Page 61 of Shattered Throne
I stood in the hallway, staring at the space where she'd been, thinking one word:
Progress.
9KIM
I had nothing to wear.
That wasn't technically true anymore. Xavier had sent over the clothes from Isabelle's team after the family dinner—all of them, every dress and blouse and pair of shoes that had paraded through his apartment that night. They'd arrived in garment bags and boxes, filling my tiny closet to bursting.
So I had plenty to wear. I just couldn't decide.
"What about this one?" Zoe held up a green dress, her small arms straining with the weight of the fabric. "It's so pretty, Mommy."
"That might be too fancy, baby."
"What about this?" She dropped the green and grabbed a black one.
I laughed despite my nerves. "I'm not trying to look like a spy."
"Why not? Spies are cool."
I sat on the edge of my bed, surveying the chaos of clothes scattered across every surface. Zoe had appointed herself my official stylist, which mostly meant pulling things off hangers and making dramatic pronouncements about each one.
"This one!" She emerged from the closet triumphantly, holding a deep burgundy dress with a modest neckline and a hem that would hit just below my knee. "It's the color of princess dresses."
I took it from her, holding it up. It was beautiful, actually. The neckline wasn’t too low, with a knot around the waist that would do wonders for my figure. It would have to do. I didn’t have time to search for anything else anyway.
"You have good taste, baby."
Zoe beamed. "I know."
I changed into the dress while Zoe offered commentary from her perch on my bed. Then came hair. I let it down, smoothing it into soft waves—and makeup, which I kept simple. A little mascara. A neutral lip. Nothing that screamed"I'm trying to impress you."
Even though I absolutely was.
"You look beautiful, Mommy." Zoe's voice was reverent. "Like a queen."
I knelt down to hug her. "Thank you, baby. You're my best helper."
"I know," she said again, and I laughed and kissed her forehead.
Dani's door was already open when I walked Zoe down the hall. She took one look at me and let out a low whistle.
"Well, well. Where are you off to looking like that?"
"Just dinner with a friend."
"Must be some friend." Her eyes narrowed. I thanked her, kissed Zoe goodbye, and headed for my car.
The drive to Manhattan took forever. Traffic, construction, and my own nerves made every minute feel like an hour. I rehearsed conversations in my head, tried to anticipate questions, and reminded myself that I'd already met Eleanor Dubois and survived.
This would be fine. This would be totally fine.
Le Bernardin was intimidating from the outside. Elegant awning, discreet signage, the kind of place that didn't need to advertise because everyone who mattered already knew it existed.
A valet appeared the moment I pulled up, and I handed over my keys without letting myself think about how my beat-up Civic looked among the Mercedes and BMWs.
It didn't matter. I didn't care.
