Chapter 3 - The Dress and the Debt
The next morning, the rain had cleared, leaving the Boston streets washed in a sharp, blinding March sunlight that offered no comfort whatsoever.
My apartment—a cramped, third-floor walk-up in the South End—smelled faintly of eucalyptus leaves and old coffee. Spread across my narrow bed was the only dress I owned that wasn't covered in pollen or flour: a structured, emerald-green sheath that hugged every curve and cost three weeks of grocery money when I bought it for a wedding three years ago.
It was elegant. It was fierce. And it was completely inadequate for the social execution I was about to walk into.
At exactly 1:45 PM, a low, metallic rap sounded at my apartment door.
I froze, a tube of lipstick hovering inches from my mouth. I hadn’t given Dante my address. I hadn't even told him what floor I lived on.
I walked slowly across the creaking floorboards, turned the deadbolt, and pulled the door open.
Dante stood in the narrow hallway. He had traded his dark coat for a charcoal three-piece suit that fit his broad shoulders with terrifying perfection. He looked less like a man playing a part and more like an executioner arriving for an appointment.
“You didn’t have my address,” I said, my hand gripping the edge of the door.
“You left your portfolio on the bar last night,” he replied, his eyes scanning my emerald dress with a slow, appraising look that made my breath hitch. “Your business card had your studio address, which is downstairs from your lease.”
“You tracked me down from a business card in twelve hours.”
“I’m thorough,” he said simply. He checked his watch—a vintage platinum Patek Philippe that probably cost more than my entire block. “We have fifteen minutes to make it to the Hawthorne ballroom before your mother starts her third round of quiet sighing.”
I looked down at my simple black heels, then up at him. “If we’re going to do this, we need ground rules. No kissing. No dramatic declarations of undying love. And absolutely no violence.”
Dante’s lips twitched upward into the ghost of a real smile. “Define violence.”
“Hitting people, Dante. Even Bennett.”
May you like
“No promises on the last one,” he murmured, offering his arm. “Shall we?”
---
