Page 60 of Pietro

"The gala we talked about is tonight. You can't wear your work clothes there."

I lift the lid. Emerald silk spills across tissue paper. The fabric slides through my fingers, cool and expensive. I check the label—Valentino. My stomach drops.

"Pietro, this dress costs more than?—"

"Than what?" He’s inside my room in two strides, his presence shrinking the space. "Than you think you're worth?"

My skin prickles, a betraying warmth crawling up my neck. "Than most people make in months."

"You're not most people." His fingers brush mine where I hold the fabric. "You're with me. That means you dress the part."

"As your secretary?"

His jaw tightens. "As my associate. Everyone who matters will be there tonight. They need to see you belong."

The word ‘belong’ makes my chest ache. If he knew the truth that dress would burn before it touched my skin.

"I can't accept this."

"You can and you will." He pulls the dress from the box, holding it against me. "Green. Like your eyes when you're angry."

"I'm not angry."

"Liar." His thumb grazes my jaw. "Seven o'clock. Vittoria will help you get ready."

He leaves before I can protest, the dress heavy in my arms. I sink onto the bed, the silk cold against my legs. Terror is a block of ice in my stomach. This dress isn't a gift; it's a collar. A beautiful, expensive collar. And a traitorous pulse beats in my throat. The thrill of being the one he wants to put it on.

Vittoria arrives at five-thirty with an arsenal of makeup and determination.

"Finally, I get to play dress-up with someone who isn't related to me." She dumps cosmetics across my vanity. "Strip. We're starting with your hair."

"Vittoria, I can do my own?—"

"Not for a Sartori gala, you can't." She spins me toward the mirror. "These events are blood sport disguised as charity. Everywoman there will be evaluating you. Deciding if you're worthy of being there."

I look in the mirror and see a ghost. My eyes are too wide, my skin stretched tight over my cheekbones. The woman staring back at me is a fraud, and I have a sick feeling everyone there will know it. "And if they decide I'm not?"

"Then Pietro will make them reconsider." She starts sectioning my hair with practiced efficiency. "He's never brought a woman to one of these before."

The curling iron pauses mid-twist. "Never?"

"Not since Nina. And that was... different."

I’ve never heard of that name. He did have a girlfriend then.

"Different how?"

Vittoria's eyes meet mine in the mirror. "She was chosen for him. Family alliance, political move." She resumes curling.

I want to ask what happened but I don’t want to show how much I care about it.

Each strand she styles is another piece of armor she's forging for me. The updo takes shape. Elegant but not overdone, leaving the vulnerable line of my neck and the pulse fluttering there bare to the room. She lines my eyes with precision, making the green stand out against dark lashes.

"There." She steps back. "Now the dress."

The silk whispers against my skin as I step into it. The bodice hugs my curves before flowing to the floor. The back dips low, leaving my spine bare. To touches.

"Madonna." Vittoria’s voice is a stunned whisper. "Pietro isn't going to know what hit him."