Chapter 17 The Devil's Details

• “Where is it? Where is it?” I muttered to myself, hopping on one stiletto-clad foot around the vast marble floor of my suite. “You can't just walk off on your own. You're a shoe.”
• I look the part, I'll give him that. This dress Joachim finally signed off on is something else. Midnight-blue silk that's basically become a second skin. My hair's been tortured into some elegant stuff and it took an hour, and this diamond necklace—"on loan," he'd made sure to remind me, with all the warmth of a tax auditor—is already cold against my skin. I was the perfect picture of a billionaire's girlfriend who's about to hobble into a party full of sharks but I'm missing a shoe.
• Which is dignified.