The dress arrived at noon.
Not delivered by staff. Killian brought it himself.
Isla was curled up on her bed, trying to read a book but mostly staring at the same page for twenty minutes, when she heard the knock on her door. Two precise raps that she was starting to recognize as his signature.
She opened the door to find him standing there in jeans and a black t-shirt, a garment bag draped over one arm. Casual. Almost normal. Except for the way he looked at her—like he was still deciding whether yesterday's kiss was a mistake or the best decision he'd ever made.
"We need to talk about tonight," he said.
"The gala."
"The gala." He stepped past her into the room without waiting for invitation. "You'll be meeting people from my world. Legitimate business contacts, political connections, and—" He paused, jaw tightening. "—people from my past."
"Your past?"
