Domenico
My stern gaze was fixed ahead as I tried to shrug off the fact that I was really doing this.
The boutique was quiet, the kind of quiet money buys. Soft lighting hit the racks of dresses like spotlights, making the silks and satins glow.
Abel trailed a step behind my wheelchair, while the staff hovered just far enough to seem respectful.
I stopped in front of a row of evening gowns. Black, deep red, emerald. I needed to get Chiara a dress, a dinner gown precisely… I didn’t want to, but I had this weird feeling of being watched by no one else but Alaric.
That corny, brainy old man. He invited us for dinner; of course, I was expected to buy a dress for my wife.
I had decided that we would be going. Not because of Alaric’s threat—I wasn’t scared of him one bit—but then, from his
