Under the bow is a tag—and the tag says, Wear Me.
Despite myself, I smile. But when I open the box and peel open the tissue paper, my smile fades. The dress is red, but that doesn’t matter. Because it’s the dress. My dress. The exact same style as the yellow dress with the white buttons that he’d given me in Atlanta. I lift my hand to my mouth and make a small mewling sound as my knees go weak.
I’m standing by my kitchen table, and now I clutch the back of a chair, steadying myself, because I am certain this will shatter me.
And that, I realize, is exactly what he’s trying to do. This is about revenge, after all. About Jackson getting payback for what happened in Atlanta.
I take a breath, then another, trying to calm down. He wants to play dirty? Well, screw him.
He wants to play games, then fine. We’ll play games.
I stalk to my bedroom. It takes a few moments, but I find the box with my lingerie. I don’t own much in the way of fancy underthings, but I do own one set. A sexy black bra, a tiny thong, a garter belt, and a pair of elegant silk stockings.
It’s the set that Jackson gave me in Atlanta, and I’m relieved when I find the soft pink lingerie bag that I’d purchased in which to keep them.
I’d almost thrown them away, both the dress and the underthings. But I hadn’t. And the yellow dress, in fact, is folded up beneath the lingerie bag.
I consider tossing the red one aside and putting on the yellow dress, but no. I already have a plan, and it’s more subtle.
I don’t know why he hasn’t included lingerie with the red dress, but that means he isn’t expecting anything bold. For all I know, he’s forgotten, and instead of making me angry, that possibility makes me sad. Because every moment of every hour I’d spent with Jackson is burned into my mind. I’ve clung tight to those memories for five years, pulling them out to soothe me when I feel lost and alone.
It didn’t last—how could it with me being a basket case?—but at least I can hold the memories close and know that, for one shining moment, I had something right and sweet and wonderful.
For years, I’ve been silently grateful to Jackson for at least giving me those memories. I’ve spun our time together into nighttime fantasies and daytime dreams. I’ve made him a hero in my mind.
A knight, a protector. A man willing to make the sacrifice to keep me safe, and he’d proven it by walking away when I told him to.
That Jackson would never want revenge and he wouldn’t try to break me. He was a man worthy of my fantasies.
And he is not the man who is coming to my door tonight.
I need to remember that, I think. I need to keep it perfectly clear in my mind that the Jackson of today is playing games. And if I want to have any chance of surviving this round unscathed, I need to play, too. More than that, I need to win.
eleven
I’m in the short hallway leading to my bedroom when the intercom buzzes promptly at eight.
I’ve been standing there, my dress open, my body angled to put the lingerie to best effect as I look at myself in the mirror. As I do, my fingers touch my tats. Or, at least, the ones that will give me strength tonight.
The flame that Cass put on my breast, now slightly slick with the ointment I applied to soothe and protect it.
The lock that hides just under the tiny thong panties.
And the ribbon of initials marking the men I have claimed.
Each reminding me that I know how to do this.
Each a symbol that I can keep control. That I can prove to myself and to Jackson that I’m the one using him to get what I want, and not the one being used.
I start to button up the dress, expecting another buzz of the intercom. An annoyed second try, because how dare I make him wait.
But the next sound is not a buzz. Instead, it’s a sharp rap at my front door, and I tense because just that tiny deviation from the plan is enough to rattle my nerves.
Get it together, Syl. Just keep it the fuck together.
“One sec,” I call, and then I button the dress slowly. Not because I want to make him wait—though that is an unexpected side benefit—but because my hands are shaking just enough to make the task more difficult than it should be.
I take one deep breath followed by another. And then I go to the door.
I stand tall as I pull it open, because I want to look confident. Nonchalant. Like this is just any other date on any other day. But all of my good intentions go to hell the moment I see him.
He is leaning casually against the door frame in khaki slacks and a faded denim button-down. His hair is slicked back from his face, and his eyes are hidden behind aviator style glasses that partially cover the cut on his cheek. He hasn’t shaved and I can’t help the way my fingers itch to stroke the stubble that makes him look even more masculine and delicious.
Without a word, he takes off the glasses to reveal eyes that are filled with so much wicked promise it makes me aware of how very little I wear beneath this dress.
It’s not the reaction I want—tonight, he is supposed to melt for me, not the other way around. And so I cock my head and keep my face blank, the kind of expression I’ve relied on to get me through so many of Damien’s business meetings, where my role is to simply take notes and not react to the progress of negotiations.
“How did you get through the security gate?”
“I’m a man of many talents,” he says, then steps past me into the foyer. As he does, our hands brush, and though I don’t want to feel anything, there is no denying the sparks that this man generates in me. I tell myself that’s okay. I can use that. I can let my own attraction to him fuel my performance.
And I can let his attraction to me cement his fall.
“The dress looks lovely on you,” he says, examining me with a look so incendiary it’s a wonder my blood doesn’t boil. “But I knew it would. The memory of you looking innocent in yellow is burned in my mind. But you weren’t innocent at all, were you?”
My foyer is little more than a short hallway, and now I lean against the wall beside the door, feeling a bit trapped as he stands in front of me, just close enough to be inside my personal space. Just close enough for me to catch his scent.
Just close enough that I can’t help but remember.
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.” His words are an eerie echo of my thoughts, and as he reaches out, I draw in a breath, unprepared for his touch. But it is not me he’s reaching for, and when I realize that all he is doing is closing the door, I release a shaky breath—and curse the wave of disappointment that crashes over me.