Chapter 12
THE DRESS
SARAH
The green dress fits like a confession.
Every curve is visible. Every breath is tracked by silk that has no interest in hiding anything. The queen pendant rests against my collarbone, silver and certain, the only armor I’m allowed tonight.
My hair is down.
I stare at the stranger in the mirror—dark waves falling past my shoulders, softening the sharp lines of my face—and try to remember the last time I wore my hair like this in public.
Not the wedding. Before that.
I can’t.
The director wears her hair up. Controlled. Professional. Every strand is pinned into submission because loose hair suggests loose thinking, and loose thinking gets people killed.
I’m not this woman. The one in the mirror with soft waves and a plunging neckline and vulnerability written across her face. I’m not someone who lets her hair hang down like an invitation.
My hands move before I can stop them. Bobby pins from the counter. Practiced motions, muscle memory from a thousand mornings. Twist, pin, secure. Twist, pin, secure. The waves disappear into a sleek knot at the base of my skull.
Professional.
Controlled.
Better.
The dress still shows too much. But at least my hair says director. At least something does.
Three deep breaths. The silk shifts against my skin with each one.
I open the door.
He’s standing by the window, Vegas sprawling beneath him, and he turns when he hears me—
Stops.
Goes completely still.
No keys spinning. No grin. No quip ready on his tongue. Just dark eyes tracking from the hem of the dress to the pendant to my hair—my pinned, armored hair—and something in his expression shifts. Sharpens. Goes predatory in a way that makes my pulse stutter.
Three strides across the room—fluid, purposeful, a man who knows exactly what he wants and has no intention of being denied—and then his hands are in my hair.
Not on my face. In my hair.
Pulling pins. One, two, three—they scatter on the floor like small surrenders—and the waves tumble down past my shoulders, loose, wild, and completely undone.
“Don’t.” His voice is rough. Commanding. “Don’t hide.”
Then his mouth crashes into mine.
Hot. Hungry. Claiming.
Nothing like the chapel. Nothing controlled, calculated, or performative. This is raw and demanding, and his tongue sweeps against mine like he’s been starving for weeks and I’m the first thing he’s tasted.
A sound escapes me. Embarrassing. Needy.
His fingers tighten in my hair—the hair he freed, the hair that’s available to him now—and he angles my head, deepens the kiss, takes more. I grip his shirt because my knees have stopped working. Because the ground has tilted. Because no one has ever kissed me like I’m something to be devoured.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard. His pupils are blown. A muscle ticks in his jaw.
“You’re beautiful.” The words come out like they’ve been ripped from somewhere deep. “God, Sarah. You’re so fucking beautiful.”
“That—” My voice comes out wrecked. I try again. “That was—”
“A mistake, probably.” His hands are still on my face now, thumbs brushing my cheekbones like he can’t make himself let go. “One I didn’t mind making.”
“We should …”
“Yeah.”
Neither of us moves.
His eyes drop to my mouth. Swollen now. It feels bruised.
“The gala.” I manage the words through sheer force of will. “Costa.”
“Right.” He releases me. Steps back. Runs a hand through his hair, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he looks undone. “The gala.”
He turns toward the door. Doesn’t look at me.
“Levi.”
“Don’t.” The word comes out strained. “If you say anything right now, we’re not making it to that gala.”
Heat floods through me. I press my lips together. Say nothing.
He holds the door open. His expression has smoothed into something controlled, but his eyes are still dark. Still hungry.
“After you, wife.”
The gala is in full swing when we arrive.
The Wynn’s ballroom has been transformed—soft lighting, crystal everywhere, a string quartet playing something classical enough to be impressive and bland enough to be ignored.
The NRO’s annual summit gala, where the people who control the satellites pretend they’re not all measuring each other for weaknesses.
I know this room. I’ve commanded this room.
But I’ve never walked into it like this—lips still tingling, pulse still elevated, the ghost of his mouth haunting every coherent thought I try to form.
A mistake. Probably.
Probably. Not definitely.
His hand settles on my lower back. Warm. Possessive. Guiding me through the crowd with subtle pressure that says mine in a language older than words.
I should pull away. Establish distance. Regain the control I lost somewhere between the bathroom door and his mouth.
I don’t.
The whispers start immediately.
The director’s back.
Is that him? The husband?
She looks—different.
I keep walking. Chin up. Shoulders back. Let them whisper.
Levi moves beside me like a force of nature barely contained by a tailored suit.
He’s taller than I remembered—or maybe I just notice it more now, the way he takes up space, the way people instinctively shift out of his path.
There’s something in the way he carries himself—coiled energy, controlled power, the promise of violence wrapped in civilization—that makes men step back and women look twice.
Three women are looking now. A blonde by the champagne. A redhead near the string quartet. A brunette who should be paying attention to her husband.
I shouldn’t care. This is fake. He’s not mine.
But his hand tightens on my back, and his mouth brushes my ear: “Eyes on you, wife. Only you.”
Something warm blooms in my chest. I hate it.
We work the room the way I’ve worked a hundred rooms—handshakes, small talk, the careful dance of power and politeness.
But tonight everything feels different. Heightened.
Every brush of his fingers against my spine reminds me of his hands in my hair.
Every low murmur of his voice reminds me of “If you say anything right now, we’re not making it to that gala. ”
What would have happened if I’d said something?
Why didn’t I?
My husband, Levi. We married yesterday.
The reactions are fascinating. Shock, mostly. Some poorly hidden judgment. A few genuine congratulations from people I’ve worked with long enough to earn their respect.
But it’s the way Levi handles each interaction that catches me off guard.
He’s charming—genuinely charming, not the chaos-gremlin routine he uses to keep people off balance.
He remembers names after a single introduction.
Asks follow-up questions that show he’s listening.
Makes people feel like the most important person in the room while simultaneously making it clear that I’m the only person who matters to him.
His hand never leaves my body. My back. My hip. The curve of my waist. Small touches that say this one’s mine without a word being spoken.
It shouldn’t affect me. It does.
Amanda Hartley appears like a shark scenting blood.
Deputy assistant secretary, perpetual thorn in my side, and the kind of woman who mistakes cruelty for competence. She’s been trying to undermine me for two years. Tonight, she thinks she’s found ammunition.
“Director Vance.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “What a surprise. Your office said you were on personal leave.”
“I was.” I keep my voice pleasant. Professional. “I am.”
Her gaze slides to Levi with barely concealed judgment. “And this must be—the situation.”
Levi’s hand moves from my waist to my hip. Pulls me closer. Not subtle. Not apologizing.
“Levi Durant.” His voice is warm, but his eyes are cold. “The husband. Not the situation.”
“The husband,” Amanda repeats it like a diagnosis. “I didn’t realize you were dating anyone, Director. This seems rather—brash.”
“The best things usually are.” Levi’s thumb traces a slow circle on my hip. Through the silk, I feel every millimeter of that touch.
“How—impulsive.” Amanda’s tone suggests recklessness. Exactly what she expects from someone who’s clearly lost her mind.
“Isn’t it?” Levi’s grin sharpens into something dangerous. “One look at her and I knew. Some things you just don’t question.”
His free hand comes up. Brushes a strand of hair from my face. Tucks it behind my ear with an intimacy that makes my breath catch.
Amanda’s expression sours.
“Well.” She recovers, barely. “I hope the honeymoon phase lasts. The director’s position is quite demanding. Some might say it requires—full attention.”
“Some might say a lot of things.” Levi’s voice drops. Quiets. The kind of quiet that makes smart people nervous. “I’ve found that most of them aren’t worth listening to.”
The dismissal is complete. Absolute. Amanda Hartley, with all her political maneuvering and calculated cruelty, has been handled by a man who looks at her like she’s an inconvenience he’s choosing not to address.
She retreats shortly after. I wait until she’s out of earshot.
“That was—”
“Satisfying?” His grin is back. Warmer now. “She was trying to make you feel small. Some people need to be reminded how small they actually are.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“Yeah.” His hand slides back to my waist. “I did.”
The string quartet shifts to something slower. Couples drift toward the dance floor.
“Dance with me.”
It’s not a question. I should refuse—I have to find Costa, have to prepare, have to stop thinking about the way Levi kissed me in the suite …
“Okay.”
His hand slides from my waist as he guides me onto the floor. One hand clasps mine. The other settles at the small of my back, fingers spread, pulling me closer than is strictly appropriate for a professional event.
I don’t correct him.
We move.
He’s a good dancer. Confident. Controlled. He leads without asking permission, guides me through the steps with subtle pressure and the kind of masculine assurance that shouldn’t be attractive but absolutely is.
“Where did you learn this?”