Xander's POV
I smoothed down the lapels of my designer suit for the tenth time, the silk cool against my fingertips. Tonight was everything. Every shimmer of the watch on my wrist, every gleam of my polished shoes, every stitch of this astronomically priced fabric, they all screamed "I am someone, I am successful, I am worth investing in." Because I needed Investor X to see that. I desperately needed him to see that I wasn’t a man losing everything.
The door creaked open, and Phoebe teetered in, her movements stiff. Her gown, a slinky black number, looked less like it was draped on her and more like it was vacuum-sealed. It pulled at her chest, cinched her waist into a shape that looked painful, and made a soft, protesting groan of fabric every time she shifted.
“Ready, Xander?” she ask
