Chapter 3 3

Basile pulled on his trousers, zipping them up with a sharp, definitive sound.

He didn't bother with a shirt yet.

He stood there, bare-chested, radiating authority.

"Where did you get those codes?" he demanded.

Celeste leaned back against the closet door, trying to maintain her facade of calm.

"I saw papers on my father's desk," she lied.

It was a weak lie.

Elmore Franco was careful.

But she couldn't tell him she had lived through his bankruptcy trial three years in the future.

Basile stared at her for a long moment.

He didn't believe her.

She could see the skepticism in the set of his jaw.

But he glanced at the Rolex on the nightstand.

"You have an hour before you're supposed to be walking down the aisle at St. Patrick's," he said.

"I'm not going to St. Patrick's," Celeste said. "I'm going to City Hall."

She held his gaze.

"With you."

Basile was silent.

The silence stretched, tense and brittle.

Then, he reached for the phone on the wall.

He dialed a single digit.

"Alfredo," he said into the receiver. "Bring up the box."

He hung up.

Celeste let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

"What box?" she asked.

Basile ignored her.

He walked past her into the closet and selected a white dress shirt.

He put it on, buttoning it with precise, efficient movements.

A knock came at the door.

"Enter," Basile called out.

An older man with silver hair and a pristine uniform walked in.

He carried a large, flat white box tied with a black ribbon.

He saw Celeste standing there in Basile's oversized shirt.

His expression didn't flicker.

"Good morning, sir. Miss," Alfredo said with a polite nod.

He placed the box on the bed and retreated, closing the door softly behind him.

Basile gestured to the box with his chin.

"Open it."

Celeste walked over to the bed.

Her fingers fumbled with the ribbon.

She lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled in layers of tissue paper, was a dress.

It was white.

Vintage.

Tea-length, with long lace sleeves and a high neck.

Celeste gasped.

She reached out and touched the fabric.

It was silk crepe.

"This..." she whispered.

She pulled the dress out.

It was identical to a sketch she had drawn in her junior year of design school.

A sketch she had lost.

A sketch she had never shown anyone.

She looked up at Basile, her eyes wide with confusion.

"How do you have this?" she asked.

Basile was adjusting his cufflinks in the mirror.

He caught her eye in the reflection.

For a second, just a split second, something softened in his face.

Then the mask slammed back down.

"My acquisition firm bought out the parent company that sponsored your university's design competition last year," he said indifferently. "This was in their asset portfolio. An interesting design. I had it commissioned. It was gathering dust."

It was a lie.

She knew it was a lie.

Basile Delgado didn't acquire companies for student portfolios.

And he certainly didn't have dresses made from them just to let them gather dust.

"Put it on," he said. "Unless you want to get married in my shirt."

Celeste took the dress into the bathroom.

She slipped it on.

It fit perfectly.

Not just well.

Perfectly.

It hugged her waist, the lace sleeves ending exactly at her wrists.

It was as if he had her measurements memorized.

She stared at herself in the mirror.

She looked like a bride.

But not the bride Bryce wanted her to be.

She looked like herself.

She walked back out into the bedroom.

Basile was putting on his suit jacket.

He stopped when he saw her.

His hands stilled on the lapels.

His throat moved as he swallowed.

The air between them crackled with something that wasn't just business.

"Grab your ID, Miss Franco," Basile said, his voice rougher than before.

He grabbed his car keys from the dresser.

"If this is a trap," he said, walking toward the door, "you will regret the day you were born."

"I already do," Celeste murmured.

She followed him out.

The elevator ride down was silent.

Celeste watched their reflections in the polished metal doors.

They looked like a power couple.

Dangerous.

Beautiful.

Matches made in hell.

The doors opened.

The lobby manager bowed.

Basile didn't acknowledge him.

He gripped Celeste's wrist.

His hand was warm, his grip firm but not painful.

He led her out the side exit, toward a sleek black Maybach idling at the curb.