The woman's eyes sharpened with interest. "I see. Yes, I can work with this."
"With this?" I repeated.
"Your bone structure is excellent. Good height. We just need to… refine." She circled me like a predator. "Gabrielle! Bring the Valentino, the Zimmermann, and the Oscar de la Renta. Size four."
"I'm a six," I said.
"Not in these, you're not." She was already pulling me toward a dressing room. "Mr. Moretti, champagne?"
"I'll wait." He settled into a velvet chair like a king on a throne, long legs stretched out, completely at ease. "Take your time."
The next hour was a blur of silk and satin, zippers and alterations, judgment disguised as compliments. The owner Dominique had opinions on everything. My posture. My hair. The way I walked.
"Society women don't stomp, darling. They glide."
"I'm not a society woman."
"For the next week, you are." She adjusted the dress I was wearing ice blue, backless, obscenely expensive. "Now go show Mr. Moretti."
I stepped out of the dressing room, and Cain's eyes went dark.
He didn't say anything at first. Just looked.
Really looked. His gaze traveled from the delicate straps at my shoulders, down the fitted bodice, over the way the silk hugged every curve before pooling at my feet.
"Turn around."
"Excuse me?"
"Turn. Around."
Something in his voice made me obey. I turned slowly, feeling the weight of his attention like a physical touch. The dress was backless to the base of my spine, held together by delicate chains.
"That one," Cain said, his voice rough. "And the black one she tried on earlier. And the green."
"The green was Zimmermann"
"I don't care what it was. She's taking it." He pulled out his phone. "Add shoes, jewelry, whatever else she needs. Charge it to my account."
Dominique practically glowed. "Of course. Excellent choices, Mr. Moretti."
I stared at him. "You're buying three dresses?"
"You need options. Different events, different approaches." He stood, closing the distance between us. Up close, in the mirrors surrounding us, we looked like we belonged together him in his expensive suit, me in this dress that cost more than my rent.
"I can't accept this," I said quietly.
"You already did. The moment you agreed to work for me." His fingers brushed my shoulder, adjusting a strap that didn't need adjusting. "This is business, Raven. You're an investment."
"Is that all I am?"
His eyes met mine in the mirror. "For now."
The air between us went electric, charged with something I didn't want to name. Dominique cleared her throat delicately.
"I'll just… prepare the other items."
She vanished, leaving us alone in a room full of mirrors and expensive fabric and tension so thick I could barely breathe.
"You're doing it again," Cain said softly.
"Doing what?"
"Looking at me like you can't decide if you want to hit me or kiss me."
Heat flooded my face. "I don't"
"You do." He was still so close, his breath warm against my bare shoulder. "You've been doing it since the moment we met."
"You're delusional."
"I'm observant." His hand settled on my waist, right where silk met skin. "And you're terrible at hiding what you're thinking."
"Then what am I thinking right now?"
His smile was dangerous. "That this is a bad idea. That I'm using you. That you should walk away." He leaned in, lips almost brushing my ear. "But you won't. Because part of you wants to see where this goes. Part of you likes the danger."
I should've pushed him away. Should've told him he was wrong.
Instead: "You don't know me."
"Not yet." He stepped back, breaking the spell. "But I will."
We left the boutique with four garment bags, three shoeboxes, and jewelry that probably required its own insurance policy. The car was waiting, and Cain helped me in with a hand at my elbow, always touching, always there.
"Where to now?" I asked as we pulled into traffic.
"My place. We need to go over strategy."
"Your place?"
"My office is too public. And your apartment is…" He trailed off tactfully.
"A shoebox with questionable heating?"
"I was going to say 'not secure.' But yes, that too."
Twenty minutes later, we pulled up to a building in Tribeca that screamed money. The penthouse, naturally. Floor-to-ceiling windows with views of the Hudson, modern furniture that was somehow both minimalist and comfortable, art that probably belonged in museums.
"Make yourself comfortable," Cain said, shrugging off his jacket. "I'll get the files."
I wandered to the windows, staring out at the city. From up here, everything looked small, manageable. Like you could reach out and rearrange the pieces however you wanted.
"Quite a view," I said when Cain returned with a laptop and a bottle of wine.
"It's why I bought the place." He poured two glasses, handed me one. "Plus the security. Privacy. No one gets up here unless I want them to."
"Should I be flattered or concerned that you wanted me here?"
"Both." He opened the laptop, all business again. "Let's go over the plan."
The next two hours were intense. He'd compiled everything aerial photos of the estate, security schedules, guest lists with photos and bios, even the menu for the reception. Every detail mapped out like a military operation.
"The ceremony starts at four," Cain explained, pointing to the timeline. "Cocktail hour at five-thirty. You'll arrive during cocktails late enough that security is relaxed, early enough that you can mingle before the reception."
"And my story?"
"You're a friend of Patricia's. An art consultant she met at a gallery opening.
Invited but couldn't RSVP in time you were in Paris for a client. You flew back just to make it." He pulled up a fake invitation on the screen. "This is yours. My people will add it to the system tomorrow."
"Your people can hack a wedding guest list?"
"My people can do a lot of things." He refilled our glasses. "You'll spend cocktail hour observing, building rapport with guests. Find out where Caroline is, what her mindset is. Then, during the toasts that's when you make your move."
"Stand up and announce that the groom is a serial cheater?"
"More subtle than that. You'll approach Caroline privately, tell her you have information she needs to hear. Show her one or two of the most damaging emails. Give her a choice confront James publicly or call it off quietly." He leaned back. "Either way, the wedding doesn't happen."
"And if she doesn't believe me?"
"She will. Patricia's evidence is ironclad. Plus" his smile turned cold "James will probably try to deny it or explain it away. That's when you show everyone else the proof. Make it impossible for him to spin."
I took a long drink of wine, letting the plan settle in my mind. It was smart, calculated, brutal. Just like him.
"Why do you want his company so badly?" I asked.
"Because it's worth having."
"That's not an answer."
Cain studied me for a long moment, like he was deciding how much to tell me. "Three years ago, Whitmore stole proprietary code from a startup I'd invested in. Used his lawyers to bury them, then released the tech as his own. The founders lost everything."
"And you want revenge."
"I want what's mine. There's a difference."
"Is there? Because this seems pretty personal."
"Business is always personal," he said quietly. "Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying."
The way he said it, the darkness in his eyes, made me wonder what else had been taken from him. What else he was trying to reclaim.
"What happens after?" I asked. "After I destroy this wedding and you get your company?"
"You get your money. Your reputation gets repaired. We go our separate ways."
"That's it?"
"That's the deal." But something in his voice suggested he didn't believe it any more than I did.
My phone buzzed. A text from my mother. Finally.
Mom: I saw the videos. Please call me. I'm worried.
Guilt twisted in my stomach. I'd been ignoring her, avoiding the conversation I knew we needed to have.
"Problem?" Cain asked.
"My mother. She saw… everything."
"Are you close?"
"We used to be. Before Damien, before I moved to New York, before I became this person who crashes weddings and works for morally questionable billionaires." I set down my phone. "She wouldn't recognize me now."
"Maybe that's not a bad thing."
"How do you figure?"
"The person you were before she let Damien use her. Let his mother look down on her. Let society dictate what she should be." He moved closer, his intensity focused entirely on me. "This version of you? She fights back. She takes what she wants. She's not afraid to burn it all down."
"That's not strength. That's self-destruction."
"Sometimes they're the same thing." His hand came up, fingers brushing my cheek with unexpected gentleness. "Sometimes you have to destroy who you were to become who you're meant to be."
The touch sent shivers down my spine. We were too close again, the air too charged, everything too dangerous.
"Cain…"
"I know." But he didn't move away. "You should go. It's late."
"Yeah." I stood on shaky legs, gathering my things. "Thanks for… everything. The clothes, the plan, the wine."
"Raven."
I turned at the door.
"You're going to be magnificent at this." His dark eyes burned with certainty. "Trust yourself."
The problem was, I didn't trust myself at all. Not around him. Not when he looked at me like I was something precious and dangerous all at once.
Not when every instinct screamed that working for Cain Moretti was the best and worst decision I'd ever made.