Page 126 of Dial F for Finance

“I—” She takes a deep breath, like every word is something she needs to assess before she can say it. “I’ve been in rooms my whole life where the only way you survive is by going unnoticed until you can’t be ignored. By showing up, doing the job, and becoming indispensable. Not the loudest, not the flashiest—just essential. If I show up in that dress, nobody will see me as necessary. I’ll be ornamental. I don’t know how to do that.”

I knead my thumb into the arch of her foot, and she goes a little boneless with the pressure. “You think that’s how I see you?”

“I think that’s how everyone sees everyone, Dom. Especially at events like this. The women get scored, the men get the business cards.”

“Jenna.” I move my hand up to her calf, letting my fingers graze her skin until her breath hitches. “You are not ornamental.”

“Says the hot guy massaging my leg.”

I lift my brows in response and she leans her head back, exhaling this exhausted little laugh.

“Why is this such a big deal for you?” she asks. “You hate these events. You usually try to talk me into skipping out after an hour. Why do you care if I wear the couture?”

“Because you’re a big deal.” I shift closer, not letting go of her leg. “This night is about celebrating everything you’ve done. The dress doesn’t turn you into an ornament, Jen. It doesn’t change why you’re in the room. It just makes it harder for anyone to overlook you while you’re there.”

She looks down at her hands.

I touch my fingers beneath her chin and bring her eyes back to mine.

“I want to see you walk into that room knowing you belong there.”

She hesitates, looking from my face to the cream-colored package sitting innocently on the coffee table. I can practically see the gears turning in her head, the logistical, defensive walls she’s spent a lifetime building warring with the undeniable temptation of the champagne ribbon.

“If it has sequins, I’m setting it on fire,” she murmurs, but her hands are already reaching out.

“I’ll buy the matches.”

She pulls the ribbon, letting it slip away to the floor, and lifts the heavy lid. The tissue paper rustles as she folds it back.

I don’t know what I expected, but Willa James’s designer doesn’t mess around. It’s not loud. It’s not a flashy, sequined disaster. It’s a midnight-blue silk gown, cut with a dangerous, elegant simplicity that looks like it was poured directly from the night sky. There’s a subtle architectural structure to the bodice—the exact kind of structural integrity Jenna would appreciate—flowing down into a sweep of fabric that practically hums with quiet power.

Jenna’s hands freeze over the silk. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t even seem to be breathing.

“Well?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intended.

“It’s . . .” She swallows, her fingers trembling just a fraction as she brushes the lining. “It has pockets, Dominic.”

I let out a loud, sudden laugh, the sound bouncing off the high ceilings of her apartment. “Of course it has pockets. Willa knows you’re a professional.”

Jenna lifts the gown slightly, the silk catching the ambient light of the living room. Her eyes are wide, stripped completely of their usual cool calculation. She looks vulnerable. She looks absolutely devastating.

“I can’t hide in this,” she whispers.

“Good,” I say, pulling her gently by the waist so she tumbles sideways against my chest. I wrap my arms tightly around her, resting my chin on top of her messy hair. “Stop trying to hide, sweetheart. Let them see what I see every single day.”

She leans into my embrace, letting the gown rest over the edge of the box. “You’re going to be completely insufferable at this gala, aren’t you?”

“I’m going to spend the entire night reminding every billionaire in a tuxedo that you’re going home with me,” I promise, kissing her temple. “It’s going to be my finest work.”

“You are ridiculous,” she says, pulling her glasses off and setting them on top of her closed laptop. When she tilts her face back up, any joke I had loaded dissolves when I see her expression.

“Do you really believe all that?” she asks. “That I belong in that room? That I deserve to be seen? Or are you deploying an advanced persuasion strategy because you want me in the dress?”

I do want her in that dress. My plan can work without it, but the dress is an integral part of making this night special for her. However, it isn’t the only reason.

“Of course I believe it,” I say. “Every word. Even the ones I haven’t found a way to say yet.”

Her lips part.