Page 105 of Desperate Crimes
Each dress, each delicate silk and lace lingerie set, feels like it was made not just for my body, but for the version of me he sees.
The one he’s conjuring from shadows and dreams. My dreams. And his.
It’s the version of me I have always wanted to be.
Sexy. Confident. Mature.
I pull a hanger down and run my fingers over the seam of a deep burgundy slip dress.
It’s the kind of thing I would’ve scrolled past online, too extravagant for the cart. But here?
It’s mine. It’s all mine. And more than that.
It’s his. Chosen by him. Paid for by him. Curated to his taste.
I have my own money. My parents set me and Michaela up with trust funds since before our births, and beyond that I’ve worked.
I’ve sold bits of art procured from rich collector’s and I’ve collected some pretty nice fees.
Still, I should be scandalized. I mean, who lets their husband pick out their clothes for them?
But I’m not. Instead, I feel like the heroine in one of those over-the-top historical romances.
The kind where a brooding, powerful Duke commissions an entire trousseau for his bride, dictating down to the shade of her corsets.
A man who conquers kingdoms and then dresses his prize in velvet and pearls.
Or maybe it’s darker than that.
Maybe I am a modern Persephone, led down into the underworld and crowned in obsidian and moonlight.
Maybe the dress is pomegranate red, and I’ve already taken a bite.
Only—I don’t hate it. I kind of like it.
I like that he thought of me.
That he knows my size—and is still crazy about me.
That he imagined what I’d look like in these colors, in these silks.
That he wanted me clothed in beauty because he already sees me that way.
I like that his obsession wraps around me even when he’s not in the room.
And maybe that should terrify me. Maybe it does, just a little.
But what terrifies me more is how much I want to keep slipping into the life he’s built.
Like it’s always been waiting for me.
“Well, then we’ll have to do something for your birthday!” Mom exclaims, clearly trying to rally. “But first things first. What are you wearing tomorrow? That blue dress you liked? The one with the little flowers on the sleeves?”
I blink, caught off guard. “The blue one?” I stall, scanning my memory and then Nico’s closet, where designer gowns in every shade hang like temptation.
“I don’t know, Mom. I’ll have to see.”
Blue sounds like a good idea, though. It’ll match Nico’s eyes.
