Chapter 2

Gabby

An hour later, a yellow cab dropped me outside Maison de L'Amour, an ultra-exclusive boutique nestled in Soho. It was the kind of store where champagne was served at the door, velvet curtains hung from the ceiling, and none of the racks displayed price tags because if you had to ask, you couldn't afford it.

I pushed through the glass door, the heavy chime ringing overhead. The sales associate behind the marble counter—a tall, impeccably dressed woman with a sharp bob—immediately looked up. Her eyes did a rapid, practiced sweep over my frame, taking in my oversized sweater, the flare of my hips, and my curves.

In the past, that assessing look would have made me fold inward. Today, I threw my shoulders back, met her gaze head-on, and walked straight up to her.

“Welcome,” she said, her smile polite but distant. “Looking for something specific?”

“I need a dress for a Saturday wedding,” I replied, my voice smooth, loud, and unwavering. “Something short. Something crimson red. And it needs to be completely, unforgivably unforgettable.”

Her eyebrows flicked up in mild surprise before her corporate smile dissolved into something far more genuine. “Crimson red for a wedding? I like your style. Follow me to the VIP lounge.”

Ten minutes later, I stood inside a plush fitting room, stepping into a heavy silk crimson dress. The structured boning hugged my waist, while the plunging neckline held my chest high, accentuating my fullness rather than trying to compress it. The hem skimmed the mid-thigh mark, showing off the long curve of my legs.

I unlatched the heavy wooden door and stepped out into the boutique's shared mirror lounge, stepping onto the raised pedestal to see the full effect in the floor-to-ceiling glass.

The salesgirl gasped from the doorway, her hands flying to her mouth. “Oh, my God, ma'am... that color on you is absolute sin. You look incredible.”

Before I could reply, the thick velvet curtain separating the lounge from the tailor's private studio was pushed aside. A man stepped out, his head turned as he spoke into a sleek smartphone.

“—yeah, tell the tailor the custom charcoal suits need to be delivered to St. Michael’s by two o'clock sharp on Saturday—”

His voice died mid-sentence.

He froze dead in his tracks.

He was easily six-foot-two, with broad shoulders that filled out an expensive charcoal blazer, a sharp, shadow-dusted jawline, and dark, unruly hair. But it was his eyes that caught me—intense, stormy, and dark.

His gaze traveled slowly down my reflection in the mirror. He took in the exposed line of my neck, the deep plunge of the red fabric over my chest, the sharp cinch of my waist, and the bare skin of my thighs.

The air in the room thinned instantly.

There was no polite look-away, no embarrassed cough. Something dark, intense, and ravenous flashed across his features—a look of pure, unadulterated male appreciation that made a jolt of heat shoot straight to my core.

He swallowed hard, his phone dipping an inch in his grip before he cleared his throat, his deep voice turning noticeably raspy. “I... apologies. I thought this corridor led back to the main showroom.”

“It's... fine,” I managed, my pulse hammering against my ribs under the heavy, intoxicating weight of his stare.

He didn't move for three agonizing seconds. His eyes lingered on my face, taking in the faint flush on my cheeks, before he gave a slow, deliberate nod of his head and turned back toward the hallway. The air practically crackled in his wake.

The salesgirl let out a breath she’d been holding. “Okay... so we are definitely taking this dress.”

I stared at my reflection in the mirror, my skin still tingling from the stranger's gaze. For the first time in eight months, I didn't feel like a girl trying to hide her body. I felt powerful.

“Yes,” I whispered, a slow, dangerous smile finally touching my lips. “Wrap it up.”

—

Saturday Afternoon

By two-fifteen, the sun was blazing bright over the grand stone steps of St. Michael’s Church. My golden hair fell in thick, glossed waves down my back, creating a striking contrast against the fiery crimson of my dress. Black four-inch heels. Gold jewelry. A bold red lip.

As my cab pulled away from the curb, my stomach did a violent, nervous flip. Guests were already mingling on the terrace—people from Joel’s social circle, faces I recognized from old photos.

Panic flared.

If I walked into that church alone, Joel wouldn't feel regret—he'd feel smug. He'd think I showed up as a desperate ex holding onto hope, begging for attention. I needed leverage. I needed a distraction so massive that no one could look away.

A few yards away, near a sleek black sedan, a man stood with his back to me, phone pressed to his ear, one hand in the pocket of a tailored suit. Broad shoulders. Tapered waist. Immaculate posture.

Desperation wiped out every drop of my hesitation. I dragged a breath into my lungs, marched straight up behind him, and spoke before my courage could betray me.

“I will pay you one thousand dollars in cash if you walk into that church and pretend to be my fiancé for three hours.”

The man went dead still.

Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his phone from his ear and turned around.

My breath slammed into the back of my throat.

Dark, piercing eyes. A sharp, lethal jawline. That same intense, hungry mouth I’d seen in the boutique fitting lounge two days ago.

My world tilted on its axis. You?

He looked down at me, his eyes sweeping over the red dress, my flushed cheeks, and the fierce, terrified determination in my gaze. A slow, dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.