Page 83 of Brutal Collateral

“I pulled a few that I know we can get you.” The sales associate sucks in a deep breath. “I’ll bring them to you in the dressing room.”

Aunt Helena goes to bark something, and I try to stop her before they’ll screw up my dress on purpose. But she’s off, screeching in her thick British accent looking for a manager.

Back in the dressing room, I slip off my jeans and sweater, and put on the strapless bra the shop lent me. Staring at my white granny panty that come up to my navel and my lack of grooming, I’m embarrassed for the first time.

“You’re going to shave all that, right?”my aunt had asked earlier when we were trying on dresses.

I considered telling her Griffin said he liked me this way, but didn’t want to shock her that he’s already seen me naked. Or that we slept together years ago.

“Again. Cage,”I reminded her.

“It’s been a few days,”she huffed.“We’ll stop at the pharmacy and pick you up a few razors next.”

Shaking her disappointed face away, along with the idea she’d hold me down and shave me herself, I slip on the satin robe again and wait for more dresses to try on and hate.

The sales associate comes back inside and my heart drops, seeing the choices.

“Wait!” I pull at each one. “These are ball gowns. I specifically saidnoball gowns.”

“Um. These are the only ones we can order for you. But they can’t be made in black.”

I notice the woman is shaking and sweating. What the hell is going on?

“Then I’ll have to look someplace else.” I wonder if J. Crew still makes that ninety-nine-dollar online wedding dress? I can dye it black in Griffin’s bathtub.

The door opens again, and I think it’s Aunt Helena, but my stomach flips as Griffin strides into the dressing room. Holy hell, he looked handsome in that suit back in our bedroom this morning. Out here in the wild where he’s a powerful mob boss, it looks even sharper.

But what is he doing here?

“Give us a minute,” he says to the associate in a deep, growly voice.

She leaves, wiping sweat from her brow.

“What are you doing here?” I fold my arms. “It’s bad luck to see the dress.”

He kicks the door closed and shows me a photo of the one I picked out. “This dress?”

“Where did you get that?”

“I got a text asking to approve a $62,000 charge. It kind of piqued my curiosity.”

“Wait.” I step back. “Are you not letting me buy that dress because of the cost? My aunt—”

His withering stare shuts me up. “I’d pay one million dollars for a dress. If it was a proper wedding dress for a wedding that is supposed to make people think we’re serious. This skimpy thing is not that.”

“You can’t be serious?”

“I left a meeting with the deputy mayor when I got this text. Do you think I’m not fucking serious?” He puts the phone away. “And a ten-thousand-dollar upcharge to have it made in black?Black?Like you’re going to fucking funeral.”

“Black wedding dresses are trendy and they signal strength, courage, andloyalty.”

He stares at me, his jaw ticking. He gets it, I see it in his blue eyes. But my hope dies when he shakes his head. “My mother is not exactly trendy. She won’t get it and will be insulted. Like you’d rather die than take our name.”

I groan inwardly, getting that, too. Maybe all of this would be easier if we were getting married in a private ceremony, just he and I, instead of a show where I’m the star captive being forced down the aisle.

“Did you select those?” I point to the ugly, audacious ball gowns.

“Damn right.” He wants a princess.

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