Page 43 of Shattered Crown
"He said seven," I said.
"So you have thirteen minutes." Priya was already moving, her hand closing around my arm. "Come on. Let's make you presentable."
"I don't want to look like I tried."
"You also don't want to look like you gave up."
She pulled me toward the bedroom, throwing my closet doors open with theatrical flair. Hangers scraped against the rod as she flipped through dresses.
"What about the blue?"
"Too obvious."
"The black?"
"Too funereal."
"Aria." She spun around, hands on her hips. "You're going to dinner with one of the most eligible bachelors in New York. At least pretend you don't want to stab him with a fork."
"But Idowant to stab him with a fork."
"Pretend."
This is torture. Actual torture.
Twenty minutes later—Sebastian could wait, I decided—I stood in front of the mirror while Priya circled me like a proud stylist.
The wine-red dress had come from the very back of my closet. I'd forgotten I owned it. Simple cut, elegant lines, with a neckline that was suggestive without being revealing. And my hair—God, Priya had won that battle too. Down for once, dark curls spilling past my shoulders instead of twisted into my usual bun.
I looked good.
Not that it matters.
But some traitorous part of me registered the way the dress skimmed my waist, the way the color brought out the warmth in my skin.
The intercom buzzed, and Priya practically sprinted to answer it.
"He's here," she announced, bouncing on her toes. "Have fun tonight, okay? And don't come back too early. Or do come back early. Or don't come back at all, if you know what I mean?—"
"Priya."
"What? I'm just saying."
"Goodbye, Priya."
I grabbed my clutch, heading for the elevator while her laughter echoed down the hallway behind me.
You can do this. It's just dinner. A few hours. You've survived worse.
The elevator descended, and my reflection stared back at me from the polished doors. I looked calm. Composed.
Inside, my nerves were doing gymnastics.
The lobby doors opened, and I saw him immediately.
Sebastian stood near the entrance, backlit by the city lights glittering through the glass. Dark suit; navy, maybe charcoal, hard to tell in this light. No tie. White shirt open at the collar, showing the hollow of his throat. His hair was slightly mussed in a way that was probably accidental but looked like a stylist spent hours perfecting it.
He straightened when he saw me.
