Two hours later, I’m standing in front of my mirror in a dress I didn’t pick.
Silk, black, cut on the bias, so it clings to every line of my body without trying. The neckline is demure; the back is not. One of the villa’s stylists flutters around me, pinning a stray lock of hair and dusting color on my mouth.
“You look…” Mia stands in the doorway, eyes wide. “Like a scandal about to happen.”
“Perfect,” I say dryly.
The stylist slips out to fetch something, sensing the need for privacy.
Mia comes closer, studying me.
“Where exactly is he taking you?” she asks.
“Some local opening,” I say. “Restaurant? Gallery? I stopped listening once he said ‘my wife’ and ‘narrative’ in the same sentence.”
Her nose wrinkles. “You don’t have to go.”
“He thinks I do,” I say. “And he’s not entirely w
