KENDRA
The gown fit like it had been designed for someone else, a woman who belonged in Pascal Anderson’s world. The silk clung to me, shimmering faintly under the lights of his bedroom as I stood before the full-length mirror. My reflection stared back, foreign and uncertain, lips painted a shade of red that felt like armor.
“You’ll get used to it,” Pascal had said earlier, handing me the dress with the same nonchalance as if he were giving me a file to sign.
But as the town car rolled to a stop in front of the hotel where the gala was being held, I knew he was wrong. I’d never get used to this, the flash of cameras exploding in my face, the wall of photographers pressed against velvet ropes, the hiss of voices calling his name.
“Mr. Anderson! Over here!”
“Pascal! Who’s the lady? Is
