run this morning.”
He’s holding a crisp white envelope in the kind of paper that usually signifies something fancy—weddings, galas, charity balls.
He grabs a knife and slips it under the seal at the back, slicing the envelope open. Inside is a single piece of paper. It’s grey and industrial-looking, with rough edges and an asymmetrical shape but the fancy gold-and-white font screams money.
“A personal invitation from Galleria D’Arte to join Dominic and Rowan Lively in presentation of artist Celina Yang.” Owen looks up. “It’s a cocktail party tomorrow night.”
A cocktail party. Great. Unfortunately, the work budget doesn’t extend to fancy wardrobe purchases, and I’m pretty sure Owen doesn’t own a tux. Or is a tux more black tie than cocktail? I have no earthly idea.
“What should I wear?” I bring my thumb up to my lips, ready to bite down until I remember that I need to look the part. No more biting my nails.
“Cocktail dress?” Owen supplies less-than-helpfully.
“I don’t own any.” I have one dress that might pass at a nice restaurant since it’s black and simple. The last time I wore it was to a funeral. And if it passed muster at a funeral, does that mean it’s no good for a cocktail party?
Damn it. When it comes to outrunning the bad guys and clipping on handcuffs or diffusing a tense situation, I’m at the top of my game. But I don’t do parties and dresses and high heels. How am I going to convince anyone that I’m a trophy wife?
“You go. I’ll pretend to be sick,” I mutter.
“Do we need to go shopping?” Owen places the invitation on the kitchen counter and leans his forearms against the sleek marble. “We can get you something to wear.”
“That’s not an appropriate use of the budget and you know it.” Maybe I can slap on some fake leaves and pretend to be a potted plant, Scooby-Doo style.
“Don’t worry about the budget.”
I sigh. “Of course I worry about the budget. There are more important things to spend that money on and I can’t be seen taking advantage of the situation to fill out my wardrobe.”
“I’ll cover you.” When I raise a brow, Owen shrugs in that careless way of his. “I’m a consultant and I have expenses. No big deal.”
“I’ll pay you back,” I say. The thought of him footing the bill for a dress feels totally and utterly wrong, but if I’m being honest my five-year-old Target dress isn’t going to cut it for an upper-crust gallery event.
“Stop worrying about the money.” He turns and heads toward the spare room, which he’s graciously taken so I can have the master suite with the more private bathroom. “Go grab your things.”
We catch the tram to Collins Street, where the designer shops sit like glittering beacons of unattainable style. The only time I come to the “Paris End”—aka the section with all the fancy stores—is to have the odd drink with friends. But Owen whisks me into the Gucci store like he’s done it a thousand times before.
We bypass the shoes and bags and head into the quieter part with the clothing. “This is excessive,” I say under my breath. “Can’t we go to Myer?”
Department stores are a little more my speed. And I’m already wondering what kind of payment plan I’ll need to buy a dress here. I love my job, but it isn’t for the thickly padded pay cheque.
“You need to grab everybody’s attention. We’re drawing them to us, remember?”
We walk into a room with huge screens playing footage from a runway show. The models are wearing strange, avant-garde creations and they all look terribly unhappy. Biting down on my lip, I glance around the store.
I walk over to a simple dress in emerald green with a ruffle draping from one shoulder all the way to the hem. It’s not my style, but it looks like something my undercover alter ego might wear. But when I glance at the price tag, I almost faint.
“We need to leave,” I say under my breath as a well-heeled sales assistant approaches us. “Please.”
“Hannah, it’s fine.” Owen touches my arm like we really are a married couple and that only makes my stomach swish harder. I’m going to send myself into life-long debt for a cocktail dress.
“Can I help you?” The woman has a cool confidence that I immediately envy. But maybe I could learn a few things from her to help bolster my persona.
“My wife is looking for a cocktail dress,” Owen says when I remain stubbornly quiet. “We’ve got an important event to attend.”
The woman’s gaze sweeps over me, assessing my size and shape. Her fingers drift over a rack of clothing, and she pushes the hangers to one side to reveal a hot pink monstrosity that looks like some cruel fashion joke. When she notes my expression, she immediately moves to another rack.
“What kind of an event?”
“A gallery exhibition.” I can barely find my voice. I hate feeling so out of my depth, and over such a stupid thing, too. I’ve had a gun pointed directly at my face and yet I’m scared of a few metres of silk?
“Ah, so you might want something artistic.” She taps a well-manicured finger to her chin. “How daring are you?”
Not very. Not even a little bit. “Uh, I’m probably more classic than daring.”
“She’s very daring,” Owen says, his gaze scorching me from the inside out. “My wife doesn’t see it in herself, but I do. She’s got a spark like nobody else.”
Does he really see that in me? Or is it part of the doting husband act?
My head and heart have been a jumbled mess ever since Owen set foot back in Australia. I thought I’d gotten over it all—over the desperate desire and humiliation. Over the way he’d looked at me, with clear eyes while mine were glassy with champagne, as he’d told me that he wouldn’t sleep with me because he valued our friendship. The humiliation had burned me to ash, and it made his act now all the more painful to swallow.
Because despite the time that had passed, I still wanted it to be real.
The woman’s face lights up as she pulls another garment from the rack. It appears to be a blazer made of reflective black material. “Is there a pair of pants to go with that?” I ask.
She ushers me to a changing room. “It’s a dress made to look like a blazer. It’s classic and daring, to suit both what you see and what your husband sees.”
When she closes the door behind me, I stare at myself in the mirror. Even with the flattering gold tones of the change room and the specially engineered lighting, I don’t love what I see. I’d never call myself ugly, but I wouldn’t say I’m anything special to look at, either. Brown hair, brown eyes, eyebrows that could do with some TLC. I’ve always viewed my body for what it can do—for speed and strength and agility—rather than looks. And I’ve told myself over and over when relationships fizzled, that it was because men are intimidated by strong women.
But
