The Pad Thai was finished. The rain had stopped, leaving the city outside glistening like a dark jewel. But the envelope on the counter still screamed for attention. It sat there, a white square of judgment, daring us to ignore it.
"You're going," I said suddenly, the words leaving my mouth before I even processed them.
Sloane looked up from her water bottle, a frown creasing her forehead. "Excuse me?"
"The gala," I said, pointing a chopstick at the envelope like it was a weapon. "You're going. And you're going to be late, which is even better."
She scoffed, a harsh sound in the quiet apartment. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest—a defensive posture. "I told you, Sienna. I'm not dealing with them tonight. I'm a mechanic, remember? Mechanics don't go to high-society charity events. They drink beer and watch sports."
"Mechanics hide," I corrected, my voice sharp. "Queens show up."
I stood up and walked over to the counter. I picked up the envelope. It was heavy, expensive paper—the kind that cost more than a meal.
"If you don't go, your grandmother wins," I said, turning the envelope over in my hands. "She thinks she can control you with threats. She thinks you're cowering in an apartment in Brooklyn, terrified of losing your allowance."
I turned to face her. I channeled every ounce of Shadow—the writer who knew exactly how to manipulate a character's motivation.
"But if you walk in there, head high, looking like you own the place... it destroys their narrative. It shows them you aren't afraid. It shows them that you don't need their money, because you have something more valuable."
She studied me. Her eyes were dark, calculating. She was listening, but she wasn't convinced yet. "And what is that?" she asked quietly.
"Audacity," I said. "Pure, unadulterated audacity."
She was silent for a long moment. Then, she stood up. She walked toward me, towering over my frame. "And what do I wear to this display of audacity?" she asked, a challenge in her voice. "My grease-stained jumpsuit? My work boots? I don't have a tuxedo, Sienna. I'm poor, remember? I'm just a girl who fixes motorcycles."
I smirked. I took a step closer, invading her personal space. I reached out and tapped her chest, right over her heart. "Drop the act, Sloane," I whispered. "You said you were 'method acting.' An actress prepares. Which means somewhere in this 'friend's' apartment, there is a closet full of costumes."
I tilted my head toward the locked master bedroom door. "Show me."
She held my gaze for a long second. I saw the conflict in her eyes—the desire to keep hiding versus the desire to fight. Finally, the fight won. A slow, dangerous grin spread across her face.
"You're bossy," she said.
"I'm a director," I countered. "And the curtain goes up in one hour. Move."
She led me into the master bedroom. It was sparse, masculine-leaning, and smelled of sandalwood and secrets. She walked to the far wall, which looked like a solid panel of dark mahogany. She pressed a hidden groove in the wood.
Click.
The panel hissed and popped open. I gasped. It wasn't a closet. It was a vault.
A walk-in space the size of my old living room was revealed, illuminated by soft, motion-sensor recessed lighting. The floor was plush gray carpet. The air was climate-controlled, cool and crisp to protect the fabrics. It wasn't filled with mechanic's rags. It was lined with rows of bespoke suits. Armani. Tom Ford. Brioni. Crisp white shirts hung like soldiers in a line, organized by shade.
A shelf of watches—Rolex, Patek Philippe, Audemars Piguet—glittered under the glass like trapped stars. There were rows of handmade Italian boots and oxfords, polished to a mirror shine.
"Method acting props," she said dryly, leaning against the doorframe, watching my reaction. "In case I need to audition for the role of a Wall Street shark."
"Expensive props," I noted, walking into the space. I ran my hand over the sleeve of a midnight-blue velvet blazer. It was soft as butter. "Your 'family business' must pay well."
"It pays enough to keep the lights on."
I ignored her deflection. I was on a mission. I pulled out a classic black tuxedo, cut with sharp, feminine lines. It was severe, powerful, and utterly timeless. The lapels were satin silk. "This one," I said, shoving it at her chest.
She caught it instinctively. "And you?" she asked, her voice dropping an octave. "If I'm going into the lion's den, I'm not going alone. I need a shield."
I froze. Me? Go back to that world? The world of flashing cameras, fake smiles, and my father?
Panic clawed at my throat. If I was seen, my cover was blown. The "Mental Breakdown in Switzerland" story would be exposed. My father would drag me back. But then I looked at the suit in Sloane's hands. I looked at the way she was watching me—waiting for me to run, or waiting for me to stand by her.
I wasn't Sienna Vane anymore. I was Mrs. Cross. And I was writing the greatest story of my life. I couldn't write it from the couch. I had to be on the set.
"I have nothing to wear," I said, my voice steady despite the racing of my heart. "My clothes are ruined. And I refuse to wear a mechanic's shirt to a gala."
Sloane walked over to a separate section of the closet—a small, cedar-lined alcove. She pulled out a black garment bag. "My friend... her ex-girlfriend left some things here," she lied.
The lie was so thin it was transparent. Ex-girlfriends didn't leave couture gowns in climate-controlled vaults. But I let it slide. She unzipped the bag.
It was a dress. It wasn't just a dress; it was a weapon. A slip dress of liquid silver silk. Simple. Dangerous. It looked like moonlight woven into fabric. It had a cowl neck and a back that plunged dangerously low.
"Try it," she said, holding it out. "If it fits, you're coming with me."