Page 38 of A House of Gold
And he answered.
I make it back to my room. The house delivers me right to my door, and I close myself inside.
I only have hours to prepare, when I usually spend weeks getting to know why a client made a deal to begin with. Understanding the chains are the only way to break them.
I should read more of Gramms’ journal and look for warnings, for answers, for anything that might help me survive this.
But instead, I just sit on the edge of the too-soft bed and stare at the golden ceiling, replaying a conversation with an angel who’s been alone for three thousand years and seemed genuinely grateful that I asked him questions.
Why is this bothering me so much? It was a few questions, and a few answers, why do I care?
With a sigh, I grab the portfolio and start studying. This is going to be a very long year.
10
The dress arrives at sunset. At least according to the clock on my phone. No telling with the way the light shines through the windows in my room.
I’m sitting on my bed, going over the details of the assignment in my head, David Barnes, investment banker, pride contract, isolated and breaking, when there’s a soft knock at my door.
The same servant as when I arrived. Same black dress, same white apron, same completely black eyes that never quite focus on anything.
She’s holding a garment bag.
“Lord Croesus requests you wear this tonight,” she says in that flat, emotionless voice.
Requests. Right.
I take the bag. “What if I don’t want to?”
She blinks slowly. “Lord Croesus requests you wear this tonight.”
Same words. Same inflection. Like a recording on loop.
“Got it. Thanks.” I close the door before she can repeat herself.
I lay the garment bag on the bed, then stare at it and consider. I could refuse. Could wear my own clothes, the jeans and t-shirt I came here in, now freshly laundered and hanging in the wardrobe alongside all those expensive things Croesus provided.
But “request” from an angel who owns me for the next year doesn’t really mean I have a choice, does it?
I unzip the bag.
The dress inside is not what I expect.
It’s black, floor-length, and when I pull it out, I realize it’s made of some kind of silk that catches the light like liquid. Simple cut, elegant lines, but there’s a slit up one side that goes dangerously high, and the back is completely open, just two thin straps crossing between the shoulder blades.
It’s beautiful.
It’s also completely impractical for breaking a contract. And will look ridiculous on my figure.
I hold it up, examining it in the mirror. This is a dress you wear to a gala or a museum benefit or anywhere you want to look expensive and untouchable. Not a dress you wear when you’re about to absorb someone else’s sin and potentially collapse in an office building. Especially without Spanx.
But Croesus “requested” it.
Which means I’m wearing it?
I change quickly, irritation building with every second. The dress fits perfectly; of course it does. Croesus knows my measurements, knows exactly how fabric should drape on my body. The silk is cool against my skin, whispering when I move. The slit reveals most of my left leg with each step. The open back makes me feel exposed, vulnerable.
I assess myself in the mirror.
