"It's a stunning dress. Especially on you. But it'd look better on my bedroom floor."
Holy shitballs.
Was this man for real?
Did this actually work on people? More importantly, did it work on me? Nope. Not in the least. Never.
Thank God the elevator arrived right then, and I escaped into it, Tristan's hand falling away from my back where it'd probably burned a hole through my dress.
Nerves shot through me, nerves mixed with anger, anxiety, long ago shame, and a whole toxic stew of emotions, making my stomach a whirling mess. I had to hide it somehow, absolutely had to, and remember that I was an avenging goddess coming down from Mount Olympus to make this man pay.
We stood side by side, riding up to the top floor, and I studied our reflections in the shiny metal of the door. Take away the mask, and we resembled any other couple you'd see walking down the street.
"We look good together," he said.
I hated to admit it, likereallyhated to. But... he was right. Without planning it, our outfits complemented each other, his dark suit and my black dress, our vibe practically the same. Not that it meant anything. It was just more fodder for my plan. That was all.
"Did you just come from work? Or from the airport?" There. That was a good way to change the subject.
"The airport. How about you? Work?"
"Yep." Although I'd spent a good deal of time in the bathroom, freshening up and preparing for this dinner "date."
The elevator came to a stop at the penthouse level, and we exited, Tristan leading me to a door marked rooftop access. "Are you okay with a few stairs?"
We weren't going to his apartment? Interesting. Very interesting.
"I'm good. No problem."
He led me up the flight of steps, then opened the door, a gust of cold winter air kissing my bare skin. But what really stole my breath was the scene that'd been created. It was incredible—twinkly fairy lights everywhere, a sleek modern firepit, and a romantic table setting, all with a view of Central Park.
"Wow," I gushed before I could stop myself. It looked like a proposal scene from a rom-com, which was ironic considering I was here to ruin his life the way he'd ruined mine all those years ago.
"You like it?"
Play the game, Astrid.
"Yes. It's beautiful."
Stepping behind me, he slipped a warm, woolen coat over my shoulders. "For you. So you don't get cold," he murmured near my ear.
Oh, great. He was doing his best to appear thoughtful, but I wasn't buying it. As a matter of fact, this whole thing had probably been bought. He'd probably hired someone to decorate, cook, plan, organize every last detail down to the coat.
"You did all this?" I asked, doing an Academy Award-winning job of hiding the skepticism in my voice.
"Of course," he said with a shrug like it was no big deal.
Nice job playing it off, liar.
"I must admit I had a little help," he said wryly. "But I had to pay dearly for it."
"What?" I laughed, all cute and flirty, pulling out all my best moves.
"You'll see." He shot me a smirk, moving away to pull out a chair for me. "Sit. Drink. And let me charm the hell out of you."
You can try, Tristan Hawthorne. But I refuse to be charmed by the likes of you.
And I refused to feel even a twinge of guilt for what I planned to do in the future and the travel hell I'd put him through this past week, thanks to Ethan and my sisters.
