Chapter 2 - The Emerald Armor
The black garment bag arrived precisely at 5:00 that afternoon.
A delivery boy who couldn't have been more than eighteen years old carried the massive, heavy package up the stairs to Sadi’s shabby apartment, handed it to her without uttering a single word, and vanished back down the hallway.
Sadi dragged the bag into her cramped, poorly lit bedroom and unzipped it with trembling fingers.
Inside hung a dress that quite literally cost more than her entire life.
It was a deep, hypnotic emerald green, crafted from heavy liquid silk that felt ice-cold and impossibly smooth beneath her fingertips. There were no retail tags attached to it. What terrified her more than the luxury was the realization that it had been tailored to fit her proportions with terrifying precision.
That single detail sent a cold spike of unease straight through her stomach. She had never once given Vincent her measurements.
Sadi hurried into her rusted bathtub, scrubbing her skin until it turned pink and raw. She spent an agonizing hour trying to tame her unruly hair before pinning it up into a sleek, elegant French twist. She applied the cheap drugstore makeup she owned, praying the moody lighting of the hotel ballroom would hide its low quality.
Then she slipped into the dress.
It fit like a second, breathing skin. It wasn't overtly revealing—the sleeves were long and the neckline modest—but the way the silk fabric clung to her hips and pooled around her ankles felt dangerously, intimately heavy.
It is armor, she repeated to herself in the mirror. Just armor.
At exactly 8:00 p.m., a sleek black town car idled smoothly at the curb outside her dilapidated apartment building. Paulie was leaning casually against the rear passenger door.
He didn't smile when he saw her step out onto the pavement, but his heavy eyes widened fractionally in genuine appreciation. He opened the door for her.
Vincent was already seated inside in the shadows.
He wore a dark charcoal three-piece suit cut with such sharp, immaculate precision it looked capable of drawing blood. His silk tie was pitch black.
He looked up from the tablet in his lap as Sadi slid gracefully onto the leather seat beside him. He didn't offer a hollow compliment. He didn't tell her she looked breathtaking. He simply looked at her, his dark gaze moving slowly from the frantic pulse beating at the base of her throat down to the hem of the silk dress and back up to her wide eyes.
“The color suits you.”
He tapped the glass partition with his ring, and the car pulled away smoothly from the curb.
“How... how did you know my exact size?” The question clawed its way desperately out of her dry throat.
Vincent didn't look at her. “It is my business to know things.”
The rest of the ride passed in absolute silence. Sadi stared blankly through the tinted window at the blurred city lights, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs like a trapped bird. She was riding beside a monster solely to frighten other monsters.
The St. Jude Hotel was a towering, glittering monolith of reinforced glass and polished steel in the center of the financial district. Paparazzi and society photographers clustered densely near the red carpet entrance, snapping flashing pictures of local politicians rubbing shoulders with syndicate lieutenants who buried bodies for a living.
The town car glided to a halt. Paulie opened her door.
“Remember,” Sadi whispered frantically to Vincent as she prepared to step out into the flashing lights. “Just pretend.”
Vincent finally turned his head toward her. His expression was cold, dark, and fiercely, terrifyingly territorial.
“I told you earlier, Sadi. I don’t pretend.”
He stepped out of the car first and offered her his large, calloused hand.
She took it. His grip was remarkably firm, his skin rough with scars.
As soon as Sadi’s heels touched the marble pavement, Vincent didn't merely offer his arm for her to hold. Instead, his heavy hand slid firmly around the small of her back, his long fingers spreading wide against the thin silk.
The intense heat of his palm burned straight through the fabric, anchoring her directly to his side.
Flashbulbs erupted like a thunderstorm around them.
Vincent ignored the photographers entirely and guided her smoothly up the sweeping marble staircase. Every single muscle in Sadi’s body was coiled tightly, ready to bolt, but Vincent’s hand remained a steel vise wrapped in fine velvet.
They crossed the threshold into the grand ballroom.
It was a cavernous, blinding space draped in gold tinsel and filled with the rich, heavy scents of roasted prime rib, expensive French perfume, and nervous political sweat.
The moment Vincent crossed that threshold, the atmospheric temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Loud conversations abruptly faded. Heads turned in unison.
Sadi felt the suffocating weight of a hundred hungry stares bearing down on her. They weren't admiring her dress. They were looking at Vincent’s hand resting intimately against her spine and the dark, possessive way he kept her tucked flush against his body.
“Breathe, Sadi,” Vincent murmured softly, his lips brushing dangerously close to the sensitive shell of her ear.
To anyone watching from the outside, it looked like a passionate lover’s sweet whisper. To Sadi, it sounded like a military order.
“You look like you’re walking straight to the gallows. Relax your shoulders and smile.”
She forced the corners of her mouth upward into a trembling smile.
May you like
“There. Much better.”
It did not take long at all for the ocean predators to start circling.
