Page 20 of Claimed By the Enemy

***

“He wants you to what?”

Amara’s voice carries across the boutique, causing several other customers to turn and stare. I grab her arm, pulling her toward a rack of evening gowns in the back corner.

“Keep your voice down,” I hiss. “And yes, he wants me to attend some business function tonight. With his friends.”

“Business function.” Amara picks up a price tag and nearly chokes. “Sophie, this dress costs more than my rent.”

“Good. I hope it bankrupts him.”

“It won’t. You know it won’t.” She gives me a searching look. “This isn’t about the money, is it? You’re angry.”

“I’m always angry.”

“This is different. What happened between you two?”

I turn away, focusing on the clothes instead of her too-perceptive questions. “Nothing happened. He’s just being his usual controlling self.”

“Uh-huh.” Amara doesn’t sound convinced. “Sophie, you’ve been weird since you got married. First, you disappear for days, then you call me for emergency drinks, and now your husband is making you play dress-up for his business friends? What the hell is really going on? Is he trafficking you?”

A burst of laughter escapes my lips. “Trafficking? Like, he’s some kind of mafia lord or something?”

“Well, he does look intimidating,” she shrugs.

“I’m not being trafficked—or treated badly for that matter.”

“Fine,” she pulls a stunning midnight blue dress from the rack. “If you insist.”

“Gosh, that’s a beautiful dress. You’ve always had the eyes for fashion, Amara.”

Two hours later, we’ve assembled what Amara calls “an arsenal of feminine warfare.” Dress that hugs every curve, shoes that add four inches to my height, jewelry that catches light like captured stars. Even new lingerie, because the confidence of knowing you look perfect starts from the skin up.

Standing in the dressing room, pulling on the midnight blue silk, I catch myself remembering another shopping trip from another lifetime.

I was seven, maybe eight, clinging to my mother’s hand as she led me through the boutiques in Milan. “Una principessa,” she’d called me, smoothing down my dark hair. “My little princess deserves beautiful things.”

My father had protested the expense. “Aurora,” he’d said, his voice warm with affection, “she’ll think money grows on trees.”

“Let her think it,” my mother had replied, spinning me around in a pale pink dress that made me feel like a fairytale. “There’s time enough for her to learn about the real world later.”

But later came too soon. The real world crashed down when I was ten, taking my parents and my innocence with it.

“You look…” Amara trails off as I step out of the dressing room.

“Dangerous.” She grins. “I like it.”

So do I. For the first time since this whole nightmare began, I feel like myself again. Not Sophie Greco, the corporate lawyer with a secret agenda. Not Sophie Moretti, the reluctant wife with no options.

Just Sophie. Sharp-edged and beautiful and ready for war.

***

Dom’s house is already filled with the low murmur of conversation when I make my entrance.

I’ve timed it perfectly—late enough that everyone’s already arrived, early enough that the evening is just getting started.

I pause at the top of the stairs, letting the moment stretch. Below me, I can see Dom near the bar, deep in conversation with a group of men in expensive suits. He looks up as if he can sense my presence, and I watch his face change.