The twin redheads didn't speak again until I was close enough to see my own wide-eyed reflection in their emerald irises. Creepy.
Gorgeous, but creepy.
The one on the right tilted her head, just slightly. "We've prepared your room."
Prepared my room?
They turned in unison, literally in sync, like synchronized swimmers, except in heels, and led me through the grand lobby.
It was all chandeliers, polished marble, and soft golden lighting that made me feel about three inches tall and embarrassingly underdressed. My scuffed flats I had changed into squeaked traitorously on the floor as I trailed after them.
We took an elevator up. They stood perfectly still, their mirrored profiles so elegant I suddenly became hyperaware of the coffee stain near my jacket cuff. I shoved my hand in my pocket, cheeks burning.
When the doors opened, one of them led me down a long hallway, plush carpet muffling our steps. She stopped at a door at the end. A gold keycard slid, a soft beep, and then—
Oh.
The room was insane.
Not a hotel room. A royal suite. The kind of place where you half-expect Cinderella's mice friends to come prancing out of the wainscoting.
There was a king-sized bed dressed in snowy linens, a velvet fainting couch (which, honestly, I kind of wanted to faint on immediately), floor-to-ceiling windows spilling gray Romanian daylight across polished parquet floors.
A vase of fresh roses perched on the side table.
And draped across the bed was a dress.
Not just a dress. The dress.
It shimmered scarlet, a single-shoulder evening gown. The fabric was sleek, hugging, the kind that made women in movies walk down staircases in slow motion while violins swelled in the background.
Laid neatly beside it: golden heels. Jewelry in a velvet box. Earrings, a bracelet, even a clutch purse that looked like it belonged to royalty.
I froze in the doorway. "Oh, wow. Did, um… did I win Miss Romania without knowing it?"
One of the women smiled. "You will attend the gala tonight. We will collect you at five."
"Gala? Five?" I croaked. "As in… today five?"
"Yes. Please remain here until then. Food will be brought shortly."
And then, as if that cleared everything up, they glided back toward the door.
"Wait," I squeaked, clutching the strap of my bag. "What gala? What's—what am I supposed to—?"
But the door had already clicked shut behind them.
I stood there, staring at the red dress like it was going to sprout teeth and eat me.
Okay. Breathe. Just… breathe.
I dropped my bag onto the bed, ran both hands down my face, and let out a groan that could've been mistaken for a wounded elk.
The room was so ridiculously nice it made my shoebox apartment in New York look like a gremlin's nest.
I wandered aimlessly, touching the silk curtains, the glossy carved desk, the crystal lamp, just to prove they were real.
Eventually, I flopped onto the bed. The mattress was a cloud. Actual heaven. My body instantly tried to fuse with it.
I thought about Jade, my roommate, the only person who'd understand if I texted her, "Hey, so my boss just kidnapped me to Romania. There's a ball. Also, twins with model cheekbones."
I fumbled for my phone, thumb flying over the screen.
SOS. Kidnapped by work. Fancy dress situation. Call police?
But when I hit send, nothing. Just that cursed spinning "sending" circle.
"No, no, no." I jabbed the screen. Tried again. And again. Message failed to send.
The Wi-Fi symbol taunted me with its empty outline.
"Of course," I muttered, flopping back dramatically. "Of course the Romanian hotel suite doesn't have service. Because why would I get to have one lifeline to sanity?"
My phone thunked onto the comforter. I groaned, staring at the ceiling.
The dress glimmered in my peripheral vision. I rolled onto my side, eyeing it warily.
If Wolfe had picked it… well, I had to give him credit. The man had taste. Murderous aura, soul-crushing personality, but damn good taste.
I closed my eyes, just for a second. Just long enough to breathe. Just long enough to…
Darkness.
~
The next thing I knew, someone was tapping my shoulder.
I bolted upright like a rat caught in a trash can, eyes wide, drool sticking to my chin.
Both redheads loomed over me.
"It is four thirty-two," one of them said calmly. "You must prepare. Mr. Wolfe will arrive shortly."
"Oh, shit." I scrambled, nearly tripping over my own bag as I launched off the bed. My hair was a disaster, and my face was sticky from an unsanctioned nap.
"I'll just—bathroom—face—yes," I babbled, shoving myself into the bathroom and slamming the door.
Cold water. Soap. Emergency splashing. I patted myself dry with the fluffiest towel I'd ever touched, staring at my reflection like, Well, Emery, this is how you die. Beautiful Romanian hotel bathroom, death by gala panic.
When I came out, the women were already holding the dress open like fairy godmothers. Except less sparkles, more intimidation.
"Please," one said.
I swallowed. "Right. Okay."
Sliding into the gown was like stepping into a second skin. The fabric hugged my waist, flowed down my legs, one shoulder bare, the other wrapped elegantly.
The shoes slipped on easier than I expected, the gold straps snug but not painful. Comfortable, even. Which was suspicious. Designer heels were not supposed to be merciful.
They fastened the earrings, clasped the bracelet, smoothed my hair with deft fingers. When I finally turned to the mirror, I almost didn't recognize myself.
"Oh," I whispered.
It was me. But… not. A movie version of me. One who didn't faceplant in lobbies or assassinate granola bars.
For half a second, I almost forgot I was Emery, Disaster Assistant Extraordinaire.
"You are ready," one twin said simply.
They each took a side of me, guiding me down the hall like ceremonial guards.
And outside, true to form, another limo waited.
Wolfe was already stepping out of it, tall and sharp in a black suit that probably cost more than my yearly salary. His hair was perfectly in place, his jawline carved from injustice itself.
For a fleeting heartbeat, he actually looked… startled. His eyes widened, his throat worked in a swallow.
Then it was gone. He tore his gaze away, his face snapping back into that unreadable mask.
"You wasted my time," he said flatly.
I smiled tightly, biting down the urge to scream. Sure. Sorry for not instinctively packing gala attire in my nine-dollar tote bag when you kidnapped me this morning.
Instead, I murmured sweetly, "Apologies, sir," and slid into the limo.
Internally, though?
I was screaming.