Page 125 of Dial F for Finance

“A dress is a dress.”

“Careful. Willa James’s designer might feel a disturbance in the universe.”

Jenna closes her eyes briefly. “I’ll send her a thank-you note.”

“You say thank you by showing up to the gala in the dress.”

She tries to return to the brief. I lower the screen an inch.

“Dominic.”

“Jenna.”

“I have twelve pages left.”

“And I have one question.”

“You’ve asked it three times.”

“This is a brand-new question.” I slowly lower the lid of her laptop until it closes.

She looks at me with daggers in her eyes. “What if I hadn’t saved my work?”

“Then I’d think you’d been body-snatched because my wife would never work on a document without auto-save sending it to the cloud every five seconds.”

“Correct. But I would prefer not to beta-test disaster recovery tonight, so if you don’t mind, I’m busy.”

I ignore this.

“Why haven’t you opened the box?”

She pushes the glasses up with one finger, which is how I know she’s winding up for a fight.

“Because I don’t need it. I have a dress. I have three dresses. All reputable designers. And the black one is fine.”

“The one you wear every year?”

“It fits. It’s flattering. I already have shoes that match and don’t pinch my heels.” She starts counting the benefits on her fingers. “I can sit comfortably through dinner, the neckline works with every bra I own, and I don’t get stopped for photographs.”

“Ahh.” I sit back. Suddenly her reluctance is making more sense. “You’re worried about the attention.”

She goes instantly defensive, like I just accused her of running a Ponzi scheme instead of declining an overpriced dress. “It’s not about the attention,” she says, but every word vibrates with resistance. “It’s about optics. If you show up in something understated, people assume you’re there for the work. If you show up in a bespoke gown with a wax-sealed provenance and a press release attached, suddenly you’re the story instead of the deal.”

I tap the box with one knuckle. “So, you’re worried about—what, the cameras?”

She hesitates and then sets her jaw. “I looked up last year’s event,” she admits. “Did you know Willa’s special guests accounted for sixty percent of the post-event coverage? There’s a whole Getty image tag for ‘Azure Room Standouts.’”

I make a mental note to look up that tag later. “That’s not an accident,” I say. “Willa wants you to be seen. She doesn’t invite people to play wallpaper in the Azure Room.”

Jenna’s face softens just a degree, and she picks at the edge of a throw pillow. “I know that. I just—I get why I’m being invited, but if it’s supposed to be for my mind, then what I wear shouldn’t matter. I’d be more comfortable just fitting in. No one’s going to ask why I’m at a table in my usual black. But if I walk in wearing this—” She gestures at the box. “—it becomes a thing. There will be scrutiny and questions and some clever comment about the symbolism of a woman who negotiates for a living suddenly showing up in a ‘statement’ dress, and I’d rather not hand them the metaphor.”

I want to argue that she could wear a sandwich board and I’d still spend half the night staring at her, but the moment feels too tight for jokes. Instead, I reach over, curl my hand around her ankle, and drag her foot into my lap.

“Is it really that bad,” I ask, “to be seen?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes track the lid of the box, then my hands, then a point somewhere above my left eyebrow. “Maybe,” she says, so quiet I almost think I misheard.

“Talk to me, sweetheart.”