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“The Bianchon,” I whisper, recalling the beautiful gown I’d fondled at Bentley’s. I lift my gaze to Massimo. “I don’t understand.”
He hands me the black envelope and gestures for me to open it. Inside is an invitation.
“The Balboa Charity Ball,” I gasp.
“I have to attend and you’re going to be my date.”
“I am?”
He leans forward and rests his thick forearms on the marble counter. “You’re going to show those fair-weather friends of yours how well you’ve landed on your feet.”
I look at the dress again, remembering how delicious the silk felt against my cheek.
It’s been weeks—no, months, since I’ve worn anything so luxurious.
I glance at my bare feet and think about the shoe collection I pawned to pay the rates on a house I didn’t even technically own at the time and wonder what I’m going to wear under the ten-thousand-dollar Bianchon masterpiece I’ll be wearing.
Maybe I could borrow a pair from Natalie or Eve.
No, I have the tiniest feet in the world. What are the chances either of them wear a size six?
“Why are you staring at your feet?” Massimo asks.
“I don’t have any shoes to wear,” I say without thinking, then realizing how ungrateful it might sound, I give him a big sunny smile and quickly add, “But I’ll find some.”
“Where?”
“Excuse me?”
“Where will you find some?”
“I’ll buy some.”
Walmart. They sell shoes, right?
He does that thing with his penetrating gaze where he studies me as if he’s staring into my mind and eavesdropping on the conversation in my head.
A warmth spreads through me.
Followed by the sudden onset of nerves.
The ball will be the first time I see Angelica, Lilah, and Jules face-to-face since the day they dumped me. And what will I tell them? I’m stone-cold broke because not only did my father owe the IRS a bunch of money, but his accountant was a thief who pretended to have my best interests at heart, but then stole everything from under my very nose. Oh yeah, and after pawning all my designer bags and shoes and limited-edition clothes so I could eat, I live in jeans now.
“Hey,” Massimo’s smooth voice breaks into my overthinking.
I lift my gaze to his, and like magic, all my fear drains away, and I feel calmer. Because Massimo has my back.
“I don’t know what to say.”
Massimo grins. “Say yes, little monster. Be my date and let’s show those assholes exactly who you are.”
“And who is that exactly?”
“A fucking queen who doesn’t give up.”
27
MASSIMO
I blow off my morning meetings to take Bianca to buy shoes.
I’m kind of pissed at Eve for not having the forethought to pick out a pair when I sent her to Bentley’s to pick up the dress. But then, that’s probably all part of my conniving stepsister’s plan. I can see her matchmaking schemes coming from a mile away. She would know I would end up taking Bianca shopping for shoes, and well, here I am proving her right.
When we pull up out the front of Bentley’s, Bianca stiffens.
“We can’t go in there.”
“Why not?”
“Because they banned me, remember?”
“Ah yes, the great scarf heist.”
She gives me a dramatic glare. “I’m glad you think it’s so funny.”
“Relax.” I offer her my hand. “You’ll be with me.”
“Which means what exactly?”
“Which means they will have no choice but to serve you.”
Reluctantly, she takes my hand, and we step onto the pavement, and Dante pulls away to park around the back of the building.
As we approach the ornate entrance, the department store still looks locked.
“It’s closed,” Bianca says, relieved.
But nothing is ever really closed when you’re the don of the De Kysa and you know how to pull strings.
George Giulio, the General Manager of Bentley’s, greets us at the door. “Mr. De Kysa, Miss Bamcorda, welcome.”
Bianca looks at me, then at George, then back to me.
Her eyes are wide, and her face is an open book. You did this.
Of course I did. Because even I know Cinderella needs a special pair of shoes to go to the ball.
“It’s so nice to meet you, sir,” Bianca says to George, taking his hand and shaking it enthusiastically.
“It’s a pleasure, Miss Bamcorda.”
“Please call me Bianca.”
“Alright then, Bianca, shall we find you a pair of shoes for the ball on Friday night?”
We follow George inside the empty store where Bianca’s awe continues.
“They opened early for you?” she whispers to me, even though it’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop, and her whisper echoes through the store.
“No,” I whisper back to her. “They opened early for you.”
Her eyes sparkle, and something tightens inside my chest when I watch her pillowy pink lips spread into a grateful smile.
“I’d like to personally apologize for your disappointing shopping experience with us yesterday,” George says as he walks, his Louis Vuitton shoes clicking on the marble floor as we make our way down the center aisle. “I believe you felt singled out by one of our employees.”
