Page 80 of Wicked Proposal

I thought the blue silk dress was stunning. I thought it was the nicest thing I’d ever touch.

But this, right here?

It’s fit for a fucking queen.

I lift it up, mouth agape. The sage chiffon flows smoothly down, cinched at the waist by a golden belt. It has a Greek neckline, with two rose gold circles tying the shoulder straps together.

It’s a dream.

It’s a fantasy.

It’s also mine now.

“That’s foryou?” Eli balks in dismay.

“Unless you want it,” I shrug. It won’t do to let Eli see how shocked I am—he needs to think this is normal. No need to let my four-year-old son know about the big, bad wolf who pays the bills now.

Eli puts a hand to his chin and tilts his head to the side.

“I think it’s too big for me,” he decides solemnly. “Look, there’s shoes!”

I follow his gaze and realize he’s right. At the bottom of the box, there’s a set of matching heels in rose gold, along with a smorgasbord of glistening jewelry.

Then, beneath it all, a note.

Saturday, 8 P.M. Don’t be late.

I roll my eyes. I can practically hear his bossy voice as I read it.

Which reminds me: I still haven’t sent proof of life today.

Ever since our contract began, I’ve been taking pictures at the end of every shift, adding in a copy of today’s paper out of spite like I’m a hostage victim.

They weren’t good selfies, not in the slightest. Eye bags, dirty scrubs, messy hair, the whole shebang. Was it on purpose?

Little bit, yeah.

But now, perhaps because of this gorgeous dress in my hands, I’m feeling generous. Call me a material girl, but I haven’t held something this nice since that blue silk gown was thrust into my hands over a month ago.

So I hold up the dress, flash a grin, and take the snap.

Got your package.

Then I hit send.

I’m not expecting a reply—there’s never been one—but this time, a tiny bubble pops up at the bottom of the screen. My breath stays caught in my chest until…

Good. I’ll expect you to wear it.

Before I can think better of it, I fire back,Say please.

It’s a dangerous game, pushing Yulian’s buttons. But I can’t help myself. That cool, icy composure—I want to see what happens when it melts.

His reply comes even faster than before.

I don’t beg.

But you’ll thank me later.