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“Arms up,” he commands.

I comply, watching his reflection as he retrieves a garment bag from a wheeled rack. What he pulls free is little more than white wisps and strategically placed panels.

“That isn’t a dress,” I say, challenging him with my tone. “It’s lingerie.”

“It’s both.” He traces the curve of my shoulder. “And something else entirely.”

The material seduces my skin as he slips it over my head. Each strap settles into place, forming a deceptive lattice. Hidden within the design are subtle metal rings and reinforced seams—attachment points disguised as ornament.

This gown was engineered for more than display.

After he’s done, he removes both of our masks. Then he bends to coax my feet out of the black heels I wore to the ball. Barefoot now, adorned in nothing but flowing ribbons of decadence, I glance once more at the mirror as he guides me toward the door.

What stares back isn’t the same girl who walked in.

The dress, if it can be called that, clings in open defiance of modesty. Pearl-white gossamer shimmers with every motion, sheer panels crossing under my breasts in a deliberate frame. My nipples peek through vertical slits, stiffened by the chill in the air. Cords and fabric flutter at my hips before trailing past my knees.

I don’t look like a queen.

I’m an ethereal offering.

And Mr. Davenport’s gaze lands on me with unsettling approval.

“Right this way,” he says, leading us into a library with walls of shelved books. The air reeks of lemon-polished wood and old money. Not a single window breaks the room’s dim hush.

A table holds two documents, a silver pen between them, and a leather folder waiting to seal the agreement.

“Standard nondisclosure,” Mr. Davenport says.

Oliver signs without hesitation, and I follow, my hand steady until the folder snaps shut with an echo of finality.

Mr. Davenport moves to a shelf behind him and presses on a book’s spine. A hidden panel clicks before swinging inward to reveal a staircase spiraling into the shadows.

“Shall we?”

My throat tightens, fear closing in fast. A dizzy second sends me reeling, and I shift my weight to counter the tilt under my feet. Both men catch the stumble.

Oliver grasps my arm, looking at our host. “Will you give us a minute?”

Mr. Davenport studies my flushed cheeks and shallow breaths, a flicker of compassion in his gaze. “Take your time. We’ll be down below with the slaves.”

His word choice scrapes through me like broken glass.

Slaves.

Not women or even wives.

He disappears down the staircase, and Oliver cups my face, thumbs a gentle caress at my temples. “You’re doing great. At dinner, you won over Davenport and Channing. Kayla and Virginia welcomed you with envy and admiration.”

His touch steadies my trembling, but fear still sours my gut.

“I know you’re scared.” His voice lowers to a velvety coax. “But you’re wired for this, Novalee.”

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

He extends his hand, palm up.

“I know you can, sweetheart.”