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Red. Dangerous. Slit to the heavens.
It clings like it’s trying to become one with my body and is made of the kind of fabric that assumes you haven’t eaten carbs since the invention of Instagram. The neckline dips low, the back dips lower. It’s the kind of dress you wear when you’ve lost your mind just enough to think you can handle what comes next.
The elevator opens to the lobby and my doorman does a double take when I walk through. Which, fair, because Ineverdress like this. His expression is a little “do I need to alert security or just offer a high five?”
Gage’s car is waiting at the curb. His Mercedes-Maybach. Sleek, black, purring like money. It’s not flashy, but it is deliberate. Impossible to ignore. Just like the man who sent it.
Sean, his driver, is standing there in a suit, calm as ever, opening the rear door with a polite nod. He’s driven me before. Usually on one of the occasions Gage and I manage time alone. And at other times, when my schedule gets hectic, Gage quietly assigns him to me. Like I’m too important to be flagging down taxis or walking anywhere. It’s thoughtful. Helpful, even. It’salso peak over-functioning billionaire behavior. I say no. He acts like I’m cute for thinking I have a choice.
I live my life with the mantra “I’ve got this.”
He lives his with “I’ve got you.”
And somewhere in the middle, we brush up against the same need—me, trying to prove I’m fine. Him, proving I don’t have to be.
I slip into the car and settle into one of the back seats, if you can even call them seats. They’re more like leather thrones. Two of them, divided by a center console housing more chrome and tech than I know what to do with.
The interior is dim, quiet, and smells like Gage. That spicy cologne of his that drives me wild. I sit back, cross my legs, and spot the bottle of champagne chilling in its own compartment. A Gage luxury.
I pour a glass and let the bubbles work their magic. I’m not nervous. I’m just existing in that weird limbo where I don’t know where we’re going, haven’t had a second to overthink it—and oops, I’ve accidentally poured myself a second glass.
Twenty minutes later, we slow in front of a building in SoHo.
No signage.
No line.
No crowd.
No hint of what lies behind the door.
Sean gets out, circles the car. Opens my door and says, “Ms. Sinclair.”
My heels hit the pavement, and my hand goes to my stomach. I smooth my dress. And then I see him.
Gage.
He’s dressed in a black suit I’ve not seen before. New. Definitely. And that black shirt he’s paired it with? Lethal. Because hot damn, my man does not like doing up all his buttons or wearing ties, and he knows this is my brand of kryptonite.
He looks like money, danger, and quiet obsession wrapped in control.
And he’s not smiling.
He’s just looking at me like I’m the only thing in his world that matters.
“You look beautiful,” he says, his voice all possessive in that unholy, good-luck-walking-after-this kind of way.
Oh boy.
Holy walking sin.
My core has hijacked the situation like she’s living her best life. I, meanwhile, am not coping with this suit, this man, or that scent of his that may be the actual death of me.
“Jesus.” I throw out. “You’re not even touching me and I’m dissolving into particles.”
He doesn’t laugh. He just watches me. Amused, yes, but it’s the kind of look that promises sinful things later. “Careful, Princess. I haven’t even started yet.”
He barely gives me time to recover from that promise before his arm slides around me, his hand settling at the small of my back as he steers me toward the building.