For the first time in a week, I'm not thinking about Liam.
The realization hits me as I stand in my steamy bathroom, wrapped in a towel.
A whole week of mandated leave, of licking peanut butter and watching anime and aggressively not thinking about my ex-fiancé, and it finally worked. The hollow ache in my chest has been replaced by a different, more immediate tension.
The Seattle Art Museum Gala and Auction is tonight.
And all I can think about is Malachai Shaw.
I haven't seen him in person since I'd blackmailed into a fake engagement. After his lips had brushed my knuckles, we'd gone about our day like it never happened. And I kept thinking 'fuck, tomorrow will be so awkward.'
But the next day came and all I got was an email to clear his schedule for the rest of the week and take the time off. The email ended with 'I'll see you at the gala, Ms. Monroe.'
He's had this event on his calendar for forever and we'd already discussed my presence there but, back then, I still thought I was getting married to the love of my life. And since that dumpster fire, I spent so much time agonizing over the proposal that I hadn't really thought about the aftermath of my stupid plan.
Now that it's here, I feel lost. What am I supposed to do now? Just go to the gala and act like he's not the reason why I have security cameras in every corner of my apartment?
My phone rings from across my bedroom. I snatch it up before I can dive into another Malachai-based mental spiral. My best friend's face fills the screen.
"Just to let you know," Sloane starts, her hair piled in a messy bun and a half-eaten sandwich in hand. "I will be buying you a chainsaw to take to the engagement party and we will be bedazzling it."
"Hello to you too, Slo."
She scoffs dramatically, "Your greetings are unnecessary, child. This is important."
I prop my phone up on my dresser and stare blankly at her. "Mass murder is important?"
"Yep!" She plops down on her couch. By the looks of it, she's just got home after her court appearances for the day. "And don't even have to worry about jail time—" she lifts her chin and says in her best lawyer voice: "Your honour, my client is just a girl."
"Yeah," I roll my eyes, smiling. "That'll hold up in court."
"Watch it, Miss Secretary, I don't tell you how to do your job."
"I'm not killing anyone, Slo—" I pick up a bottle of lotion— "Even if some people have pissed me off to the point that I feel like…"
She gives me a look. "Girl, you can just say your sister and your walking prick on a stick ex. I promise, this is a safe space."
"My sister and my walking prick on a stick ex have pissed me off. But I will not be killing them."
Death is too extreme. Castration would be better. If only I could chop off Liam's dick and feed it to him. If only I could stick a toothpick under Chloe's toenail, if only—
Before I can plan ill omens for everyone that wronged me, the doorbell chimes. I curse and slip on a robe. "Gimme a minute, Slo. There's someone at the door."
"If it's Chloe, tell that skank to throw herself in a dumpster."
"It can't be Chloe."
A quick, paranoid glance through the peephole makes my stomach sink. It is Chloe. Standing outside my apartment with her shivering Chihuahua-Pug mix, Butterscotch tucked under her arm like some furry, bug-eyed accessory.
I swing the door open. "Chloe," I try and fail to sound enthusiastic. "I wasn't expecting you."
"Juju!" Chloe chirps, her smile so bright it's probably visible from space. "Oh, I was just in the neighbourhood. And I was like 'Who better to visit than my baby sister?'"
Curse her performative kindness.
"You're so sweet," my tone is emotionless. "But I'm on my way to an event. Now is not a good time."
"Even better then! I could help you get ready! It'll be like old times." She pushes past me into my apartment.
Butterscotch makes a strangled sound at the sudden motion. Sloane's voice rings out, clear as a bell, from my phone. "Fuck! It is the skank."
Chloe's smile tightens. "Is that Sloane? Hi, Sloane!" she calls out, her voice dripping with fake sweetness.
"She says 'hi' back," I lie smoothly. "And now you really have to go."
Chloe opens her mouth to protest and the doorbell rings. Again. I want to scream.
"For fuck's sake," I hiss, stalking back to the door.
I yank it open without checking. Luckily, it's not Liam. But…
My eyes go wide as they take in the man built like a tank in an impeccably tailored suit standing there, his arms holding a small mountain of boxes and garment bags. Bergdorf Goodman, La Perla, Hermès. Jesus!
"Juniper Monroe?" he asks, his voice devoid of all emotion.
"That's me." My own voice is a thin thread.
He steps past me, completely ignoring a gaping Chloe, and deposits the armload of luxury onto my hallway floor with a series of soft, expensive thuds.
"Courtesy of Mr. S," he states. Then, he hands me a single, thick black envelope. Without another word, he turns and leaves, his footsteps silent on the worn hallway carpet.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Chloe recovers first.
She scurries to the bags, much to Butterscotch's dismay. "Bergdorf Goodman, La Perla, Hermès. Jesus!" Her saucer-wide eyes stare at me. "Mr. S? Who's Mr. S? Is he single? Is he why you've been so secretive, Juju? Oh my god, are you dating again?"
"Mr. S? Mr. S!?" Sloane screeches.
I'd forgotten she was still on the line.
My mind races, a hamster on a wheel spinning over a cliff. She sounds mad. Because she knows. Of course she knows.
I tuck the envelope into the rope of my robe and put on my best impression of bored annoyance. "Chloe! As you can see, I really need to deal with all this. I'll talk to you later, okay? Say hi to Mom and Dad for me. Love ya, bye."
I shove her out and start to close the door.
She wedges her designer heels in the frame, Butterscotch lets out a squeak of protest.
"Wait! At least let me see what's in the Bergdorf bag! Is it a dress? It's a dress, isn't it? For the engagement party?"
"It is not for the engagement party. Goodbye, Chloe." I put a little more force into closing the door, and with a final, indignant yap from the dog, her foot retracts. The lock clicks into place. I am alone.
Well, almost alone.
"Okay, spill," Sloane commands, her face taking up my entire screen. "Why didn't you tell me you're going on a date with your boss?"
I lean against the door, suddenly exhausted. "Because I'm not going on a date with my boss."
"Don't bullshit a bullshitter, Juniper. Unlike your sister, I don't think you work the night shift at a 7/11, so I know that 'Mr. S' is Malachai Shaw. Aka your asshole boss."
I consider, for a wild second, weakly defending Malachai. But I think better of it.
"It's not a date," I clarify, picking up the envelope and tracing its smooth surface. "It's a gala."
"Sure," Sloane sounds unconvinced. "I also know he doesn't buy you gifts just because you have an event to attend. Something fishy is going on here. There's something you're not telling me."
Guilt burns in my throat. How can I possibly tell her 'Hey, Sloane, I blackmailed my possibly-mafia boss into a marriage of convenience to get back at my ex!'?
I deflect. "You have no evidence for that."
"I don't need evidence to smell bullshit. Juniper, it's me." Her voice softens, losing its lawyerly edge. "You'd tell me if something was up, right? If he was… pressuring you? Because I will happily dismember that man and feed him to the crabs in Elliott Bay. It's a great case for temporary insanity."
I worry my bottom lip with my teeth. I don't want to lie to her. But the truth is insane. She's right; Malachai has never bought me gifts before. So what does it mean?
I sigh, the sound heavy with everything I couldn't say. "I will tell you. I promise. But nothing's up. Not like that. Now I really need to get ready. I don't want to be late."
Sloane studies my face for a long moment, her eyes searching mine. Finally, she relents. "Okay. Fine. But I've got my eye on you, Monroe. I love you, J."
The guilt twists deeper. "Love you too."
The screen goes dark.
An hour later, I stood in my hallway, looking at a stranger in the mirror.
The dress is gorgeous; a sleeveless column of heavy silk that clings to every curve before falling straight to the floor. The shoes were sky-high black stilettos that fit as if they'd been molded to my feet. Underneath it all is the underwear… the black lace bra and panties that are so delicate, so perfectly my size, it feels like an attack.
I'd expected Malachai to know where I live. He's my boss! Sure, he knows.
But my sizes? That isn't in my employee file.
A shiver, one part fear and one part something else entirely— something warm and pooling low in my belly— runs through me. The question remains: what else does he know?
The note in the envelope had been simple, slashed in his familiar handwriting: 'Be ready by 7.'
It's 6:55.
I take one last look. The woman in the mirror has fire-red hair piled high, a few strategic tendrils framing a face I barely recognize without its usual layer of stress and sadness. The dress hugs a body that's usually framed in blazers and pencil skirts.
Am I going as Mr. Shaw's secretary or as something more?
I have no idea and the lack of clarity bothers me.
Downstairs, a sleek black limousine idles at the curb. The chauffeur, a different man from the delivery guy, holds the door open. "Ms. Monroe."
For a heart-stuttering second, I wonder if Malachai will be inside. But the back seat is empty, smelling faintly of leather and expensive cologne.
I breathe a shaky sigh of relief.
The gifts were new but some things remain the same. He'll find me at the venue. This was strictly a work thing.
The Seattle Art Museum glows against the indigo night. The driver helps me out. "Mr. Shaw will be with you shortly."
The phrase is so mundanely professional it's almost laughable. I walk up to the glass doors, a lone figure in a sea of couples and cliques, resisting the powerful urge to snatch a glass of champagne from the first tray I see. I need a clear head. I feel so exposed.
I drift towards the edge of the bustling lobby, finding a moment of quiet respite in front of a large, dramatic oil painting.
It depicts a woman, her face a picture of devastation, reading a letter. In her other hand, she holds a bloody knife, its blade catching the light. The placard reads: 'Une Femme Trompée' (A Woman Scorned), by some French artist whose name I can't pronounce.
"He painted that soon after his wife discovered his mistress."
A smooth, deep voice materializes beside me, so close I can feel the heat of him. My entire body goes taut, every nerve ending screaming in recognition.
A crystal flute of champagne appears in my line of sight. I take it, my fingers brushing against his.
"So she stabbed him?" I ask, forcing my voice to stay level.
"The mistress did," Malachai replies.
I take a fortifying sip of the crisp, cold liquid and finally, slowly, turn to face him.
Malachai Shaw, as always, looks good.
Tuxedo hugging his broad shoulders and lean frame, dark hair perfectly styled, jaw clean-shaven. His eyes are the same stormy, rivers of ash, and they are fixed on me with an intensity that strips away the silk and lace and reach right down to the raw, trembling core of me.
His gaze travels from the top of my head, down the line of the dress that he chose.
"Ms. Monroe," he greets.
"Mr. Shaw," I reply, matching his flat professionalism, a pathetic attempt to build a dam against the flood of his presence.
"I didn't think you would wear it."
"Well, it didn't seem polite to refuse a gift from my fiancé?"
A small, almost imperceptible smirk pinches his lips. "Well, you look lovely."
He doesn't wait for me to respond before he glances at the no-doubt expensive watch on his wrist. "We have some time before the auction starts," He holds out his arm. "Walk with me."