Chapter 2 THE DRESS SHE DIED FOR

CHAPTER TWO

THE DRESS SHE DIED FOR

Emily Carter was not used to waiting. Not for drivers, not for chefs, and certainly not for stylists.

Yet here she was, alone in her suite, pacing in four inch Louboutins, furious and gleaming like a lioness ready to pounce.

The dress hung on the armoire like a sin she couldn't wait to commit.

She stopped to admire it for the hundredth time. Midnight black, velvet and sheer mesh, the fabric clung to curves that hadn't even touched it yet. The neckline plunged like a silent threat, a clean V that revealed the slope of her sternum and a hint of the swell below.

Tiny crystals scattered like stardust across the bodice, catching every flicker of light. The slit up the right leg climbed scandalously high, almost to the hipbone. It was more seduction than style and that was precisely the point.

Zeke Zee Armani would be at the after party.

Not just a name, a legend. The man people whispered about in glass corridors and diamond drenched clubs. Blood soaked money, warlord swagger, devil's grin. Mafia royalty.

And Emily wanted him.

Not in the petty, passing way she'd wanted rappers or heirs or politicians. This was different.

She imagined his hands on her hip, his mouth brushing her collarbone, his fingers sliding that slit higher. She smirked at her reflection and ran her hands down her bare arms, watching goosebumps bloom.

"You are the storm, baby," she whispered to herself. "And tonight, he's going to drown in you."

She turned again to the mirror and tilted her head, testing the angle that made her look the most lethal. Her blonde hair was blown into loose, tumbling waves. Skin bronzed to honey. Lips stained red like bitten cherries.

"Where the hell are they?" she muttered, grabbing her phone off the nightstand. No new messages. She rolled her eyes and tossed it down again.

A soft creak behind her made her whirl.

A woman stood in the doorway. Slender. Unsmiling. Dressed in black slacks and a silk blouse. Dark hair tucked behind one ear, a makeup case in hand.

"Finally!" Emily threw her hands up. "Took you long enough. Jesus. What do I pay you people for?"

The woman didn't respond. She stepped in slowly, eyes reading the room like she was taking stock of something more than just lighting.

Emily huffed. "Do you speak English, or is attitude included in the price now?"

Still nothing, the woman said nothing.

The woman approached her, heels silent on the carpet. She set the makeup case on the vanity and turned. Her eyes locked with Emily's in the mirror.

Emily frowned. "You're not the regular girl, where's Sienna? I hate you already."

Still no answer.

The woman was close now. Too close. She reached out, and before Emily could react, her fingers pressed gently against Emily's lips.

Shhh...

That was the last warning. She saw a flash of silver and what followed was a stinging, wet heat.

Emily gasped, a sick, sucking sound as the blade plunged into her neck. Not once. Twice. The second jab was deeper, crueler, as if it knew her bones. Her knees buckled instantly. Blood bloomed in furious red against her throat, spilling down her chest, seeping into the bra she hadn't yet removed.

Her hands flew up in instinct, trembling, trying to clutch at the wound. But she couldn't scream, couldn't beg and could barely breathe.

The woman pressed her mouth again with firm fingers, guiding her silently to the floor like one might lower a candle into water.

Emily's back hit the carpet with a thud. Her vision danced gold chandelier, blood speckled ceiling, velvet shadows twisting at the edges of her sight.

She was still, her mouth was still parted. Her eyes wide, frozen in that last flicker of disbelief.

The assassin crouched, checked her pulse, there was none.

She stood slowly, covered her nose with a handkerchief, and turned toward the mirrored vanity. Her own reflection stared back, cold and clinical. She unzipped her blouse sleeve, revealing a faint scar on her wrist, then reached into her jacket and pulled out a phone.

A few seconds passed before the call connected.

"She's done," the woman said simply.

A voice crackled on the other end, feminine, deep, amused. "Messy?"

"There's blood on the rug. She struggled, but not much. No screaming."

"Take her to the bathroom and leave her there, Poison will dispose her. Clean the scene. Burn the bedding, strip the cameras, change the scent profile. And for God's sake, don't forget her phone."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good girl."

The call ended.

She turned back to Emily's body.

Blood had soaked into the ivory carpet like spilled wine. It ran in crooked lines toward the bathroom tiles, painting a grotesque trail across Emily's pale ankle. Her fingers were curled, useless claws.

The woman gathered a towel and lifted Emily's limp form under the arms, dragging her across the suite. The body left a crimson smear along the floor, and her hair caught on the doorframe as she passed.

Inside the bathroom, the lights buzzed low. Marble counters, gilded taps, a claw foot bathtub still filled with cold lavender scented water, someone had started drawing a bath before all of this. Perfect.

She dumped the body in, watched the blood cloud the water, and reached into her pocket for a vial. A few drops of an oily blue liquid followed, the water darkened instantly, neutralizing the crimson stains.

She worked quickly now, pulling off Emily's heels, rings, earrings, and necklace. Everything went into a sealed pouch. The room had to be wiped of her presence like she never existed.

Twenty two minutes later, the suite was immaculate.

The makeup case was gone. So was the towel, the knife, and the phone. The dress hung exactly as before, untouched and perfect.

The woman stood by the door one last time, adjusting her collar, wiping down the handle. She took one final glance at the girl in the bathtub.

Emily floated just beneath the surface, face up, eyes closed, looking almost peaceful now. Like some tragic myth, a goddess drowned in her own vanity.

The woman switched off the lights and vanished into the hall.