Chapter 7

• TRICIA
• I had tried on six outfits.
• Six. I'd laid them all out on my bed like a crime scene investigation, stood in front of my mirror in each one, turned sideways, turned back, and asked my reflection increasingly desperate questions like "does this say girlfriend or does this say hostage."?
• I'd settled on a deep emerald dress. It was simple, elegant, the kind of thing that said I am calm and put-together and definitely not panicking" . My phone buzzed.
• From Christopher: I'm downstairs.
• I looked at the time. 8:52.
• "He said eight."
• I grabbed my bag, did one final check in the mirror, and hurried out, already rehearsing my opening line.
• I stepped outside.
• And forgot the line entirely.
• He was leaning against a white sleek car, gleaming, looking like it had been designed specifically to match the navy suit he was wearing . He had his hands in his pockets, his dark hair slightly less perfect than usual like he'd run a hand through it on the way over. The streetlight caught the side of his face just right, and for one full second my brain simply... stopped working.
• "It's a deal," I reminded myself sternly. A business arrangement. He is your boss. This means nothing.
• My heart did not get the memo. It jumped twice.
• I walked over, plastered on my coolest smile, and said, "Hiii."
• He didn't respond.
• He was just looking at me. Properly looking, the way you look at something you weren't quite expecting, his eyes doing a slow pass that made my skin feel several degrees warmer than the evening actually was.
• "Hiii," I said again, slightly louder.
• He blinked, like someone had flicked a switch behind his eyes. "Hi," he said, a beat too late, his voice slightly rougher than usual.
• I crossed my arms, mostly to give myself something to do. "What took you so long? You said eight. It's almost nine."
• "I had to get something."
• "Get what..."
• He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small box.
• I went very still.
• He opened it and brought out a thin gold necklace, it was delicate, catching the light and before I could say anything, he stepped behind me, gently swept my hair to one side, and I felt the cool brush of metal settle against my collarbone, his fingers warm at the back of my neck for one second longer than necessary.
• I swallowed hard.
• "There," he said quietly, stepping back. "Better."
• I touched the necklace with two fingers. "Thank you," I managed, and my voice came out smaller than I intended.
• ---
• The drive was quiet... surprisingly we weren't fighting or arguing over something. The gates of the Donovan estate opened and the Mansion came into view and I forgot how to be cool entirely.
• "Woahhh," I said, leaning toward the window, completely without dignity. "Christopher.
• Christopher. Is that a ....is that a fountain? Is your house touching the sky? Do you need a *
• passport to get to the front door—"
• He laughed. A real one, loud enough that I felt it more than heard it.
• "It's a house, Tricia."
• "That," I said, pointing at the building, "is not a house. That is a postcode."
• He pulled up, parked, and turned to look at me. His hand came up slowly, almost absent-mindedly and brushed a strand of hair from my face, tucking it back gently.
• "Ready to do this?" he asked, his voice quieter now.
• My stomach flipped. I nodded. "Yes."
• I reached for the door handle.
• "No." He said it like I'd just tried to set the car on fire. "Tricia. No.!"
• I froze, with my hand still on the handle. "What?"
• "The man opens the door." He stared at me like I'd personally offended his entire family lineage. "For you. That's .... that's how it works."
• "I have hands, Christopher—"
• "Have you—" he pressed his fingers to his forehead, genuinely pained, "...have you ever had a boyfriend? At all? In your life?"
• "Excuse me—"
• "Because right now," he said, already getting out, already walking around the front of the car with the long-suffering patience of a man explaining gravity to a toddler, "you are giving me deeply concerning information about your dating history."
• He opened my door with a flourish, gave a small, mocking bow, and extended his hand.
• "My lady," he said.
• I glared at him and took his hand anyway, because honestly ... fine. Fine. Maybe I'd never had this. Maybe nobody had ever opened a car door for me in my entire life and maybe that was suddenly, mortifyingly relevant information standing in a stranger's driveway.
• We walked up together, his hand was warm around mine, and the massive front doors opened before we even reached them. A butler took our jackets with the kind of practiced efficiency that made me feel, once again, deeply out of my depth.
• Christopher leaned down slightly, close enough that I felt his voice more than heard it.
• "It's showtime, Teesha."
• I took a breath.
• And smiled.