Page 66 of Boardroom Sins

Thisis the break.

This is the devil’s bargain I’ve been waiting for.

I walk to the bed and tug down the zipper.

The red fabric spills out like blood. It’s every bad choice I’ve ever made, rolled into one gorgeous, terrifying package.

I wriggle out of my sweats. But when they’re halfway down my legs, I pause and frown. There’s a smaller box tucked inside the garment bag. I pull it out and flip open the lid.

Inside, I find the lingerie from the boutique. All of it—the vanishing thong, the gravity-defying bra, the garter thingamajig, David’s slingshot, the whole NASA-engineered collection. Säsha must have packed it up and sent it along with the dress, even though I told her I didn’t need it.

I stare at the contents for a full minute. It feels like a crossroads of sorts.

Lukas chose these. Or at least, he approved them. He stood in that boutique—or called, or emailed, or used telepathy to communicate his wishes to his underlings, whatever billionairesdo—and made decisions about what would touch my skin tonight.

Going along with all his whims and wishes, however perverted they may appear, has seemed like my only option lately. And yes, I’ve already conceded that I’m going to put on this dress and go stand at his side tonight.

But does that mean I have to do it while wearing his hand-picked panties?

I close the box. Then I walk to my dresser and pull out my own underwear. It’s the polar opposite of the stuff in the box. This is cotton, white, boring. It came in a three-pack. It’s definitely not designed to be invisible under red silk. It might even show a little.

But guess what?

I. Don’t. Care.

This is the one thingIget to control tonight. This one small, petty rebellion that nobody will ever see, but my God, at least it’ssomething. A middle ground between submission and defiance.

I step into the underwear and hook my bra. Then I hurry into the bathroom.

Thanks to my endless indecisiveness, I don’t have much time. I grab my curling iron and work through my hair in messy sections. Nothing fancy, just enough wave to look intentional instead of like I walked to the gala through a wind tunnel. A few bobby pins hold the front pieces back from my face.

Makeup is fast and simple. Smoky mascara, a little bronzer on my cheekbones, and a nude lip gloss I found at the bottom of my purse. I don’t own anything that matches the drama of thisdress, so I don’t try. Let her be the star of the show; I just happen to be the passenger along for the ride.

When my hair and makeup are done, I step into the dress and zip it up. The heels are next. They’re red, of course, and towering, obviously. At least four inches, maybe more. I slide my feet into them and stand up.

I immediately wobble, so I grab the dresser to steady myself.Jesus H.—how do women walk in these things? Natasha looked like she could’ve run a marathon without breaking a sweat. I look like Bambi on muscle relaxants.

Time’s ticking, so I grab the fanciest clutch I own, which really isn’t saying much, and shove my phone inside. Then I go stand in front of the mirror. And…

… the woman staring back at me is a goddess.

The red dress is pure magic—like a BBL, tummy tuck, and boob job all in one. The slit is slitting, the plunging neckline is plunging, and to say the cleavage is cleaving is to really understate the extent to which my boobs are on display.

I lookexpensive. Like I know the difference between prosecco and champagne, or which fork to use for my salad. This woman in red has never once eaten ramen straight from the pot while standing over the sink.

But my eyes give me away. They’re wide and afraid, the eyes of a girl playing dress-up in her mommy’s clothes.

I smooth my hands down the fabric. It’s cool and slippery under my palms. “You can do this,” I tell my reflection. “It’s one night. A few hours. Smile, nod, don’t trip, don’t die.”

I take a deep breath. Then another.

My phone vibrates inside the clutch. I pull it out and check the screen.

Mr. Lazarev

The car is downstairs.

I gulp. Off we go, then.