Page 55 of Ruthless Vow
But as I stand at the threshold of our bedroom, hard and wanting and more lost than I’ve ever been, I know the truth.
I’m already gone.
13
CASSIA
Three days of midnight sessions in the study where we pretend to work. Three days of his shoulder brushing mine over documents. Three days of not talking about the night he carried me to bed and left me there, aching for closeness he wouldn’t give.
Three days. Each one longer than the last.
I’m elbow-deep in vendor contracts when his shadow falls across my desk.
“Get dressed.”
I look up. He’s standing at the threshold, jacket on, keys in hand. No explanation. No context. Just those two words delivered like a command.
“What?”
“We’re going out.” His stare travels over me, taking in the loose blouse, the ink on my fingers, the hair I haven’t bothered to style. “Wear something nice. You have fifteen minutes.”
Then he’s gone. Footsteps retreating down the hall before I can ask where, or why, or what is happening.
I stare at the empty threshold. All that silence, and now this?
Fourteen minutes later, I’m descending the main staircase in a fitted navy dress and heels I haven’t worn since the wedding. My hair is pinned up, makeup applied in a rush, pulse racing with anticipation I refuse to name.
He’s waiting at the bottom.
His focus tracks my descent, lingering on the curve of my waist, the sway of my hips with each step. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to. His body goes still.
Outside, an SUV idles in the circular drive. Two guards flank the vehicle. Another waits by the rear door. The Don and his wife, going somewhere.
“Where are we going?” I ask as he opens my door.
“You’ll see.”
His palm finds the small of my back as I climb in. The touch burns through the fabric of my dress.
He sits close in the back seat. Closer than necessary. His thigh presses against mine, solid and warm, and neither of us moves away.
The city slides past the tinted windows. Garden District mansions giving way to the boutiques of Magazine Street. I track the route, trying to guess our destination, trying not to focus on the heat of him beside me.
“Dante.”
“Mm.”
“Are you going to tell me what this is about?”
He turns his head. Meets my stare. A shadow passes through his expression. Brief.
“No.”
The SUV pulls to a stop outside of a storefront I recognize. Marguerite’s. The kind of place Elena used to drag me past, pressing her nose to the glass, dreaming of the day she’d be important enough to shop there.
I never went inside. My grip tightens on my bag. The automatic calculation: how much one dress would cost, and who am I to spend it.
“Out.” Dante’s already opening his door. “We have an appointment.”
