Page 6 of Pretty Little Threats

“I’m not complaining. I really hope you hate the emerald one.”

“You can have it,” I call over my shoulder as I head to try on another of the many I had custom fit for tonight. Cassia and I might be the same size, but she’s shorter than me, so the dress will need some alterations. Nothing a good tailor can’t fix, and speaking of tailor... “Oh, wow,” I murmur to myself, taking in the silky, dark blue material of the next gown.

The dress glides over my skin like the soft caress of a lover. I adjust the single shoulder strap and smooth my hands over my sides. This is it. The material molds to my curves in all the right ways, the softness of my stomach not overly pronounced but also not hidden away like a dirty secret. Soft, elegant ruffles accentuate the slit up one leg and add a touch of sexiness.

“You stopped talking.” Cassia appears beside me and stares at me in the mirror, eyes widening as she takes it in. “Yes. If you don’t wear this one, we can’t be friends.”

“Who knew our friendship was so fragile?” I ask with a laugh.

“Hey, NYC Socialite is publishing their annual edition of most eligible singles next week, and I’m trying to get my bestie to number one, but if you don’t want the spot...” She trails off and shrugs.

“Number one would be a nice change from last year’s edition.” I’m still annoyed they placed me in thehard to datesection. The NYC Socialite website, which is owned by Bluestar Entertainment, posts all the latest gossip and prides itself on being in the know for all things upper echelon, but like most tabloids, there’s always added drama and sometimes a little cruelty.

I wouldn’t expect anything else from the company owned by an entertainment conglomerate. People do love to hate, and while I want to say I’m not bothered, the hundreds of comments agreeing with me beingdifficultor calling me afrigid bitchgot under my skin. Hence the dozens of dresses. Maybe if I can dazzle with my outfits, NYC Socialite will give me a break.

Yeah, right.

“So? What’s the verdict?” Cassia asks.

Smoothing my hands down the dress, I nod. “This is definitely the one.”

Her gaze gleams with wicked intent. “Bet Dare would like it.”

“Oh my god, no. Absolutely not.”

“I’m just saying, hate sex is good for the soul.”

Glancing at her, I pull a face. “Is that so? Do you have something to tell me?”

“No, but I’ve seen enough movies to know.”

“Movies aren’t real,” I murmur, sounding too much like my dad.

The doorbell rings and Cassia gives me a look. “I’m not sure what reality you’re living in, but the hair and makeup artists just arrived.”

A guilty smile creeps across my face as we head out of the room to answer the door. “I wanted to look good.”

“You’re not getting an argument from me. I’m only trying to make a point. Maybe there’s something to be said about sleeping with the enemy. Who was the last person you went on a date with, anyway? Eric the creep?”

“Don’t remind me.” I cringe at the memory. Eric got way too handsy on that date and didn’t stop until I screamed. Then he called me a slut.

“You should flirt with Dare. I bet he’s great in bed.”

“I’m not going to sleep with Dare, of all people,” I say with a scoff. “Besides, he’s probably forgotten about me by now.” One can hope, right?

The twisted half-up-half-down style embraces an updo without all the pins and fuss, leaving the bottom part of my hair loose and gently waved. Rose gold eyeshadow,accented with a soft chestnut, coats my eyelids and the cat-eye eyeliner is subtle, sharp, and perfectly shaped. Cassia gave me her stamp of approval before rushing off for a date with someone she met online.

Without her here, my mind replays everything that went down this morning, and regret swirls in my gut. I let my anger get the better of me and took it too far, but I can’t take it back now.

Robert, Dad’s driver, greets me at the door, his eyes sweeping down my gown. “You look lovely tonight, Ms. Miller.”

“Aw, thanks, Robbie.” I run one hand down my side, the silky, dark blue material cool against my skin. Although my conservative dad may not approve of the flash of tanned thigh, the confidence flooding through my system as I walk toward the limo outweighs the possibility of disappointing him. Truly mid-sized models are still few and far between, but tonight, I feel like one.

I slide into the back of the limo, setting my glittering clutch beside me and carefully crossing my legs before looking at my dad sitting across from me, his back facing the driver’s seat and privacy window. He’s wearing an onyx tux, the lines and material setting it apart from the ones available at a department store. Dad’s tailor, the same one that adjusted my designer dresses, knows how to make even the simplest of outfits scream money.

My dad is as powerful as they come, a god among men, or at least, that’s how it sometimes feels. His salt and pepper hair is the only indication of his mortality. Even his skin, at fifty-five, is wrinkle free.

Smiling at him, I say, “Hey, Dad.”

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