The Dress
529 Words
Friday arrived with a new rule.
“Miss Vale. My office.”
I stepped inside at four fifty-three.
Lucian stood at the window, London glowing amber behind him. He held out a card without turning. “Cavendish dinner. Seven thirty. You’re coming.”
“As your assistant,” I said carefully.
“As my assistant.” He finally faced me, eyes flat. “Car at six forty-five. Dress in the room off reception. Black. Your size.”
My stomach tightened. He — or someone under his orders — had measured me. Noted my size. Without a word.
“Is there a briefing document?”
“On the system. You have until six.” His gaze pinned me. “This is part of the role now. If that’s a problem—”
“It isn’t.”
“Good.”
The dress was black, sleek, dangerously elegant. It hugged every curve like it had been sewn on my body. Unsettlingly perfect.
At six forty-five I was ready, briefing memorised. Lucian stepped out of the lift and stopped.
His eyes dragged over me — slow, deliberate, three full seconds of raw heat before the shutters slammed down.
“Car’s waiting,” he said, voice rougher than usual.
The Mayfair townhouse smelled of old money and cut flowers. Forty guests played their power games with smiles.
I stayed close to Lucian, redirecting conversations, cutting off Mercer’s associate before he could push for a private word, and politely shutting down the board member’s wife who tried to trap me for twenty minutes on charity.
At nine fifteen, Lucian’s hand closed around my elbow — firm, possessive. “Cavendish. Southeast corner. Now.”
The conversation was sharp and layered. I remembered every detail without notes.
Afterward, Cavendish looked at me with fresh interest. “Remarkable assistant, Voss.”
Lucian’s reply was ice. “Yes.” One word. Flat. But it throbbed with ownership. Mine.
In the car home, silence pressed heavy between us.
“You handled Mercer’s man well,” Lucian said to the window.
“He wanted a pre-signing talk. Bad timing.”
“I saw.” A pause. “New rule: you don’t speak to men like Dominic Hale — or anyone else — at these events without clearing it with me first.”
I turned sharply. “Is that a new rule?”
His dark eyes locked on mine in the dim light. “It’s an order.”
The car stopped outside my building. I reached for the door.
“Miss Vale.”
I looked back.
He was watching me, shutters cracked just enough to reveal something raw and dangerous.
“The dress,” he said, voice low and final. “Keep it.”
The door shut.
I stood on the pavement, heart hammering, the black fabric suddenly heavy like a brand against my skin.
Keep it.
Two words. Like “well done”.
But this time they didn’t feel like praise.
They felt like the first thread of a leash tightening around my throat.
And I had the cold, terrifying certainty that Lucian Voss had just decided I was worth keeping.
Very close.
And he wasn’t planning to ask permission
- Writer
