Chapter 6

Isla stood in the center of the massive master closet. She stared at her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. She took a deep breath, letting her lungs expand.

She dropped her old sweater to the floor and carefully stepped into the Verve gown. The silk slid over her skin like water. Because she had designed it using her own exact measurements, it fit her body with terrifying perfection.

She reached behind her back to pull the zipper up. But because of the tight cut around the waist, her arm couldn't quite reach the mechanism.

"Are you ready?" Curtiss's impatient voice echoed from the hallway. "Do you need the maids?"

Isla panicked. She dropped a hair clip on the floor. "No! I'm almost done!" she called out, pulling desperately at the zipper.

The closet door swung open.

Curtiss walked in. He was wearing a tailored black tuxedo that made him look like a lethal weapon.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Isla was facing the mirror, her back completely exposed to him. The dress dipped low, revealing the smooth, pale curve of her spine. Curtiss's breath caught in his throat. His lungs suddenly felt too small.

Isla gasped. She tried to cover her chest with her arms, freezing in place.

Curtiss's eyes darkened. He didn't turn around. He didn't leave. Instead, he walked slowly toward her.

He stopped right behind her. Isla could feel the heat of his body pressing into her back.

Curtiss reached out. His cold fingers brushed against her bare skin. A violent shiver ripped down Isla's spine.

He looked at her waist in the mirror. His brow furrowed slightly.

Curtiss pinched the metal zipper. He pulled it up slowly. The metallic rasping sound was deafening in the quiet closet. "Is Verve's custom service this fast?" Curtiss asked, his voice casual but laced with a dangerous, probing edge. "Or does your figure just happen to perfectly match their standard model size?"

Isla's breath hitched, her lungs freezing for a fraction of a second. She quickly forced a nervous, self-deprecating laugh, keeping her eyes downcast in the mirror. "I... I guess I'm just lucky. It's actually a little tight around the ribs, but I didn't want to complain."

When the zipper reached the top, he didn't let go. He rested both of his large hands heavily on her bare shoulders.

Isla looked up. Their eyes locked in the mirror. Curtiss's gaze was heavy, filled with a raw, predatory hunger that made Isla's stomach flip.

She quickly dropped her eyelashes, looking away, playing the shy, overwhelmed virgin.

Curtiss pulled his hands back. He took a step away, his face hardening back into a mask of ice. "It's acceptable," he muttered.

The styling team rushed into the room. Curtiss sat on the velvet sofa, scrolling through his tablet.

The lead stylist pinned Isla's hair up. She ran her hands over the bodice of the dress.

"My god," the stylist whispered. "The draping on this... it's like a stroke of genius, absolutely on par with Freya's level. It's a masterpiece."

Isla's heart slammed against her ribs. She shot a panicked look at Curtiss through the mirror.

Curtiss's finger stopped swiping on the tablet. He looked up. His eyes locked onto Isla's reflection. He was calculating something, his mind turning. But he stayed silent.

An hour later, Isla wore a ten-million-dollar diamond necklace. She looked like royalty. To hide it, she hunched her shoulders slightly, dulling her own shine.

They walked to the garage. Curtiss held out his arm. Isla took it.

The Maybach sped toward the Upper East Side. The air in the backseat was thick with unspoken tension.

"Stay close to me tonight," Curtiss said suddenly, staring out the window. "You don't need to smile at anyone."

Isla nodded obediently. Inside, she was laughing. Tonight, she wouldn't be smiling. She would be executing.

She turned her head to look out the window. For a split second, her reflection in the glass showed a woman with eyes as sharp as a guillotine blade.

Curtiss caught the reflection. He turned his head sharply, but Isla was already looking down at her lap, playing with her fingers.

He narrowed his eyes. The suspicion in his gut was growing into a physical ache.

The car slowed down. The red carpet of the Metropolitan Museum of Art awaited. The war was about to begin.