Page 59 of The Devil of Downtown

“Wasn’t meant to be.” He smiles, his gaze flicking to me for a split second before returning to the road. I can’t help smiling back. Despite the cold veneer he presents to the public, there’s a playful side to him that is revealing itself the more time I spend with him.

“So,” I say, forcing calm into my voice. “What exactly am I supposed to be doing tonight?”

He shoots me a quick look over his sunglasses. “Standing beside me, looking like you belong there.”

“That’s it.”

He cocks his head. “Improvise if necessary; you’re good at that.”

I arch a brow. “Touché.”

His mouth twitches. “You were convincing enough to fool me. That takes talent or nerve.”

“Not for long, though,” I shrug, my guilty eyes drifting to the window.

“I’m surprised it was so long,” he goes on, obviously enjoying the sight of me squirming. “In hindsight, you were a terrible assistant.”

“Hey!” I fold my arms.

“But a brilliant dancer,” he adds. “And no, I’m not just saying that. You are.”

Ugh, I hate the way my stomach does a little happy dance at his compliment. I need to keep reminding myself whatthisis. And who he is. He can charm women when he wants to; I’ve seen him do it, so I know it means nothing.

The car glides to a stop in front of an exclusive boutique, the doorman planted at the entrance like a final checkpoint between this world and another. Dane steps out first, handing the keys to the valet before circling around to open my door. He reaches out to help me up. I take his hand, expecting him to let go the second I’m steady. He doesn’t. His grip firms as he walks me to the door.

A woman in a chic black dress greets us instantly, locking the door behind us. “Mr. Black. Miss Vale. Welcome.”

Dane gives a brief smile, his hand settling at my lower back as we follow her into a private salon. It’s spacious, everything swathed in soft ivory and champagne tones with mirrors everywhere. Racks of gowns shimmer under the light, fabrics too delicate to belong anywhere near my usual life. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t bother with price tags. Two attendants rush forward the moment we step inside.

“Mr. Black,” one says. “We’re so pleased—”

He cuts her off with a polite nod. “She’s the one you’re dressing.”

Their eyes flick to me—damp hair, faded jeans, old sneakers. I feel heat creep up my neck.

“If you’ll allow,” the woman says to me, “our stylist and makeup artist will assist you while you choose. Mr. Black, we have refreshments prepared.”

The staff descend on me with gentle efficiency, ushering me into a dressing room scented with jasmine and hairspray. One of them takes my bag; another brings champagne like I’m walking into a dream. A stylist coils my damp hair into soft, glossy waves while another dusts powder across my cheekbones, blending light until my skin glows. Lipstick, the color of crushed berries, follows.

Someone guides me toward a fitting suite while Dane settles into a low velvet chair near the mirrored wall. He’s instantly absorbed in his phone, with non-stop business calls. But every so often, he looks up. A glance that lingers half a second too long. Sometimes it’s just his eyes flicking to meet mine in the mirror, other times a faint curve to his mouth like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. Hard one moment, softened the next, and I can’t tell which version is more tempting.

They bring dress after dress, but none of them feel right. Too much sparkle, too stiff, too bare. I’m starting to think maybe I’ll just tell them to stop, escape home, and watch Bluey with Elsie when the manager appears with a flash of red.

“This one,” she says, eyes shining.

It’s a deep wine-red gown that slips over my body as if it’s been waiting for me. The neckline plunges deeper than anything I’d normally wear; the fabric clinging to every curve before sweeping into a narrow train. The back is bare, except for a single trail of jeweled links tracing my spine. I stare at myself for a moment, almost not recognizing the woman in the mirror.

When I step out, the staff coo over me like they do with every dress, but this time it feels genuine.

Dane looks up from his phone, mid-sentence—and goes still. His eyes find mine and don’t move.

After a pause, he says something low to whoever’s on the other end, then sets his phone aside. “That’s the one.”

One of the attendants beams. “Shall I fetch accessories—”

“No,” Dane’s voice cuts through, smooth but absolute. “We’ll take it. Can you give us a minute?”

The staff scatter like trained birds, doors clicking shut behind them.