Chapter 2: The Devil in a Dior Suit

**Dominic**

She didn't turn around right away.

Good. That gave me time.

Her posture was rigid. Shoulders pulled tight, spine straight, the whole thing held together by sheer force of will. Not weak. I could see that immediately. Controlled. The kind of controlled that meant she was one wrong word away from coming apart completely.

There's a difference. Most people couldn't see it.

I could.

"I don't remember asking for your opinion," she said.

Sharp. But thin underneath.

"I didn't give you one," I said. "I made an observation."

---

That got her to turn.

Her eyes said everything her voice was trying not to. The shock was still sitting there, fresh and raw and completely unprocessed. Not even close. Betrayal that new had a very specific look, like the floor had vanished and the person hadn't figured out yet that they were already falling.

She reached for her glass.

Her hand trembled slightly.

"Another," she told the bartender.

"No more."

She went completely still.

Then she turned toward me slowly, and the anger came fast, grabbed it before anything softer could surface. Smart instinct.

"You don't get to decide that," she said.

"You've had enough."

She let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "That's funny. A stranger walks in and suddenly he's in charge of my life?"

"You're not in control of it right now," I said. "You're reacting."

Her jaw tightened. "I'm reacting to something that is none of your business."

"Then stop talking to me."

She opened her mouth.

Stopped.

Looked away instead.

But she didn't leave.

That told me everything I needed to know.

---

I pulled out the stool beside her and sat down without asking. She shifted, put a few inches between us, but didn't turn her back. Not fully.

"Tell me what happened," I said.

"I don't talk to strangers."

"You already started."

"I didn't start anything."

"You walked into something," I said. "And now you're trying to drink your way out of it."

Her fingers went tight around the edge of the bar. She stared straight ahead, breathing shallow, like she was keeping something contained just beneath the surface.

"You don't know anything about me," she said.

"No," I agreed. "But I know betrayal when I see it."

That hit.

Her breath caught. Just slightly. Her eyes stayed forward, but she didn't deny it. Didn't argue. She just absorbed it, which told me she wasn't the type to run from the truth once it was placed directly in front of her.

"I walked in on them," she said finally.

Direct. No drama. Just the fact.

"Who?" I asked.

She let out a hollow laugh. "My fiancé."

A pause.

"And my best friend."

---

That explained the level of damage.

Not just romantic betrayal. Personal. Deep. The kind that rewired how a person trusted everyone who came after it.

"That explains the drinking," I said.

She turned to me with a dry, humorless smile. "You're really good at stating the obvious."

"It helps people hear themselves clearly."

She studied me for a moment, trying to figure out what I wanted from this. Most men would have made it obvious by now. Sympathy. Interest. An opening. Something to work with.

I gave her none of that.

She hesitated.

Then, quieter: "In the suite I booked. For us." She looked down at her glass. "I was going to give him my virginity tonight.

The entire situation snapped into focus.

A careful girl. A moment she'd planned and protected for years. The kind of emotional investment that doesn't just break, it shatters in a way that leaves pieces you can never fully account for. And then complete humiliation at the exact point of her vulnerability.

I didn't soften my expression. Didn't give her pity.

She didn't want pity. I could see that clearly.

"You can say it," she muttered.

"Say what?"

"That I'm stupid."

"I don't think you're stupid," I said. "I think you trusted someone who didn't deserve it."

Her eyes snapped to mine.

That response caught her off guard. I could see her recalibrating, trying to find the angle, the catch, the thing I was actually after.

"That doesn't make you stupid," I said. "It makes you misinformed."

She stared at me like she didn't know what to do with that.

"Same difference," she said quietly.

"No," I said. "It's not."

---

She looked away. Her fingers tapped lightly against the bar. Restless. Processing.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"To understand you."

"Why?"

"Because you're standing at a turning point."

She gave a soft, disbelieving laugh. "That sounds dramatic."

"It is," I said. "Because this is the moment where you decide what happens next."

Her expression shifted. Less defensive. More present.

"And what are my options?" she asked.

"You can stay exactly where you are," I said. "Or you can change everything."

"That's vague."

"It's simple."

She exhaled slowly. "Let's say I want to change everything. What does that even mean?"

"It means you stop reacting," I said. "And start deciding."

"And how do I do that?"

"By choosing something different right now."

She frowned. "Like what?"

"Like refusing to let them define what tonight becomes."

Her gaze held mine, searching for something solid in what I was saying. Looking for the seam. The place where the real motive would show through.

"I just got cheated on," she said. "With my best friend. I don't think I'm in the right mindset to be making life-changing choices."

"You are," I said. "Because right now you have nothing left to protect."

---

That landed.

She went still. The truth of it settling in whether she wanted it to or not.

"What are you offering?" she asked after a moment.

There it was.

"A contract," I said.

She blinked. "A what?"

"A contract." I kept my voice even. "You marry me."

Silence.

Then she laughed, loud and sharp and slightly unsteady, the kind of laugh that lives right next to crying.

"You're insane," she said.

"Possibly."

"I don't even know your name."

"Dominic Marcello."

Recognition moved across her face. She knew exactly who I was. I watched her process it: the name, what it meant, what it connected to. Her expression didn't fully give her away, but her posture did.

She knew.

"And you want me to marry you," she said slowly.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because you want revenge," I said. "And I can give it to you."

Her expression tightened. "I don't..."

"You do," I said. "You just haven't admitted it yet."

Her fingers curled slightly against the bar. She didn't argue.

"Imagine walking back into their world," I said, lowering my voice. "But this time you're not the one being humiliated."

She didn't respond. Her attention locked onto me completely.

"Imagine him seeing you with someone he cannot compete with. Someone he cannot touch. Someone who makes everything he had look like nothing."

Her breathing slowed.

"And imagine her realizing she didn't take anything from you," I finished. "Because you walked away and gained something far more valuable."

The silence between us stretched.

I let it.

"What's the catch?" she asked.

"You follow my terms. Publicly, you're my wife. Privately, we maintain the agreement."

"And when it's over?"

"You walk away."

"And what do you get out of it?"

I held her gaze. "That depends on whether you say yes."

That unsettled her. I could see it, the slight slip in her composure, the way she looked away first.

"How long do I have to decide?" she asked.

"Tonight."

Her brows pulled together. "You're serious."

"Yes."

"This is insane," she said again.

But the laughter was completely gone this time.

"Yes," I agreed.

"I just met you."

"And yet you're still here."

She went quiet. Thinking. Weighing. Caught somewhere between instinct and the particular recklessness of a person who had just lost everything they were being careful for.

I'd seen that calculation before. I knew exactly what it looked like.

"What happens if I say no?" she asked.

"You leave," I said. "And nothing changes."

"And if I say yes?"

"Everything changes."

She stared at me for a long moment, looking for the crack. The place where the real motive would show.

I gave her nothing to find.

I picked up my phone and made a call. Two sentences. Set it back down.

"Someone is coming," I said. "He'll bring paperwork."

She looked at me. "You just called someone. Right now."

"Yes."

"To bring a marriage contract."

"To bring a legal framework," I said. "Have your own lawyer review it tomorrow if you want. Tonight, it just needs to exist."

She let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "You really thought I'd say yes."

"I thought you might," I said. "There's a difference."

---

Twenty minutes later, Raffael walked in.

He placed a folded document on the bar between us. Plain paper. Typed. Not what I would have prepared given time, but real enough. He set a small black ring box beside it without a word and stepped back.

She looked at the papers.

Then the box.

Then me.

"This is really happening," she said quietly. Not a question.

"Only if you want it to."

Her hand moved to the papers. She pulled them closer, read the first page, then the second. Eyes moving carefully, deliberately. She was more sober than she'd seemed twenty minutes ago.

She looked up. "What happens to Garrett in all of this?"

"He loses," I said simply.

Something moved across her face. Not a smile exactly. Something harder than a smile. More honest.

She picked up the pen Raffael had left beside the papers.

Her hand was completely steady when she signed.

---

I looked at her signature.

Then at her face.

"You should know something," I said quietly.

She met my eyes.

"I don't give things back once they're mine."

She held my gaze. A long moment. She didn't look away first.

"Neither do I," she said.