34. Dominic
Dominic
The cream garment box is exactly where Jenna put it two weeks ago.
Highest shelf of her closet. Ribbon intact. Willa James’s seal still tucked beneath the bow like the entire thing was delivered five minutes ago instead of sixteen days.
I find it while hanging tomorrow’s suit beside the three others that now live here permanently.
Not permanently according to any formal discussion, obviously.
Jenna and I haven’t held a meeting, drafted terms, or updated the dual-dwelling spreadsheet.
My clothes simply began accumulating in her closet.
My toothbrush next to hers. There are protein bars I like in her pantry and a packet of lavender chamomile tea bags and decaf coffee capsules next to her machine.
Three weeks ago, the doorman stopped asking whether I’m visiting.
Married life by administrative creep.
My favorite kind.
I pull the garment box down and carry it into the living room.
The Phantom is booked, the florist is holding my order, and the tailor still needs the color of the gown, so an alarming amount of next Saturday depends on Jenna opening this box.
Jenna looks up from her laptop as I set it on the coffee table.
“No.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re carrying the dress box.”
“I thought it might enjoy a change of scenery.”
“It was perfectly happy in the closet.”
“It told me it felt neglected.”
“The box spoke to you?”
“It’s couture. Very demanding.”
Her mouth twitches before she turns back to the acquisition brief on her screen. She’s curled into the corner of the couch in a soft gray lounge set, bare feet tucked beneath her, glasses low on her nose. Her hair is twisted into a clip that has sliding loose for the past hour.
This is how Sunday nights work now.
We eat dinner. We argue over who chose the last three takeout orders. Jenna prepares for Monday with the intensity of a military commander anticipating invasion, while I pretend to review market reports and mostly watch her.
It’s deeply domestic.
I’m obsessed with it.
I lower myself onto the couch beside her and lean in close.
“Have you looked at it?”
“I looked at the box.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“I’ve seen dresses before.”
“Not this one.”
“A dress is a dress.”
“Careful. Willa James’s designer might feel a disturbance in the universe.”
Jenna closes her eyes briefly. “I’ll send her a thank-you note.”
“You say thank you by showing up to the gala in the dress.”
She tries to return to the brief. I lower the screen an inch.
“Dominic.”
“Jenna.”
“I have twelve pages left.”
“And I have one question.”
“You’ve asked it three times.”
“This is a brand-new question.” I slowly lower the lid of her laptop until it closes.
She looks at me with daggers in her eyes. “What if I hadn’t saved my work?”
“Then I’d think you’d been body-snatched because my wife would never work on a document without auto-save sending it to the cloud every five seconds.”
“Correct. But I would prefer not to beta-test disaster recovery tonight, so if you don’t mind, I’m busy.”
I ignore this.
“Why haven’t you opened the box?”
She pushes the glasses up with one finger, which is how I know she’s winding up for a fight.
“Because I don’t need it. I have a dress. I have three dresses. All reputable designers. And the black one is fine.”
“The one you wear every year?”
“It fits. It’s flattering. I already have shoes that match and don’t pinch my heels.” She starts counting the benefits on her fingers. “I can sit comfortably through dinner, the neckline works with every bra I own, and I don’t get stopped for photographs.”
“Ahh.” I sit back. Suddenly her reluctance is making more sense. “You’re worried about the attention.”
She goes instantly defensive, like I just accused her of running a Ponzi scheme instead of declining an overpriced dress.
“It’s not about the attention,” she says, but every word vibrates with resistance.
“It’s about optics. If you show up in something understated, people assume you’re there for the work.
If you show up in a bespoke gown with a wax-sealed provenance and a press release attached, suddenly you’re the story instead of the deal. ”
I tap the box with one knuckle. “So, you’re worried about—what, the cameras?”
She hesitates and then sets her jaw. “I looked up last year’s event,” she admits. “Did you know Willa’s special guests accounted for sixty percent of the post-event coverage? There’s a whole Getty image tag for ‘Azure Room Standouts.’”
I make a mental note to look up that tag later. “That’s not an accident,” I say. “Willa wants you to be seen. She doesn’t invite people to play wallpaper in the Azure Room.”
Jenna’s face softens just a degree, and she picks at the edge of a throw pillow.
“I know that. I just—I get why I’m being invited, but if it’s supposed to be for my mind, then what I wear shouldn’t matter.
I’d be more comfortable just fitting in.
No one’s going to ask why I’m at a table in my usual black.
But if I walk in wearing this—” She gestures at the box.
“—it becomes a thing. There will be scrutiny and questions and some clever comment about the symbolism of a woman who negotiates for a living suddenly showing up in a ‘statement’ dress, and I’d rather not hand them the metaphor. ”
I want to argue that she could wear a sandwich board and I’d still spend half the night staring at her, but the moment feels too tight for jokes. Instead, I reach over, curl my hand around her ankle, and drag her foot into my lap.
“Is it really that bad,” I ask, “to be seen?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes track the lid of the box, then my hands, then a point somewhere above my left eyebrow. “Maybe,” she says, so quiet I almost think I misheard.
“Talk to me, sweetheart.”
“I—” She takes a deep breath, like every word is something she needs to assess before she can say it.
“I’ve been in rooms my whole life where the only way you survive is by going unnoticed until you can’t be ignored.
By showing up, doing the job, and becoming indispensable.
Not the loudest, not the flashiest—just essential.
If I show up in that dress, nobody will see me as necessary.
I’ll be ornamental. I don’t know how to do that. ”
I knead my thumb into the arch of her foot, and she goes a little boneless with the pressure. “You think that’s how I see you?”
“I think that’s how everyone sees everyone, Dom. Especially at events like this. The women get scored, the men get the business cards.”
“Jenna.” I move my hand up to her calf, letting my fingers graze her skin until her breath hitches. “You are not ornamental.”
“Says the hot guy massaging my leg.”
I lift my brows in response and she leans her head back, exhaling this exhausted little laugh.
“Why is this such a big deal for you?” she asks. “You hate these events. You usually try to talk me into skipping out after an hour. Why do you care if I wear the couture?”
“Because you’re a big deal.” I shift closer, not letting go of her leg. “This night is about celebrating everything you’ve done. The dress doesn’t turn you into an ornament, Jen. It doesn’t change why you’re in the room. It just makes it harder for anyone to overlook you while you’re there.”
She looks down at her hands.
I touch my fingers beneath her chin and bring her eyes back to mine.
“I want to see you walk into that room knowing you belong there.”
She hesitates, looking from my face to the cream-colored package sitting innocently on the coffee table. I can practically see the gears turning in her head, the logistical, defensive walls she’s spent a lifetime building warring with the undeniable temptation of the champagne ribbon.
“If it has sequins, I’m setting it on fire,” she murmurs, but her hands are already reaching out.
“I’ll buy the matches.”
She pulls the ribbon, letting it slip away to the floor, and lifts the heavy lid. The tissue paper rustles as she folds it back.
I don’t know what I expected, but Willa James’s designer doesn’t mess around.
It’s not loud. It’s not a flashy, sequined disaster.
It’s a midnight-blue silk gown, cut with a dangerous, elegant simplicity that looks like it was poured directly from the night sky.
There’s a subtle architectural structure to the bodice—the exact kind of structural integrity Jenna would appreciate—flowing down into a sweep of fabric that practically hums with quiet power.
Jenna’s hands freeze over the silk. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t even seem to be breathing.
“Well?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intended.
“It’s . . .” She swallows, her fingers trembling just a fraction as she brushes the lining. “It has pockets, Dominic.”
I let out a loud, sudden laugh, the sound bouncing off the high ceilings of her apartment. “Of course it has pockets. Willa knows you’re a professional.”
Jenna lifts the gown slightly, the silk catching the ambient light of the living room. Her eyes are wide, stripped completely of their usual cool calculation. She looks vulnerable. She looks absolutely devastating.
“I can’t hide in this,” she whispers.
“Good,” I say, pulling her gently by the waist so she tumbles sideways against my chest. I wrap my arms tightly around her, resting my chin on top of her messy hair. “Stop trying to hide, sweetheart. Let them see what I see every single day.”
She leans into my embrace, letting the gown rest over the edge of the box. “You’re going to be completely insufferable at this gala, aren’t you?”
“I’m going to spend the entire night reminding every billionaire in a tuxedo that you’re going home with me,” I promise, kissing her temple. “It’s going to be my finest work.”
“You are ridiculous,” she says, pulling her glasses off and setting them on top of her closed laptop. When she tilts her face back up, any joke I had loaded dissolves when I see her expression.
“Do you really believe all that?” she asks. “That I belong in that room? That I deserve to be seen? Or are you deploying an advanced persuasion strategy because you want me in the dress?”
I do want her in that dress. My plan can work without it, but the dress is an integral part of making this night special for her. However, it isn’t the only reason.
“Of course I believe it,” I say. “Every word. Even the ones I haven’t found a way to say yet.”
Her lips part.
For one suspended second, the apartment goes completely silent.
No traffic thirty floors below. No refrigerator humming in the kitchen.
No acquisition brief waiting on the couch.
Just Jenna in my arms, midnight-blue silk spilling beside us, looking at me as if I’ve reached inside her chest and put my hand around something no one was supposed to find.
Then she says it.
“I love you, Dominic.”
Full eye contact. Not whispered into steam or softened by exhaustion or hidden inside the aftermath of sex. She looks directly into my eyes and gives me the words awake, sober, and deliberate.
My heart stops.
Then it restarts and seems to be beating at the base of my throat.
I lean in slowly, because for once I don’t want to rush a single second. I brush my nose alongside hers, feel her breath catch against my mouth, and let my lips curve.
“I know,” I whisper.
Her eyes narrow immediately. “You arrogant—”
I kiss her before she can complete the performance review.
She makes a startled sound against my mouth, half laugh and half surrender, and then her hands are in my hair and the kiss changes. Deepens. All that dry precision dissolves under my tongue as I pull her across my lap and slide my hands under her shirt.
“I love you too, Jenna.”