Fallon
The dress arrived first.
It was delivered in a sleek black garment bag, hung carefully on the door of my closet like it belonged there. Attached was a handwritten note in Reid’s sharp, familiar scrawl:
"Wear this. Be ready by seven. – R"
No please. No would you mind? Just an order, wrapped in expensive packaging.
Because of course it was.
I stared at the bag, arms crossed, suspicion curling in my stomach. “Not happening.”
But the shoes came next.
Delicate, strappy heels in a soft champagne gold—designer, no doubt—and absolutely gorgeous. The kind of shoes you wore when you wanted to make an entrance.
I ignored them.
Then came the makeup artist.
At precisely five o’clock, my intercom buzzed.
“Ms. Callahan? Your glam team is here.”
I closed my eyes, pinching the bridge of
