Page 47 of Nine Months to Love
Even I have to admit: Stefan Safonov has got a pair on him.
He still expects our “not-date” to happen. Worse, he’s trying to buy my compliance.
The evidence is sprawled across my bed: a massive black box stamped with a Dior logo and tied with a nude ribbon, flanked by two smaller boxes that smell subtly of expensive perfume. That elegant branding might as well read “BRIBE” in forty-eight-point font.
I should throw those damn packages out the window. Watch them splatter on the manicured lawn below. Make a statement about how I can’t be bought.
But I’m nowhere close to pissed at Dior. If the wrapping is this pretty, imagine what’s waiting for me inside.
Damn my curiosity.
I open the largest box first, fingers trembling as I lift the lid. A stark white card sits on top of layers of tissue paper, thehandwriting bold and unmistakably Stefan’s:For our dinner tonight.
The arrogance of it makes my teeth grind.
Then I push aside the tissue paper, and every ounce of indignation evaporates.
“Oh. My. God.”
The dress is gorgeous—a backless red number that looks like it was crafted from dreams and wishes. The fabric shimmers in the light, silk so fine it might dissolve at a touch. I lift it carefully, and it flows through my fingers.
The other boxes escalate the temptation to astronomical levels. A pair of strappy black Louboutins. A diamond cluster necklace, complete with matching earrings and a bracelet.
With one—or technically speaking, three—wordless gestures, he’s managed to convince me to come to this dinner. I’ll dress up for him. I’ll play along.
God knows I needsomethingnice in my life.
“Meh, I’m a lightweight.” I groan at my reflection as I hold the dress against my body. “Show me some pretty things and I fold like a cheap umbrella.”
Maybe I’m more like my mother than I thought.
The horror of that realization should be enough to make me stuff everything back in the boxes and wear my rattiest sweats to dinner.
But it’s not. It’s still not horrifying enough to change my mind.
Because the dress isreallypretty. And these diamonds deserve a night out.
And maybe—just maybe—I want to see Stefan’s face when he catches sight of me in this.
Two hours later, I’m dressed in diamonds and Dior, studying my reflection with a mixture of awe and self-loathing.
The woman in the mirror looks expensive. Untouchable. Like she belongs on Stefan’s arm at galas and charity auctions, not hunched over patient files in a struggling fertility clinic.
Yeah, I feel good. Really good. I kinda want Stefan to see me like this and eat his heart out.
But I’m also starting to feel like a prostitute. A high-end prostitute, sure, but still. He bought me these things expecting... what? Compliance? Forgiveness? A repeat of our desk activities?
The knock at my door isn’t Stefan’s usual commanding rap. It’s tentative, almost hesitant. I open it expecting him, already armed with a cutting remark about his bribery attempt.
“You think you can just… Oh. Taras?”
Taras stands three feet back from the door, phone dangling from one hand, looking deeply uncomfortable. His usual swagger is notably absent.
“I’m your chauffeur for the night,” he announces, not quite meeting my eyes. “Boss’s orders. I’m going to drive you to your date.”
“It’s not a date.”
His eyes finally land on me, taking in the dress, the diamonds, the full effect of Stefan’s shopping spree. “Right. Because that’s the kind of outfit you wear on a friendly dinner.”
