11. Lina #2
John watches me, his dark eyes unreadable, before he nods once. "Agreed. Your shop will remain secure. Your friend will have a guard shadowing her boutique. And the rest... we will see."
"We won't see," I mutter. "It's a deal."
"Good," he grunts. "Wash up. Tomorrow, the preparation begins."
My ordinary world doesn't just crack open the next day; it is shattered into a million expensive, glittering pieces.
By ten o'clock in the morning, John’s living room has been turned into a high-end war room. Three women in identical black silk trousers and sharp blazers are pacing the hardwood floor, speaking in rapid, hushed whispers as they unload massive, rolling racks of clothing.
"She has good bone structure," the lead stylist, a severe woman with silver hair named Vivienne, says, circling me like I'm a statue she’s trying to appraise. "But the hair is a disaster. It’s too wild. And the skin is dry. Does she even use a moisturizer?"
"I use a moisturizer," I snap, swatting her hand away as she tries to touch my jaw. "And my hair is not a disaster. It has volume."
"It has chaos, darling," Vivienne sighs, gesturing to a massive, shimmering silk emerald gown on the rack. "We need to make you look like a woman who belongs on the arm of Don Giovanni. Not a girl who sleeps in a library."
Don Giovanni.
The name feels heavy, old-world, and completely different from "John.
" I look across the room, where he is leaning his hip against the kitchen counter, a cup of black coffee in his hand. He is wearing a tailored charcoal suit that fits his massive frame perfectly, his face a cool, unyielding mask of granite. He is watching me, his eyes tracking every movement of the stylists’ hands on my skin.
"I'm not wearing that," I say, pointing a stubborn finger at a dark red lace dress that has a neckline slash that goes down to the navel. "It’s practically transparent. I’d freeze to death in thirty seconds."
"It’s elegant, Lina," John says, his voice carrying that low, gravelly authority that always makes my teeth grind. "You will wear what Vivienne chooses."
"I am posing as your girlfriend, John, not your doll," I say, stepping off the small wooden pedestal and marching over to him, my canvas sneakers squeaking loudly against his polished floor.
"I have a say in what goes on my body. If I look like a high-end escort, your associates aren't going to believe you are 'settled.
' They’re going to think you bought me for the weekend. "
Vivienne gasps in the background, but John doesn't flinch. He slowly lowers his coffee cup, his dark eyes narrowing as he looks down at me.
"The dress is for a charity gala in Boston," he says, his voice quiet, calm, but carrying a heavy, threatening weight.
"The people in that room are sharks. They look for weakness.
If you look like a small-town barista, they will suspect the arrangement immediately.
You must look like you belong next to me. "
"I can look elegant without showing my ribcage," I say, crossing my arms defensively over my green sweater. "Give me the emerald one. The silk is thick. It has sleeves."
John looks at the emerald gown, then back to my face, his gaze lingering on my mouth for a fraction of a second. "The emerald. But the hair stays down. Loose."
"It's too heavy for her face—" Vivienne starts.
"It stays down," John interrupts, his voice flat and final.
Vivienne bows her head, her sharp attitude instantly evaporating under his tone. "Of course, Don Giovanni."
For the next three hours, they put me through a grueling choreography of who I must pretend to be.
How to stand. How to hold my champagne glass.
How to lean my head against his shoulder without looking stiff.
Every touch of the stylists’ hands feels alien, but it is nothing compared to when John steps in to correct my posture.
He walks up behind me, his massive hands going to my waist, his fingers squeezing through the silk of the emerald dress they have squeezed me into.
"Your shoulders are too tight, Lina," he murmurs, his chest brushing against my back, his hot breath hitting my ear. "Relax. You are supposed to be in love with me."
"I am currently practicing my 'love struck' face," I whisper back, my skin prickling under his hands. The friction of his palms against my hips is a sudden, sharp heat that makes my stomach do a dizzying loop. "Does it look convincing?"
"It looks stubborn," he says, his thumb tracing the bone of my hip with a slow, deliberate pressure that makes me gasp. "But you will learn."
"Don't count on it, neighbor," I bite out.
But as I look at our reflection in the full-length mirror—the massive, severe mafia prince in his charcoal suit, and the ordinary bookshop girl wrapped in five thousand dollars of emerald silk—my heart drops into my stomach.
The ordinary girl is disappearing. The safety of The Mug & Page, the quiet mornings with Mrs. Gable, the wobbly-free shelf my mother built... they are all fading into the background, swallowed by the dark, heavy shadow of his world.
And as John’s hand slides up to rest possessively against the bare skin of my shoulder, his fingers warm and entirely too strong to escape, I realize the most terrifying thing of all.
I’m not sure I want to escape anymore.