’m hunched over a small table at my apartment, desperately trying to fix my dress for the gala before time runs out. I grab my scissors and cut off a piece of thread then lean down to inspect the hem. It’s nearly finished.
“How was the estate?” she asks.
“Stunning.”
“Did you take any pictures?”
“We weren’t allowed to. An official photographer from Banks and Barclay took reference photos, but the rest of us had to keep our phones put away the entire time we were there because of the NDA.”
I finish sewing a few more stitches then cut the thread. In a second, I’ll have to just give up and wear it like it is. I still need to steam it.Andmy makeup isn’t done.
“Jeez. They’re taking this secret thing seriously, aren’t they?”
“Yeah. It’s likely a little overkill, but it’s better than having things accidentally leaked, I suppose.”
“And what about Professor Barclay—was he there when you toured the estate?”
I don’t even have enough bandwidth to care that she wants to talk about him. “Yes.”
“And did you two speak or anything? Has he realized who you are yet?”
“It’s come up.”
I wince at her ear-shattering squeal.
“AND?”
I yank my dress free of the sewing machine and hurry to the steamer so I can get rid of the few wrinkles I caused during my alterations. Hot steam is already billowing out. “Andnothing. He acknowledged that he remembers me, and we’ve decided to continue on as if I’m any other employee at the firm. BecauseI am.”
She sighs. “Okay. That’s…slightly disappointing, but hey, I learned from my mistake last time, right? You won’t hear a peep out of me where he’s concerned. I won’t question you about how hot he is now…though I bet he’s SCORCHING. Right? Just give me that much, at least.”
“Yes.”
Another squeal.
“SONYA.”
“I’m sorry! It’s just too tantalizing!”
I switch to speakerphone then toss my phone onto my bed so I can finish steaming my dress, and I shimmy into it while Sonya talks my ear off about honeymoon plans. The zipper in the back is almost impossible to reach. I contort my arms and hop around, trying to finagle it. The issue is that the dress is fittedaround my chest—some would just call ittight—and I need another set of hands to yank the two sides together so I can force the zipper up.
I found the dress on the clearance rack at Saks Fifth Avenue yesterday after work, the color grabbing my attention right away. It’s not just red; it’s crimson. It’s a dress for an assassin—someone out for blood. I felt the soft fabric between my fingers and imagined myself having the guts to pull off something like it…then I let it fall back in place, forgotten.
I moved on to a more practical black option, but the crimson dress kept calling to me.
I went back, looked at the size, and confirmed it would work. I looked at the price. It was a steeply discounted Oscar de la Renta dress from last season with an obvious rip along the hem.
My mother taught me to sew when I was younger. I am by no means a professional seamstress, but I knew I could repair the dress easily enough.
I bought it before I could chicken out, and now I stand in front of my bathroom mirror, trying to get a good look at myself in it. It has thin spaghetti straps and a plunging square neckline with a natural waist, floor-length hem, and column silhouette. It’s understated and beautiful, and I think I even managed to pull off my alterations.
“What are you up to tonight, anyway?” Sonya asks, likely because I’ve been too distracted to fully participate in the conversation for the last few minutes. I’ve been doing a lot ofMmhmandOh that’s cool. “Have you made any friends in Boston yet?”
I root around in my makeup bag for the lipstick I want.
